The Fault Is Not

He thinks he's seducing me. I'm holding my breath as he speaks so when I respond it will seem labored and he'll think I'm flustered by his charms. I'll say something clever but not smart. Have to stimulate his mind without bruising his ego. My responses will have the mildest of sexual innuendo; just to add the "slut for the right man" potential. My eyes are on him and our surroundings almost equally. My body language saying I'm interested, but holding my attention is a moment by moment chore. Reality facilitation is what I like to call it. All women do it. They just usually do it subconsciously or at a very pedestrian level, only mildly aware of the edges of its power. Flowers getting life from the outskirts of the sun's rays but never understanding the oppressive, violent nature of the source. The raw purity of its intent. I am not content to just blossom. To just accept beauty’s residual rewards. I claim my portion of this cosmic force and I wield it with prejudice. I once read that humans are the remnants of dead stars. I like that. So while he's spews his cold language and dark intentions across the space between us, I don't resist but I don't fall either. There is no gravity here. I use his black canvas as a backdrop to the world I'm creating. Then, when the time is right, I let there be light.

He's still talking about his car. How it took thirteen months to be made to his specifications. I ask why he didn't just buy one off the lot. He "educates" me about how the lights on the ceiling inside of the Rolls Royce Wraith are arranged in the star pattern of his choosing. That takes time. I act like I didn't know that. I act like I care.

I act like I'm not rearranging his stars at this very moment.

It’s simple.

Men only want one thing. I’m a woman. I want everything.

It's complicated.