Love in a bottle

Love in a bottle

She was Little Miss Con-trol, an outward facing quiescence. I sensed beneath flowed a torrent of emotions, suppressed for all her years by the practices implanted by her parents. She needed releasing, for a year of crying, a year of screaming and laughing…… Only then would she be ready for a lifetime of love. 

As I approached her, hostess for this one evening, she quickly looked around for somebody else to speak to, but there was no-one near enough. I could tell she knew I wasn’t the kind of person she should be talking to. She looked at me primly and smiled politely. Would I like a drink, a pistachio, a finger buffet? Wasn’t the weather nice – she had enjoyed being in the garden that afternoon. What did I do? Did I like New York? (I said it made me feel like a yo-yo. Up one tall building, down a tall building. Up another tall building…..). 

I respected her, however, because her upbringing had left her selfless, there to serve others, but outwardly emotionally barren, passion constrained, feelings restrained in a life pre-ordained. I wanted to shake her violently and scream at her: was there anything about which she felt strongly? Then grab her roughly and kiss her intensely until she confessed to her yearnings. 

I flapped my arms rhythmically and exuded an invisible mist of musk to grasp her sexual attention. I sensed a kind of withdrawn fascination as she twitched her nose. I touched her bare arm lightly and smiled. She went rigid and stared at me. She had so rarely experienced tactility. She started to quiver, as the battle between her facade and her muffled self began to boil. Bumps started to appear on her forehead, branding her pallid skin. Slowly two words formed: 

“Rescue Me.” 

Was I the emotional Exorcist? Her inner self was pleading to be liberated, to be freed from the cage of her family imposed social protocols, and fly away. To sprout wings, to loop the loop and shout at the wind. To shoot up into the sky and explode in a firework burst of emotions, sadness going one way, joy another; each opposing feeling heading in a different direction, depression:elation, hunger:satiation…… And there, in the centre, glimmering at first, but then growing in wattage until it became a burnished ball of fire, was love. A Digimon conversion of the being kind. 

I became confused, because the respect I had for her restrained me. I could have hooked her, taken her home and made love to her, breaking through her hardened shell. But I knew that rather than release her, it would have made her feel hopelessly guilty the next day. Reluctantly I knew, if done suddenly and with no commitment afterwards, there would be no putting Humpty together again. I could damage her irreparably. Her liberation required a reciprocal force of love. 

I had conflicted feelings; I felt empty, but that I had found some kind of integrity. I was annoyed with myself for not following the Egg, but started to feel that maybe, maybe the future held for me some kind of other fulfilment. The constant chase replaced by a destination. Maybe it was me that had been rescued.

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