A THING by MERE JACKSON
Syllogisms in Bed
I wonder if he minds. I ask if I can jerk off quietly in the corner while he works at his standing desk. He turns to me with a raised eyebrow and pursed lips.
“You know I hate it when you call it that.”
I ask him with my eyes if he wants to help. He turns back to the screen.
I slither into his bed and fling his duvet over my head. I imagine him with me last night. I imagine him with the other woman (he doesn’t know I know). I imagine them with another man. I imagine myself with the man, and with another woman. My body rattles silently, pelvis lurches gracefully as tingles inch over my back and legs.
I peek out from beneath the covers. He stands rapt in his tedious work, stone save flitting eyes and restless index finger.
I’ve invited him to three events between this week and last. He always says yes but cancels at the last moment. He prefers we spend our time like this—late night sleepovers at his house, him waking me in the middle of the night for approximately 90 minutes of half-dreamed sex, me making him coffee and breakfast in the morning with whatever I can scrounge from his barren refrigerator and sitting silently as he works. My attempts at shared sunshine and fresh air are hard fought and seldom won.
I know he will abandon me at the Philharmonic on Wednesday. I booked the tickets with his wincing agreement. Better, perhaps, because the Philharmonic (like most things) always makes me cry and I wouldn’t want to make a scene and miss the piccolo solo or the nuance of the triangle.
I contemplate this as I stare at him from beneath the stale unwashed duvet. I can convince myself it's fine he always cancels, using my expertise in denial and some fading memories of a university modal logic course. If he cancels, then he doesn’t have to see me cry (A→~B). If he doesn’t see me cry, he will find me pleasant (~B→C). If he finds me pleasant, he will want to spend more time with me (C→ D). If he spends more time with me, he will love me (D→E). Thus, if he cancels our plans, he will love me (A→ E).
Following this logic, it’s a blessing that he canceled going to last weekend’s Pride march together. They say 150,000 people were there. I floated in the mass, feeling sentimental and pathetic amid flocks of buoyant smiles, noticing how their flow followed perfectly the laws of physics. I shed a few tears and scribbled something embarrassing on the back of a crumpled receipt as the current carried me along.
Moving like blood cells in a beating heart. Can’t tell where I’m going but know where to step. We are all as atoms bounding about in a molecule (or was it electrons bouncing around an atom? Look up later) yet each our own universe, following the vibrations of energy. I often forget the sheer vastness of life, the boundlessness of conscious being.
He’d find it grotesquely romantic and sentimental. I remind myself to throw the receipt out if I find it again. I glance at him. He hasn’t moved a centimeter.
I resubmerge myself into the darkness which smells of armpits and cologne and sweet sweat. I imagine him over me, looking into my eyes. I imagine us waltzing hand in hand down the main avenue on a dreamy afternoon, going to a matinee. I imagine the other woman crying alone in her room. I imagine us blending together, barely hidden in the vegetation of the park. I sigh and let a dark spasm of pleasure immerse me.
Mere Jackson (she/her) is a lover of all things freakish and philosophical. She writes miscellaneous, marginally interesting stories and articles. She has/ will have work in underscore_magazine, Transients Magazine, 101 Words, and Over/Exposed. She lives in Uruguay. Twitter and Medium: @mcjwriters.