Posts tagged ‘Marry Savant’
Excerpt from “Who Wants to Marry a Savant?”
My heart is the size of a whale—not a whale’s heart—an actual whale.
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Excerpt from “Men Behaving Badly”
He brought over a 2007 Riesling and home-cooked tomatillo lime snapper.
“No wonder you texted me to heat up the oven. I was confused because you said I didn’t have to cook tonight, so I thought maybe you’d changed your mind. How long does this need to stay in?”
“Four minutes and twenty-three seconds–give or take.” He grinned with gentle confidence.
“Four minutes and twenty-three seconds it is!”
“I’ve barely had a chance to eat all day, but I wouldn’t mind dessert first.” He winked and gestured toward her bedroom.
“I’d totally be down . . . but it’s that time of the month, and we’ve only been dating for a few weeks, so I’m not quite comfortable with that yet.”
“You still get your period?”
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Excerpt from “Who Wants to Marry a Savant?”
Oozing with insecurity
I couldn’t live in the moment,
Couldn’t embrace my own divinity
I burst into tears
When he compared me to a statue at the Louvre.
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Excerpt from “Who Wants to Marry a Savant?”
“As you well know, being passive aggressive is not being assertive . . . ” Dr. Kim paused and gazed pensively at the ceiling. He folded his hands into his lap and continued: “But what few people realize is that being aggressive is also not being assertive. Passive aggressiveness and aggressiveness are on opposite sides of the spectrum. Assertiveness is in the happy middle.”
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Excerpt from “Who Wants to Marry a Savant?”
I finalized the penultimate draft of Things Your Girlfriend Won’t Tell You (So I Will) five minutes before he thumped on my studio door.
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Excerpt from “Who Wants to Marry a Savant?”
As he drove us to Aberdeen to meet a potential client, Carl philosophized: “The opposite of love isn’t hate, Angie.”
“Well, duh. I know that. But what is the opposite of love? I’ve thought about this often without coming close to an answer. It isn’t hate or even lust or rage or cruelty. What the fuck is it?!” I enjoyed sprinkling expletives into our dialogue because, as a Mormon, Carl would always squirm at least a little. At the time, I reveled in the fact that I wielded that kind of power over a man who’d never fuck me.
“Apathy.” Carl sighed. “When she told me she wanted a divorce, Karen explained she had simply ‘fallen out of love’ with me. Everyone thinks she was cheating, but it wasn’t that at all. She didn’t necessarily want to have sex with someone else. She just didn’t ever want to make love to me again.”
“Wow. I’m sorry.” What could I say? He hit the nail on the head: the opposite of love is apathy.
Carl’s profound insight forced me into introspection. I had endured the entire gamut of emotions in my current relationship, save for one. I was utterly incapable of feeling indifferent toward him. I would always be in love with him.
It suddenly made sense why he’d inspired both the meanest and sweetest poems I’d ever written.
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Excerpt from “Who Wants to Marry a Savant?”
He couldn’t decide whether he wanted to knock me up or blow my brains out.
Or both.
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Excerpt from “Who Wants to Marry a Savant?”
David N. and I enjoyed exchanging dating horror stories as foreplay. On the precipice of afternoon delight, we rolled around under his sheets (never before had I experienced the feel of super high thread count).
“Oh my god, you won’t believe how my last relationship ended.” I rolled my eyes in reminiscence while clutching David’s shoulders.
“Probably not as badly as when Meredith torched my Beemer.” He smiled and tightened our embrace.
“I’m glad you have a sense of humor about it. I just don’t understand why you never pressed charges.”
“That would’ve meant I’d have to keep dealing with that bitch. And there’d be a public record of the shit she put me through.”
“Fair enough.”
“So what did that dick munch do anyway? Didn’t you tell me you thought he was The One at some point?”
“Nate seemed like a real catch. That is until he got back with his ex. And here’s the thing: I mean, you know I’m not superficial or arrogant . . . but this girl was like a three, maybe a four, soaking wet.”
“Yeah. That’s pretty fucking ridiculous. You’re at least a seven.”
The Lollygabber 
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