discarded M

She claimed that I rebuked her. A deal breaker, in my book. Irrefutable evidence of a weak mind or weak spirit, one or the other. Such a very disturbing turn of events. Life's ebbs and flows remain such mystery. And what I said was not a rebuke, not nearly a rebuke. It was so not a rebuke that I will merely tell of it and not show it. In fact I will never show it and after today will not speak of it. It was, at best, or at worst, a gentle admonition. A gentle gentle admonition. What is less? More like a verbal jostle. Damn it already, it was almost a caress. At the extreme end of acceptable misinterpretation it was but the faintest reminder that on a good day - implied: containing a good audience - I can speak and wink simultaneously. What low form would deprive me this small pleasure? Who would gladly retain the fierce pleasure a wrestle with the tiger provides while simultaneously seeking redress for every scratch and bruise? 

So M is no more. And that is that. Returned to sender, adieu adieu adieu. And while I feel fully comfortable with this course of action - it was certainly correct, in the way that an early roll of 3,1 played to make your opponent's 5 point is always, irrefutably correct, for a thousand years correct and for eternity correct, at least until they change the rules of backgammon, do not ever second guess this decision, no matter the outcome, no matter the gains or losses, look elsewhere for your weakness. And I will lay claim to weakness here. Two to tango, tangle, and all that. Know that I am quite aware of this weakness and will seek to shore it up in the coming weeks and months. Have, in fact, already begun a series of repairs that ought provide serious bounty. But that is just gossip today, better to wait until it is news. And more importantly, it is disrespectful to the lady just ended to be whispering about her replacement.  

A revelation: she thought me funny. At one time she thought me so very funny. Rip roar funny. Guffaw funny. Sublime funny. So she said. More than once. Often. Quite often. To the point of discomfort, eventually. Will she laugh? Smile at least? Grin? And what would M say now? Do I remain funny or have I been re-categorized? And if M no longer considers me funny, then am I no longer funny? Who else thinks me funny? Maybe M would say wry or dry but no longer fly? And what of all the funny words I gave to her, my funny words, my very best material - have they been crumbled and tossed into the fireplace, sent into the ashen oblivion that gathers all but the very best of words? Or have they been stored in the dark dank cellar closet, next to the wash room where she keeps the baited rat trap?

Bye, sweet M.  Jokers are a dime a dozen. You'll find another one soon enough.