ireland

the way former heroes i would never know captured my attention prepared me for a life of isolation, living in my head. putting a metaphorical paper bag over the head of anyone i've ever fancied, so i could imagine they were slightly different. working cheap perspective tricks, creating optical illusions of perfection, squinting here and there unfocusing my eyes.

i had never loved a person before knowing my beloved, really knowing, knowing years in.

so when i picked up the call from ontario, the surprise i felt was a seduction in itself. a caught mouse in the paw of an attraction swatting wide for me, swatting fast but slow enough to be confident.

caught on the line, it was an irish voice calling from ontario. i could not have predicted how i warmed. i would not say i have a thing for accents, only that i had a former irish hero upon whose swagger - it became apparent to me then - i had imprinted.

i wanted his rough hands, a quiet stare. this man i did not know - suddenly i wanted to.

how?

i recalled, slightly giddy, conner habib speaking mystically and erotically of ireland and irish men and i felt part of a conspiracy (again in fact alone in my conspiring, not really con-spiring but spiriting contagiously over a telephone. customer service voice becoming genuine.

i wanted to fuck him, on the basis of his attentive emails and voice alone. i wanted his attention. i wanted to kiss deeply, take him by the scruff of his workshirt. not sure what he looks like but all i can picture is disembodied, objectifying, makes me appreciate mapplethorpe.

i am wearing a short leather skirt and a mostly unbuttoned button-down. he grabs the waist of my skirt. i worry for its vintage buttonhole.

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