Don't Blame Me
by Lawrence Christopher
"THIS IS SOME BULL." I shouted at her.
"Who are you yelling at?"
"I can't believe that we're arguing about this."
"You're the one who started it."
"There you go blaming me again. Don't blame me . . ."
"Oh, then I suppose it's my fault?"
"I can't believe you. How are you just going to put this all on me?"
"Because it's all about you. It's always been about you."
"How? Just tell me how?"
There have been times when I wished that I had never met her. It took me a moment to pull the emotion out of the situation. I needed to clear my head so that I focus. To help me, I avoided looking at her. There was no way I could speak clearly without being under the influence of her purely cute face, framed in a shroud of raven black, S-curled hair. Then there's that infectious smile of hers. That's been it all along.
Since I met her, it has been like I've been under her spell. Like a man drunk for the first time - enticed into euphoria - hypnotized to perform. She knows it too. If a woman has a "wow" factor, she is well aware of it and how to use it.
This was how she used hers. When we met, she hypnotized me with her slim waist and rocking hips. Knowing damn well that men are visual creatures, she swung that poured in skinny jeans, bulbous, bouncy behind of hers in my face to where I couldn't see or think of any other woman. Without trying, she was desirable. She totally changed the way I look at a woman and the type of a woman I desire; which at this point, is only her. I've chosen not to settle for anyone less.
Once I gained control of my visual senses, I was able to lift my eyes and I adored her. OMG, she was "girl next-door" damn cute, with fairytale princess long hair. Her smile caused to form on her face, high, chocolate covered black cherry cheeks. From her lips oozed a sugary sweet voice. After recovering from my diabetic shock following listening to her speak, was I able to hear what she was saying.
She spoke about everything and nothing. I was hanging on her every word. Some of what she had to say was quirky and some was profound. Her past was filled with accomplishments to be complimented. There was also pain her past, but she was learning to deal and heal. She had dreams and goals for her future written and shared with me.
We became close early on. I stopped seeing her physically, meaning sexually. I learned of a special quality that she possessed that I wished all sisters could have and that's being genuinely cool. She could talk business, sports, you name it. All of the sudden I was regarding her as a best friend.
I opened up to her, told her things I hadn't shared even with my boys. She listened and said things that made me feel better about certain situations. Not only that, she was able to give me career advice in which I respected. As a person in my life, as a friend, she had something to offer, something to add. In return, I was able and committed to be there and do the same for her. It was a win-win situation. Why not make it last forever?
"Well? How is it my fault?" She asked.
"Because, . . . you're just so damn likeable."
"You heard me."
"Why do I have to be damn likeable? Why can't I just be likeable?"
"I don't know. You just are."
"And that's why you're saying it's my fault for the way that you feel."
"Yes; that's why I'm saying don't blame me for loving you."