Bent Words

Bent Words

August 03, 2011

He's not unlike a little boy.

With his bright and innocent eyes blaring blue in the morning.

It's when I love him most.

As he's just waking from his dreams and seeing me for the first time in a new day. Our day. There's hope and happiness and laughter shining through his first rousing moments. It's where I hope to find him every morning, waiting to meet up with me again.

At first, he's a little slow on the get go. But once he's rolling, he's a riot. Remembering things from the night before, recalling conversations he had at work, relating to me all the thoughts that make their turn 'round the twisties in his mind.

It's how I know he'll never have me far from his thoughts throughout the duration of each day, whether we're sitting next to each other or miles apart.


He's put together rather loosely.

If he were suspended in the air, one could picture his long legs hanging below him without worry or want of ground; like the Woody character in Toy Story. When he's walking, his arms swing out liberally to and fro so that you can imagine him accidentally throwing an arm away if he were a little less sturdy. When he sits, always sinking into every chair, his clumsily socked feet curl inward and you cannot help but to think of him as something of an awkward teenager, though he's nearly 30.

There's something puerile about his movements, if you look closely enough, but all of this is easily counteracted by his purposeful, proud head ever lifted high with determination.

I can recall having really noticed him phyiscally for the first time mere days after we first met. I was walking, unbeknownst, behind him and carefully watched the jagged lines of his step, as though he were incapable of form fitting to a straight line. His upper body curved slightly forward, decidedly, and his nose (as well as his intent) met his destination well beyond the rest of him. I knew then that he was unique -- with a lacking mindfulness for carriage but a resolute amibition for production -- and I wanted to know more. This odd-bodied man tempered with self-assurance and tenacity...


He's a little immature.

With his practical jokes and teasing. It's when I 'hate' him most.

A friend of ours was recently bitten by a brown recluse spider and, while he's thankfully doing well, Kevin wasted no time in making the best of the opportunity. From my bedroom loft I looked down, squinting into the living room and inquired, upon spying a golfball-sized brown object under the air conditioning unit, "What the HELL is THAT?" Kevin ran down to investigate and once near enough to discern the mysterious entity, exclaimed, "Oh no."

"Oh no, what?!" I asked.

"It's a spider, Laura."

"What?! That big?!"

"It's a huge spider. I'm talking small tarantula-sized."

I couldn't make out any details from thirteen feet overhead but based on his body language and unwillingness to get near the horrifying aracnid, I believed him.

"What should I do, Laura? Should I try to kill it? What if it bites me?"

"Dude. Don't touch it. Just don't touch it! Grab a big cup and trap it."

He approached it trepidaciously with a paper towel and then, just like that (and just prior to me dialing 911), Kevin snags the object up with the towel and, with flailing arms, screams, "Got it!"

Holding it in the air, I started squealing.


Snickering followed...

"Laura!" *snicker snicker* "It's just a bit of cat fur."


As he dashed up the stairs, laughing his little heart out, I began to torpedo him with DVDs. Indeed, he got me. He got me GOOD. But, as I calmly explained later, when the tables are turned, he won't have to ask why. He'll know... Oh, yes, my friends. He will know...


Despite his boyish ways, his semi-awkward movements and his little pranks...

He's all man.

He never allows me to proceed without the assistance of an opened door.

He would not dream of having me carry anything heavy or lift anything obscure.

As I rush out the door to attend highly "pertinent" morning meetings, he makes certain the bed is made, the shower curtain is closed and the garbage I've gathered is removed.

He whispers, "I love you," every opportunity he has and holds within him the capacity to keep up with me in bed. <-- contractual obligation for future reference

He does not judge me or the music I like or the way I sing or the obesessions I have or the quirks I carry inappropriately. He invigorates me, motivates me and applauds me absolutely. And isn't that what I've been holding out for?

He takes control (which turns me on) and also lets me take the reigns (which turns me on). He doesn't push but he doesn't give in, either. He is always making an effort and very rarely files a complaint.

I know he would be there for me in a minute if I needed him.

He loves his mom, respects his brothers and his grandfather is the most revered man in his heart.

He may be sassy as all hell, silly as a spider monkey and put together as loosely as a rag doll, but damn if he isn't the most charming man I've ever met in my entire life.

And, not unlike his usual self, that's saying a lot.

Written at 7:10 p.m.