I feel as though there's an organ lying beneath my ribcage that has been rubbed raw. Maybe you were trying to marinade me for your barbecue this weekend. A salt rub? Perhaps you wanted to start with a good salt rub? And now none of us are sure what to do for fair weather is not here and how long will I keep in the fridge?
Sitting in the fridge here I feel tender. Like Achilles heel, the underbelly of a dragon or a snake, I've got this tender muscle in my rib cage. It never broke when we did. Since day two I have never been sad that we broke. But now, a long time later, something has peeled back this layer of stalwartness and I've realized this muscle is tender because it is absorbent and it's absorbed all the wrong things. It absorbed all the times you weren't charming, all of those--well, I won't make a list here. Mainly, it's tired because it works very hard when people work their way into its vicinity.
I've told this organ, my muscle, that resides here, under my ribcage, that we could take a vacation. We could take a break. We could take it easy. We will potter about and curl up in bed with a book and go out to breakfast with friends.
Sometimes, though, we go out on the town. Sometimes my dear organ, that muscle inside my chest, has been a little fearful but we've had a bit of fun. I've winked at a few fellas and let a few of them have my phone number and even pay for some of my meals. A few times, this dear little organ was fluttering about in a manner many call "twitter-pated." We quite enjoyed that for a couple of weeks. But at the end of the night, we like to come home and rest and read Chekhov and listen to Grizzly Bear or Possessed by Paul Jones or the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band or Lovin' Spoonful (or etc. etc.) and be alone.
I was looking inside my ribcage this weekend, investigating and wondering like Nancy Drew what to do and I thought that maybe, just maybe, because it's a muscle in there, maybe it wasn't so much to worry over that we were feeling a little sore. I've heard muscles when they work ever so hard (like when people come into their vicinity) get little tears in them, then they stitch themselves back up again and all the stitching embroiders a wild pattern filling up all of the weak empty spaces.
But, right now, if you open up the fridge, and you've found something that is tenderized and about the size of my fist or something like that, it's actually mine and I'd like to keep it for sometime to come. So shut the door, please, don't leave the refrigerator open long, it wastes electricity. We're taking it easy in here. (And I think we'll keep for a long, long time.)
