Mary Jane's Muse

Janae’s face is inches from mine as we lie on the floor together sharing a fleece blanket. My lips brush her cream-hued cheek as I lean in to her neck and breathe in through her long wine-red hair. The drum in my chest pounds out beats in a slow, bass tone as she compresses her body against mine.

Tonight her affection feels genuine—like she wants to be with me.

***

She won’t keep eye contact with me for more than a few seconds. I would rather her look into my eyes and give me a warm smile than anything else, but she’s tired, and it’s time for her to go to bed.

I help her to her feet, pulling her off of the couch and in for an enveloping hug. She keeps her forehead on my shoulder.

“My breath…” she says.

“Right,” I say with mild impatience.

It’s becoming a pattern, but not worth discussing now. Anyway, it brings me more pain than pleasure when I kiss her some of the time, because she holds back, like she’s having to pay taxes. She pats my back instead of pulling herself into me.

I let her go and open the door for myself as she gives me a quick, courtesy smile and customary “G’night.”

***

I’m staring out the window in my cubicle, leaning back in my chair with my arms folded. I told her on the second date that if she didn’t want me to ask her out again, all she needed to do was say it, and I would graciously tap out. She still hasn’t told me to do so.

After dating for over three months, I still have no idea how Janae feels about me, and it’s hard for me to feel secure in her presence. I wonder if she thinks I’m not manly, handsome, funny, or spontaneous enough, or if she thinks I’m pathetic and needy.

I chide myself for my hyped insecurity. “My happiness doesn’t depend on her. If she doesn’t want me, it’s her loss,” I try to convince myself.

I continue to brood, chewing my tongue, “I should be adored as much as I adore her.”
Though I complement her profusely, she occasionally says my shirt looks good with my pants. I say I miss her, and she coos, “Mmmm.” I say something silly or funny, and instead of laughing she offers a curt, “Hm,” which, in my mind, translates to, “Nice try, dork”—another criteria I haven’t met.

“Maybe I’m just being selfish, expecting too much. Maybe I’m being irrational… maybe I’m the problem,” I try to be objective, but end up sarcastic.

My knee starts bouncing up and down at a violent pace, and my jaw clenches.

John.

John, the ever-hovering menace. The kind, supportive, and six-figure ex-boyfriend that offered her diamond earrings the night before our first date. Just a friend, he calls her almost every time I’m with her. He does things for her, looks out for her, always there…making her remember him.
John is patient, the worst kind of competition, and the faithful backup. He knows her, knows how to prick her compassion for him. He imperceptibly casts the flaxen cords over her neck. “I’m just being your friend,” he says all the while. She notices the cords, but they’re smooth and comforting, asking for harmless concessions here and there. She says to herself, “I can break them off anytime I want. Anytime….”

She doesn’t break them. Not for her sake. Not for his. Not for me.

***

I’m sitting in the tub with my arms draped around my legs while taking a hot shower. I stare at the water circling around and disappearing into the drain as drops form and fall from my eyelashes. She has been in Hawaii on a trip for over a week now and hasn’t called since she left. I know she’s probably busy…but still.

“I would’ve called her,” I blurt out as I raise my head up to peer into my distorted reflection in the metal faucet.

I start to wonder if she’s using this opportunity to cut things off. After all, she’s probably going to take the job in Utah.

“Why do I try,” I chuckle and force a tight grin. In my mind, I compare her to the gorgeous Mary Jane and myself to the struggling Peter Parker, except without the bravery, “spidey” powers, and happy ending. I think about how Peter always feels like he’s letting Mary Jane down, even though all he wants to do is keep her safe. He’s not Superman (perfect), and he’s not Batman (rich, dark, mysterious). Peter lacks confidence, struggles to live up to impossible expectations, tries to make enough money to buy M.J. a single flower, and doesn’t say all the right things. Peter Parker is the most human of the super heroes.

The comparison between Peter and me doesn’t work out though. No. In this story, my role is more like that of Flash, the meathead muse distracting Mary Jane from her loneliness while she waits for the man she really wants. How blessed, how fortunate, how inadequate am I?