Haha, Dave an’ Brian, remember that? Dead dead dead with a hole in my head. Brian wrote that right? Ah, good times.
He used to get close to her. He was an attentive sort, would always move in when he was sure she wouldn’t be bothered, when he knew he would be safe from from her careless ways. She’d not the time to consider him. He’d busy himself though, tidying up, scurrying about.
Unlike the others, too cool, too uninterested, you could tell he cared. Was his a reincarnated soul with a deep connection to her, so profound and abiding as to only be taken in spoonfuls – for it was all he could bear. He must pace himself, he thought. We should live long, very long. The long race does not lend itself to a sprint. Better that our relationship be slow, a walk, a stroll, soft hand in soft hand.
Once he made a bold move, coming close when she’d not asked for it. It was a mistake he would not soon forget. Sometimes the love overwhelmed him and he forgot his place, forgot what he was. She recoiled from his touch. He fled in fright.
He was but a servant. He made himself scarce for a time, but the attraction was there. He couldn’t help himself. When she came into his space, he watched her every move, the way she poured a glass of milk, made toast, the rustle of her dress, the sienna of her skin.
He would venture forth to inhabit her space, breathe the same air. Perhaps she would let a crumb fall for him.
It was a mid-afternoon day when it all came to an end. Bah, he had said to himself, a stroll lacks the capacity to express how I feel. I am transcendent, I am more than I seem to be. I am not content to walk a long slow walk. I need more. And puffed up with his new found resolve, he danced and skipped from his space into hers, touched her bare leg, put a hand beneath her dress. Such was his passion. I shall not live a life in silence away from you, my dear, within reach of you without… I must touch you. I would rather die than live a thousand years thusly.
Let me touch you.
She leapt up in fright pushing her chair back. He gave her a start, but it began to subside when she saw it was him, his little reptilian self scurrying in fright.
With her errant chair, though, she broke his back, sending him to his death. It was unintentional, but inevitable. The end for which he had hoped could never have been.
Poor Jerry the Lizard, it was your love that killed you. T’was beauty that killed the beast.
Very funny, for a second there I thought you were now into writing purple prosey romance. But for the record…
The Lizard made it into a history, was written about and became a household pet BECAUSE I recognized its curious antics, friendly and curious disposition and I GAVE it a Name.
He did not exist unbeknownst to us, I named him Jerry for Jerry Mouse. I also did not squash him callously. He had never hung out under my desk. And when I accidentally ran him over with my chair, well, I mourned him and shared my grief with the rest of the family.
You might want to know that our Tom Lizard seems to be hopping around the kitchen more often these days.
You are such a dork. 🙂
No, YOU’RE a dork. (I got your back, Laura. He won’t get away with that kind of insult) 🙂
I don’t get what this has to do with our (extremely catchy) song. Except the dead part, I guess. Poor Jerry.
Well, yeah, I guess that’s it, isn’t it? Just the dead part. It was the first line to go through my head when I thought that he was dead.. not “He’s dead, Jim.” but, “dead dead dead with a hole in my head.” I had to write it ’cause it made me laugh.