White wine from Seattle droops in heavy crystal glasses while we sit in your parlor in front of the bay window watching the neighborhood abandon the evening.
Philosophers long-gone stare at us from the photos on your wall, a project started to answer your burning questions, as you turn to consider me.
“Have you ever heard of nonviolent communication?” you pose as the topic of the night. Potential answers muddle around in my mind.
The wine is hitting and I can’t think I want to impress you but all I know is how to feel.
Can you communicate nonviolently while you call me, a girl who feels everything, “shiny” and “lovely,” but certainly not “gold?”
How can you say, “You’re safe with me,” while I’m fighting to understand what language you’re speaking with every word out of your mouth?
What is so gentle about the words “I love you” being ripped from my throat under duress?
I know you’re asking so you can solve something in me, a deep problem that I didn’t know you were assessing. You lean in and place your hand just so on my knee.
Your implied power over me is punctuated. Please tell me, Philosopher…
