It hasn’t happened yet.
I can smell him coming, but it hasn’t happened. Not yet.
But it will. I’m not prophesying, and this isn’t hopeless self-pity. I’m just speaking from experience, and from that strong instinct women learn not to ignore. All the pieces are assuming the position.
I can smell him. You could even say I invited him, by taking a new risk. It would be easier to bear if he would simply walk up to my front door and be honest about himself, but rejection has no integrity, no manners. No, he won’t even be honest about himself; he will come to me with lipstick and rouge, pretending to be prettier than he is, believing his cracked, painted reflection–formulating a story that leaks water like a broken bucket.
Rejection hates me because I know the name of Resurrection. How many times has he plowed me over and enjoyed my tears, only to watch in horror whilst Love raises me again?
There is a silver lining in watching rejection saunter up to me with his jeering smile– the moment when he realizes I no longer care what he thinks.