The Bald and the Beautiful

That Man was here again today, watching me as I sat in the garden. He is circumspect with me, and possibly too polite. What power does he think I have? Perhaps he thinks that if he opens doors for me and calls me by my full name I will suddenly adore him. Haven't these people noticed that sometimes I avoid their touch, and lower my back as I pass to avoid their pawing?

He doesn't anthropomorphise me, thankfully. But he infantilises me. Last night I sat on him, and as he removed me in order to leave, he referred to me as 'youngster'. Is it the fate of my race to be considered eternally youthful? Is this akin to black men being called 'boy'?

I saw an advertisement today that asked: "are you sick of cute furry pets?". It suggested Yabbies as pets. Rather than alternatives to the cute and furries, perhaps they should be pets for the cute and furries? She is my giant Yabbie, although I have never told her. But I think she knows.

Am I jealous? If I was I couldn't admit to it. All those times we stared at each other in bed before sleeping curled up together. She still invites me into her bed, but I know her mind is elsewhere, and although she still says she loves me, I suspect that is is an absent and thoughtless love. She leaves the house for long periods of time, and I know she is with him, and she arrives home, happy and loud, and holds me, guiltily, before going to bed, exhausted.

Nick Cave once poignantly asked "do you love me, like I love you?"

Does she love me, and do I love her? Does he love her, does he love me? Can he accept and acknowledge me in the way I deserve?