Love is Dying

Sometimes when I’m sitting curled up on the end of my sofa that’s closest to the lamp and the table with the stack of books resting on it, I think how the thing that would make the scene even more delightful is if My Him was on the other end of the sofa, complaining about how it would be nice if he had a little light so he could read his book, too.

I’d say, “You don’t have to have much light to rub my feet.”

To which he’d respond, “What would I get out of that?”

Then I’d say … you get the point. The scenario works best when there’s a Him.

Now I’m thinking the chances of this happening might be slimmer than my disproportionate-to-the-rest-of-my-body ankles are. Why? Love is falling apart everywhere.

People often talk about the scarcity of black love. Honestly, white love ain’t looking too good, either. It’s not that “celebrity couples” are my standard for healthily functioning unions, but when I see a couple that, by all accounts, seems normal, I can’t help but root for them, even if I don’t know them personally.

But like the Roots say, “things (relationships are chief among things) fall apart.” Like Chris and Rih … never mind; Janet and Jermaine; Eva and Lance; Darius and Karrine (Eddie and Supahead); then there’s Al and Tipper and their daughter and her doctor husband; Sandra and Jesse; and now, the one that crushes all my dreams and proves that love has gone into a closet to die … Heidi and Spencer. If they can’t make it, who can? If Will and Jada–I don’t care what you think about them and their alleged alternative marriage, it apparently works for them–are next, I know something.

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~ by MsInklination on June 9, 2010.

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