I Want To Control You
By Neya Shah
I like my coffee with three sugars. Exactly three. Two creamers. Not pipping hot, but just warm enough that the liquid slithers down my throat, engulfing my body in a warm sweater of comfort. And when I tell you, the distressed waitress balancing seven trays, that this is the way I like my coffee, I damn well hope you remember my three sugars and two creamers. I want to control you.
I like my technology to function efficiently. I like my internet to load all seventeen tabs at lightning speed and my illegal song file downloads to be virus free. I like my cell phone to have all six bars of service and 3G support even in the deepest recesses of Bumblefuck, around the corner from Nowheresville, Tennessee. I like my coffee with three sugars. I like it when the heavens orchestrate the clouds to unfurl and shine a ray of light directly on the nape of my neck so that my body radiates with the warmth of a thousand candles, echoing into the farthest reaches of my pinky toes. I like it when the raindrops fall in perfect unison, not raging and angry like a thousand red ants falling from the sky, piercing my skull. I like my raindrops slow and soft, like the lukewarm caress of a misty waterfall, pitter-pattering around me in perfect symphony with the fall of my step. I want to control you.
I like it when you hold my hand. I like it when our fingers brush past each other and rest in a perfectly interlocked position like pieces of a puzzle. There is no place my fingers want to be besides intertwined with yours. I like it when you call me baby. I like it when you gaze into my eyes and, for a split second, expose an overwhelming crescendo of soft vulnerability that you conceal so well by day. I like it when you talk about puppies. I like it when your smile widens at the poorest of my jokes. I like your curiosity. I like it when we sit for hours doing nothing and I still feel like it was a day well spent. I’d like it if you were the right guy for me. I like my coffee with three sugars, and I want to control you.
But what happens when you, the distressed waitress balancing seven trays, brings my coffee cold and black with five sugars? When I step outside and the sun is hidden behind dense clouds leaving me cold, when the rain is menacing — coming down with the wrath of a million red ants? When my cell phone has two bars, making my illegal song downloads nearly impossible, leaving my seventeen tabs lost in the eternal maze of the world wide web? And you — you’re not holding my hand, and you’re not calling me baby. My fingers are lonely, intertwining themselves with each other, hoping the feeling can be recreated. I don’t know where your eyes are looking, but they aren’t gazing into mine, and your smile may be wide, but it’s miles away. And you’re not the right guy for me. I want to control you. Dammit, I want three sugars in my coffee.
But perhaps I can grow to like my coffee cold and black with five sugars. Maybe a torrential downpour from the heavens is a cleansing of the crevices of my inner being — a cathartic shower for my soul. Maybe my malfunctioning technology is energy well spent on other endeavors. And maybe someday I can trick my fingers into appreciating the ample space they have now that they are solitary. Maybe someday I’ll think about your eyes gazing into mine and tears wont stream down my face like a waterfall of red ants, burning my cheeks with the fury of my wants. Maybe I’ll spend an entire day, sitting, doing nothing, all by myself. Maybe I’ll enjoy it. Maybe one day, I’ll accept how you weren’t the right guy for me. I want to control you. But maybe I should control what I want. For now, I’ll drink my coffee cold and black, with five sugars.