Woman is a curious thing.
We want her soft. We want her pretty. We want her hair and thighs just so. She should smell like this...walk like that. Dirty like this...sweet like that. Her kiss should be fire, her touch streaming water. When you touch your hand to the small of her back, feel the angel-demon struggle in her. After all, we want her for a lover...and a mother. How is she to know which, when? The quiet friend who loves your soul, you dismiss; you cannot find the lover in her. The painted girl who strokes your neck, you dismiss; you cannot find the mother in her. You yourself discourage the growth of one in the other. Thoughts to friends; bodies to lovers. We take of each that which has rooted first and taken hold. And by doing so, we perpetuate those same qualities, rarely allowing - or even desiring - the union of both. So you do not think of marriage when you see the bare-chested girl perched on the toilet. Do you think of it when an old friend coughs and sips from your glass? Do you imagine one has not wished once that she was the other? Would you take her if she were?
Do we know what we want?
Perhaps what is truly curious is us.