a monologue about love

The first thing in the morning, after getting out of the bed-prison yourself, is to demand that they liberate Mickey Mouse.
Affection is whimsical. It lands on this or that. But Mickey is the first. Always. The perpetual open mouthed grin under the upturned black ball of a nose; the round ears; the red shorts; the gentlemanly white gloves. And the eyes. You have to crush Mickey to yourself, and then bury yourself in his relatively puny chest, smooshing his face with your face.
Then you throw him away. Finis!
It is the rodent that attracts you next. Dun colored. A beaky muzzle, small glassy eyes – so unlike Mickey’s! – and small forelegs. A cord of a tail as thick as a shoestring. This is true love, and you smoosh your face to the rodents face, squeezing his forearms in your embrace - or is it just a fullbody sinking into the thing to the extent that the stuffing can bear without resisting you?
Then you throw him away and show no interest in him. It is as if you never met.
It is the tiger’s turn. It is as if you were travelers who have just met after strange adventures. How long has it been? His hair is bristly. Bigger than the rodent, he is much smaller than Mickey. But he is gold with black stripes, or approximately gold. No puny forearms, but four equally thick legs. You don’t, however, smoosh your face in his bristles. You still retain a collegial distance. You merely squeeze his hindquarters, holding him tight in the open carriage where, according to some rule that calls for this to happen every morning, they show you the town. Surely it is only polite to occasionally cry out your approval of this or that aspect of what they have been doing. Great sidewalk! Look at this window! Love the way they’ve positioned this bum on the stoop! The tiger seems, too, to understand these things.
Then you toss him overboard. What a bore! They’ve put a chord around his neck, so that he doesn’t get lost, but hangs there besides the open stroller.
First loves, difficult loves.