cosmogyral
“A day in which I don’t write leaves a taste of ashes.”
Dear Simone,
I've decided to spend the start of the next season in France. I will open the novel of springtime with my hands holding a Parisian coffee. Clara says the espresso is not very good; perhaps it's not strong enough as we like. I didn't ask.
My desire for a chocolate croissant and demitasse has lessened. More than anything, I want to roam the Parisian streets and look at things. Clara says people get really dressed up in Paris, obviously, and I can't wait to stand amongst the sumptuous outfits!
I'll have my wool jacket and space boots. I'm not an elegant person. I lost my only pair of pearl earrings and my diamond ring. These are the two most extravagant pieces of jewelry I've ever owned. The ring was a gift from Denise, my second cousin, for being a flower girl at her wedding. It is a long-standing tradition on my mother's side. I wore a white dress with forest green ribbons at the hemline and wrists. My hair was braided and curled. White roses were woven through the braids like a crown. I remember my head being really itchy. I remember spinning around to watch the dress whirl and conceal those pointy-tipped plastic shoes that went clack-clack-clack on the stone-tiled floors.
After the ceremony, the wedding party took separate vehicles to the reception. I was seated between two bridesmaids in the backseat of a Cadillac. Everyone, including the driver, had beers tucked between their thighs. When my dad approached the car, the girls pulled their long lavender robes over the cans. The driver slid his drink behind his left leg. He smiled, shook my dad's hand, and lied to his face. No, no one is drinking here, sir.
It was that easy.
We went to someone's ranch before the dinner reception. The house had a long balcony with couches and wooden end tables for drinks and ashtrays. Everyone smoked. One of the bridesmaids, with curly dark hair and large eyes offered me some wine. Take a sip; it's nice. She said. I did, and the light fizz lit up my mouth and tingled down the back of my throat.
It's a rose, do you like it? She asked, smiling with plushy lips coated in matte lipstick to match her blush-toned nails. I nodded.
She poured me a glass in a tiny coupe and showed me how to hold it by pinching the stem.
It stays cold if you don't put your hands on the bowl, she said, tipping her rim to mine.
Cheers!
I was seven years old.
I sat in the sunshine and watched the girls cross their legs, some at the ankle and some at the knee. I mimicked their gestures and took small sips of the wine until I felt lightheaded. A groomsman with a cowboy hat filled my glass when it was nearly empty. It bubbled and fizzed and spilled over the lip. He apologized for his sloppiness and told me to hold very still and take a little off the top to avoid making a mess.
It doesn't really matter, he said; we're outside.
He tipped his hat and went around the patio topping up people's drinks. He had the rose in one hand and white wine in the other.
I was dizzy when I stood up to leave the ranch and go to the reception. Two bridesmaids took my hands and we skipped back to the car. I sat on one of the girl's laps and four of us squished into the backseat. Two men were upfront, smoking with the windows down and blasted country music everyone knew the words to but me.
When we arrived at the banquet hall, no one held my hand as we walked inside. I followed the bridesmaids to our side of the long head table and the girl with dark eyes winked at me.
We were served red meat, potatoes, and a vegetable dish with roasted sprouts and squash. The speeches were very long and punctuated by laughter or tears. I tried to spot my parents and little sisters in the sea of round white tables. My vision blurred past my plate; all I could make out were the grand vases of white and red roses tied with forest green bows at the center of each table.
Music started and the lights dimmed. Someone had cleared my plate.
There's cake, the bridesmaid next to me said. She had eyes the color of the sky and her breath was honey on my neck. Come with me; let's get a slice, shall we?
My legs felt like rubber as we walked. She moved slowly, like a bee moving through a field of lamb's ear. She pressed a small plate into my hands with a square of the buttery cake. It had thick frosting between six moist layers of dough.
There were bowls of chocolates shaped like hearts and small pink jelly candies. I took a spoon and sprinkled a few onto my plate, watching my hands as if they did not belong to me.
On the way back to the table my dad appeared. He looked long and foreign to me in his fancy tuxedo and sharp shoes.
Where were you? He said to the bridesmaid.
She stammered out a response and touched my shoulder.
I looked past my father for my mother and sisters. I could see my littlest sister on my mother's lap and Amanda seated beside her on a chair. I waved. My sisters waved back. My mother was talking to someone and didn't notice. Her hair was short and blond and she wore a cream-colored pantsuit with flat shoes. My sisters were dressed to match in dark green jumpers with purple and white bows my mother sewed herself.
The girl stepped back and said, I'll wait at the table, and walked away. I felt my dad's palm on my chin. He got down on a knee and peered into my face.
You okay, kiddo?
I nodded.
He grazed my cheek.
Are you sure?
Yes, I nodded. My tongue felt too heavy to move.
Ok, you want to sit with us or at the main table?
My gaze was still on my mother and sisters. I turned toward my seat where the girls and groomsmen were sitting, laughing and licking fingerfuls of frosting.
Kiddo, you should come to sit with us.
My dad grabbed my wrist, the one free from holding the dessert plate. He gave me a little tug.
I shook my head.
Kiddo?
I looked into my dad's eyes.
I wouldn't understand the sorrow I met in his gaze until years later. I wasn't emotionally mature enough to comprehend the concern. My inability to access that deeply rooted seed of fear prevents me from feeling the way my dad does when he looks at me.
I am too wild; I crave the unknown.
Even at seven years old, I enjoyed flinging myself into the abyss where I couldn't see what was on the other side. I enjoyed the sensation of numbing. I liked the sparkle and void that became with every sip of alcohol. I enjoyed the camaraderie and feeling of belonging to something, a group of young women teasing destruction.
I turned around and walked to my seat, carrying that little porcelain plate in both hands. I couldn't meet my dad's eye. I avoided his gaze until he pulled me out from under the head table, where I had curled up into a ball and cried as people whirled and dipped on the dance floor.
A deep depression tends to follow me when I drink. Like a perfume that smells lovely on its own, although once sprayed onto your skin, it blends horribly with your pH.
Simone, what did you settle for in France? What did you drink? Who did you watch? How did you pass your hours?
I haven’t booked anything because I’m waiting for a sign to prompt me in the correct direction.
No one can pull me out from underneath the table anymore, so I am cautious as a cat curled up on the windowsill without glass.
Do we crave containers because we fear spaciousness, Simone?
Photo source.
