sei un dono
“Love is a thing that is full of cares and fears.”
Number 3.
We'd met at a cocktail party. Easter. Little purple eggs were hanging from a tree in the living room. Tied to the boughs with yellow silk ribbons. The home smelled of hard-boiled eggs. You know that smell? Musty cupboards and farts. The kind of fart that tries to go unnoticed. Under the blankets, but it always seeps out.
It's best to name things before they appear. Don't you think?
I walked into the room wearing blue and pink earrings that clipped the side of my face when I turned too fast. The edges were sharp, like a protractor. I wore them that one time. I don't need to be cut to look good.
Black pants and a silk chemise completed my outfit. Purple lipstick. I matched the easter eggs. Who hangs eggs from a tree?
Who dangles jewels from an earlobe?
My mother used to say there are no such things as bad ideas.
But there are. Abolishing abortion is a bad idea. There are contraries to every rule.
I wanted a cigarette, but no one smokes in Canada anymore. Publically, no one smokes where they can be seen, not like France, where you can smoke in a doorjamb with one cheek inside. Canada has a ten-meter rule. Or feet. You have to be a certain distance away before you can smoke. I think it's the same for vaping. I wouldn't know. I'm not there anymore.
France isn't exactly my cup of tea but that's another story.
I'd been standing in the living room and the host came by with a tray of amber-colored cocktails and I took one when really I wanted two. To keep my hands busy. It's better to be bored holding something than not. What do you do with your arms? I've always wondered this. Usually, I clasp my elbows. My mother says it looks too defensive.
Clasp your palms, dear. In front of you or behind your back.
The stance of obedience. No man stands with his hands clasped in front of his pelvis unless he's hiding a gun.
I took one drink. Two would have seemed too eager. And no one wants to saddle up with desperation.
I stood by that tree that stank of eggs and listened to a girl tell the same joke about baubles to each guest she entertained. Why do people repeat themselves? I wear the same outfit everywhere. Black on black. I'm lazy; I don't lack for color. If I open my mouth, it's like the oil spills in the sewers that bleed rainbows.
Thin-film interference. That's what the thin bands of color are called that float to the surface of oil when it's mixed with water. Raindrops will do this, causing light to form.
Even in the muck, we can discover beauty.
Hence, I always wear black.
Number 3 arrived in a plaid jacket with the cuffs rolled up. He had nice arms. Muscular forearms. And eyes like the bark of Arbutus trees. A voice like mushroom risotto.
I wanted him immediately.
I kept my distance.
I sipped my drink slowly, licking my lips to savor the citrus, and watched him from behind my bangs. I only cut my hair this way to spy on people properly. I don't look good with bangs. Everyone tells me this and I don't care. Why bother with what other people think? All sorts of nonsense creep into the mind and if my bangs bother you don't look at me.
That is how I responded to Number 16. We met for one drink before going to a concert in Gastown. I ditched him on the dancefloor and spent the night drinking gin on my own.
I'd rather be alone than babysit someone else's emotions.
Watching the mushroom-risotto man move around the kitchen kept me entertained for a brief bit, and when the host came by with another tray of drinks, the same amber-toned liquid in a tall glass, I took one and poured it down the hatch in one gulp.
Doing ok, Steph?
Yes, are you?
I'm fine.
I'll take another before you go.
I have no shame sometimes.
Other times, I care too much and walk around wondering what to do with my elbows.
Carrying my second cocktail with an air of indifference, I waltzed into the kitchen where I'd last seen Number 3.
Instead of meeting that sexy voice, I bumped into a girlfriend I hadn't seen since I taught yoga. We had nothing to discuss, given my removal from the industry. She forced a dialogue anyway. Nodding her head vigorously and laughing too hard. I hastily finished my drink to fill my mouth with something instead of words.
What I had to say would not have been nice.
Our host came by, making rounds quicker now that people were sufficiently lubricated and less timid. I helped myself to another drink. The host raised their eyebrows at me, and I smirked. We were interrupted by a heavy thud in the next room, followed by shattering glass and running water. A guest, definitely drunker than I was, went down and brought a vase of flowers with him into the carpet. The hosts rushed over to tend to the mess and who arrived in the vacancy but Number 3!
Hello, I'm (mushroom-risotto man). I can't help but notice how lovely your eyes are. What's your name?
Inwardly, I cringed at his opening line. His tanned face and dark hair made up for his lack of language.
Stephanie.
How do you know the hosts?
I used to teach yoga. We did yoga together.
I gestured toward my friend, currently on her knees, collecting yellow flowers.
And you?
Oh, I'm here with a friend. We're hopping around a bit. Weird, isn't it? All the Easter parties?
People are pent up. We haven't been out in months. I get it.
Totally, ya. It's just that I've never been to so many Easter-themed events in one weekend.
Have you been to others?
Ya, he paused to sip his beer, this is our second party tonight and we have another afterward. You should come. We're having duck.
I don't eat animal products. Just eggs.
Number 3 looked at me. He smiled. He checked his watch. He had beautiful hands.
Come with us. The'll be other stuff for you to nibble on.
I did go and I did eat the duck.
It was delicious.
I told him that I'd nicknamed him the mushroom-risotto man. He liked it. He let me call him that when we were in bed. Anywhere else and it was inappropriate.
Isn't it funny how some things in one context are acceptable and in another, they are not?
I prefer to brush my teeth naked. I'm sloppy and have stained too many shirts with toothpaste. I strip down no matter who I'm with. Friends, lovers, family; it's all the same to me.
There are certain people who take offense to my nakedness. Others are indifferent. Or pretend to be. My sister would join me. We'd floss our teeth and pat our faces down with moisturizer hip to hip, nipples erect. Full bush on display. I felt closer to her after the first time we did that.
My sister and I have very different bone structures, through our labia look the same. I'm always fascinated by where I mirror others.
Equality is an endlessly enticing subject. I don't believe it exists. How can you say that people are equal in our multifaceted and boundless differences?
Grapefruit and caramel are equally delightful though they have entirely different flavors and textures. One is not better than the other, though they are not equal. I crave a grapefruit in the morning with a bit of brown sugar and rosemary sprinkled on top. I eat the wedges by carving them clear of the skin with a small silver spoon.
Caramel I save it for later. I like to put the squares on my tongue and press them to the roof of my palate. I like to feel them melt and recede down my throat. I like to lie on the floor and suck and suck until my mouth is empty and my body screams MORE.
I never want another slice of grapefruit. One half is enough.
I always want another caramel. I never have more than one.
Number 3 broke up with me at a bar that only served highballs and beer. It wasn't verbal. That would have been too easy.
He'd been sitting with his arms crossed (warning sign number one) and jiggling one foot against the floor (warning sign number two). He wouldn't look me in the eye.
I wanted to lean into him, to take up space. I wanted to ask him what he was looking at. I could see his eye gaze set on the table.
I've learned to accept that you cannot ask what you want to know; you have to feel it.
A person will not directly tell you where they are holding their focus, perhaps because they do not know themselves.
I was focused on him entirely, so I felt it when he locked the door to his heart with me on the outside.
Damn You! I screamed. Stop shaking your foot!
What I was really saying was, Let Me In!
I was ill-equipped. I did not know how to manage myself in those days, and so I clung to his arm and cried. I remember because I'd been wearing a red shirt, and the color looked gruesome against his olive skin.
He finished his drink, and I mine.
We walked out holding hands.
I wish I'd named the thing when I felt it. I wish I'd let go of his hand and walked with my palms clasped. Not in front of my pelvis, but in prayer at my heart.
This invocation of coming home to my Self.
Photo source.
