He nods as he reads it, using the arrow keys to move down the screen. "Ok, who am I supposed to be picturing when I read the part of Christian?" He doesn't take his eyes off the screen as he bites into another Chips Ahoy. He thinks in pictures.
"Chris Eigman." I am definitive.
He is still reading. "Who? Freak Talks About Sex? Internet?"
"It's Online, not Internet. And that's Josh Hamilton. Chris Eigman is Last Days of Disco, … ummm, Metropolitan."
"Oh oh oh. Mister fucking Jealousy! Got it. Love him." He nods. "He's perfect. Intense. Dry. Is he the killer?"
"Yes."
"Ooh. Good one. No one will see that coming. Why do I confuse him with Josh Hamilton?" He thinks in pictures, and I understand how his mind works.
"Kicking and Screaming."
He continues nodding. Reading. Eating chocolate chip cookies that are only a little stale. "I wish you'd write a screen play."
"I have. I just prefer novels."
He's finished reading. He scrolls back up the page and thinks about it. "Why? You have such a handle on film." He thinks in pictures, and I don't. Not really.
It's hard to explain, to anyone except him. "I'd rather describe Chris Eigman than put my Words in his mouth." I think in Words.
"That's one way to look at it." He hands the laptop back to me. I put the cookie I'm holding into my mouth and take the computer from him.
Then he gives it to me. "It's supposed to be an intellectual crime, not a crime of passion. Which, is why you did that whole smart first paragraph. I think that gives too much away. I think you should open with more passion. Let the intelligence reveal itself later."
I look at the paragraph in reference. He's right. "Thanks."
"If you want better feedback, you'll have to buy better cookies." He smiles.
"No, that was insightful. It lends to the tone. I can use that. Thank you." He thinks in pictures, I think in Words, and we understand each other.
He lies down on his back on the floor. "Why don't we ever do this with my writing?"
I've made the note and I'm saving the file. "Because your writing sucks."
He pushes his sweatshirt under his head like a pillow. "Oh that's right. I keep forgetting."
I put the laptop down.
"I'm gonna sleep here. I have to be at the installation tomorrow morning at 6. If I go home I'll be too shot." He closes his eyes.
I reach behind me for the fleece throw on the couch. "No problem."
His eyes are closed, and he's drifting away as he says, "I'm jealous of you, Veronica."
"Why?"
"Because you can change your art after you create it. You can go back, and constantly make it better and better. A painting is different. I finish a piece, and I look at it for the rest of my life thinking about all the things I'd do differently now."
"You could paint it again." I try.
"It's not the same. You know that. Your work, the same work, can be ever evolving."
"Until it's published." I lie down on the couch and pretend not to notice as the dog steals the last cookie.
He echoes. "Until it's published." He sits up to look at me. "I never got it before now. Until it's published." And he nods.
He thinks in pictures, and I just painted one.
March 31, 2007
March 30, 2007
If You Ask Them, They Will Write
March 28, 2007
Dear Veronica...
Curious about what advice I'd give on flirting, dating, relationships, sex, marriage, breaking up, and pink elephants?
Can You Date Your Friend's Ex?
Email me your questions and curiosities.
Let's question and be curious together.
Can You Date Your Friend's Ex?
Email me your questions and curiosities.
Let's question and be curious together.
March 25, 2007
The Beginning & Ending
"I'd like it," he says, "If you make them fall in love." He nods if only for himself. "Right at that one part, when the sun is setting."
I'm reactionless. It's so odd, ghost writing fiction. It's so intangible. The direction one man's mind takes as compared to another's, when all roads are possible.
And just the idea that I could make two people fall in love, even in spite of their non existence, is a very surreal thought.
For one man, the sunset is the ending. For another, it's the beginning of night.
He sits back down behind his desk and looks at the screen of his laptop. He looks at my submission and he says, "I can really feel it, he wants her to love him."
I watch his eyes moving on the screen, running over the Words, reading between the lines. Looking into the setting sun.
"OK. Well," I raise an eyebrow and nod. "It's possible. I guess. It's not what the story is about. It's about the murder, and the haunting. But, yeah, I guess they could fall in love." I could write that. I could.
But I had been looking at the assignment. At the story. Not at him. Not at his dark brown distant eyes. Not at what they see.
This isn't about the story.
This isn't about a twist of the plot, or a nuance that the characters can take.
This is about him.
This is about his wanting to be able to make two people fall in love.
This is about the red sky and first moon, that lead into the night,
where he's alone
thinking about someone
who isn't thinking about him.
"Can you make her want him?" His eyes remain on the computer screen, buried in the sunset.
Yes.
I can make it anything he wants. I can make it a fairy tale. I can make it perfect. But I'm talking about his assignment, and he's talking about his sunset. He is still. He is not moving at all. He stares. At one spot. Not moving his eyes. Not seeing anything but one Word.
Whatever the Word was,
whatever it was,
it held him.
And took him.
Like the setting sun takes him into his night.
I couldn't see the Word. But I could see the night.
"What's her name?"
He exhales. "Whose name?"
"The girl we aren't talking about."
He pauses. He begins to shake his head no, but stops himself. And then he whispers, "It doesn't matter." He puts the laptop down and looks at me. "Write it however you want to write it. Don't listen to me." He gives me a half smile.
And I know the sun has set.
"There in the midst of it so alive and alone
Words
Support like bone."
-Peter Gabriel
I'm reactionless. It's so odd, ghost writing fiction. It's so intangible. The direction one man's mind takes as compared to another's, when all roads are possible.
And just the idea that I could make two people fall in love, even in spite of their non existence, is a very surreal thought.
For one man, the sunset is the ending. For another, it's the beginning of night.
He sits back down behind his desk and looks at the screen of his laptop. He looks at my submission and he says, "I can really feel it, he wants her to love him."
I watch his eyes moving on the screen, running over the Words, reading between the lines. Looking into the setting sun.
"OK. Well," I raise an eyebrow and nod. "It's possible. I guess. It's not what the story is about. It's about the murder, and the haunting. But, yeah, I guess they could fall in love." I could write that. I could.
But I had been looking at the assignment. At the story. Not at him. Not at his dark brown distant eyes. Not at what they see.
This isn't about the story.
This isn't about a twist of the plot, or a nuance that the characters can take.
This is about him.
This is about his wanting to be able to make two people fall in love.
This is about the red sky and first moon, that lead into the night,
where he's alone
thinking about someone
who isn't thinking about him.
"Can you make her want him?" His eyes remain on the computer screen, buried in the sunset.
Yes.
I can make it anything he wants. I can make it a fairy tale. I can make it perfect. But I'm talking about his assignment, and he's talking about his sunset. He is still. He is not moving at all. He stares. At one spot. Not moving his eyes. Not seeing anything but one Word.
Whatever the Word was,
whatever it was,
it held him.
And took him.
Like the setting sun takes him into his night.
I couldn't see the Word. But I could see the night.
"What's her name?"
He exhales. "Whose name?"
"The girl we aren't talking about."
He pauses. He begins to shake his head no, but stops himself. And then he whispers, "It doesn't matter." He puts the laptop down and looks at me. "Write it however you want to write it. Don't listen to me." He gives me a half smile.
And I know the sun has set.
"There in the midst of it so alive and alone
Words
Support like bone."
-Peter Gabriel
March 23, 2007
He Drove a Nissan
He stopped opening the car door about the same time I stopped fixing breakfast in bed.
I don't think it was one or the other. I think it was us.
I think we were mediocre. He wasn't bad, and I wasn't great. I don't think either of us has one bad Word to say about the other. But the same would be said for raves.
There was no need for closure; nothing had actually opened.
I don't think it was one or the other. I think it was us.
I think we were mediocre. He wasn't bad, and I wasn't great. I don't think either of us has one bad Word to say about the other. But the same would be said for raves.
There was no need for closure; nothing had actually opened.
March 18, 2007
Me & Bill Murray
I saw Bill Murray in LAX once. Circa 1988. He looked a little scruffy, reminiscent of his Caddyshack character. And I admit I find that sexy. We were walking toward each other. We made eye contact, and held it. I smiled. He grinned back. When we were next to each other he nodded to me. I nodded back.
That was it. That is really all that has ever occurred between myself and Bill Murray.
But at the time, apparently there was much to be read in between the non-lines.
"Oh my God! You know him! You know Bill Murray!" My travelling companion smacks me as we reach our gate.
"I do not. What are you talking about?"
"I saw that look! That was a very telling look!"
"Telling? I have no idea what you're talking about. We smiled at each other. We nodded. It was just polite." It was two strangers, just being polite. OK, maybe my smile was flirty. Maybe I was checking him out. Maybe that was mutual. And maybe not. It was just eye contact and grins for maybe 30 seconds while we walked toward each other. Not a Word, not a gesture. Not a secret, not anything at all.
She is not having it. Not for one moment. "I don't know why you're hiding it!" She's laughing and slapping her hand against her thigh. "God damn, Veronica! You and Bill Murray!"
She's annoying me. It's non-sensical. "Why would I walk past anybody I know in an airport, and not say hello, or stop and talk to them. Why would I deny knowing them. And of all people in the world, why would I pretend not to know Bill Murray??"
She shakes her head. "The only reason I can think of, is a bad break up."
Wow. And I'm the fiction writer? So now, not only do I know Bill Murray, but I also have some kind of history with him. A relationship that ended so incredibly badly, that we can't even bring ourselves to speak to each other when we see each other out in public. "I'm not even sure how to begin to address that."
Her eyes are wide, her mouth is open, she is in utter disbelief. "I saw what I saw."
*****
A couple of years ago I'm in at a wedding reception in Los Angeles. I'm at the bar of course, doing lemon drops with an old friend.
"You know what I've always wanted to ask you?" He slugs down the vodka and bites into the sugar dipped lemon.
"What." I'm licking the sugar off of my fingers.
He looks like he knows a secret. "I don't think I'm supposed to know about this."
"About what?"
He is smiling as he says, "I know about your ex."
OK. I'll play along. "You're gonna have to be a little more specific."
"Bill."
"Bill who?" I do a quick Bill run-down in my head. I've had some Bills. None were a secret.
"Murray!" He laughs, as if he's playing into my obvious protectiveness about this.
It had to have been at least 15 years since that infamous LAX day. And the rumor of this is still going. "Oh my fucking god. Are you kidding me? You think I had a relationship with Bill Murray? SHE still fucking thinks I had a relationship with Bill Murray? BILL MURRAY??"
He is taken back a bit. He looks confused.
I tell him what happened. Word for Word. Happenstance. LAX. Walking toward each other. Eye contact. He was scruffy sexy. I checked him out. Maybe he did the same, and maybe not. Grins. Nods. That's it. Harmless. All of 30 seconds. I swear that is all that happened. That is my entire relationship with Mr. Bill Murray.
"Well why does she think there was more?" He folds his arms.
"I have no idea. It's ridiculous." I order another round.
He's staring at me.
"What?"
He shakes his head a bit. "It just seems to me that if that was really all that happened, she wouldn't be so sure there was more."
I watch the bartender pour. Then I pick up my shot. And I pick up his. And I walk to my table.
The one story I didn't write, and every body's buying it.
He follows me back to the table. "Veronica, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to sound accusing."
I hand him his shot back.
He takes it and looks down at it. "Look, if you don't want to talk about Bill Murray, it's cool. I won't bring it up again. Obviously it's a very sensitive thing for you to remember."
I can feel the volcano of me about to blow. But there's nothing I can do to stop it. My voice is loud. Everyone around us stops what they are doing to look at me while I scream, "I loved him! I loved Bill Murray! He was a sex-god, and I worshipped him! It killed me when he ended it! BILL MURRAY BROKE MY HEART!!"
There is a stillness. He's looking at me with this awful blank stare. Then he squints. And he grins, that same all-knowing grin as earlier. He looks suspicious. "You didn't really go out with Bill Murray."
Ask me again why I call EVERYTHING fiction!
"And Hey!
How 'bout that nutty Star Wars bar!
Can you forget all the creatures in there?
And Hey!
Darth Vader in that black and evil mask.
Did he scare you as much as he scared me?
Yeow!"
- Bill Murray
As Lounge Singer Nick Winters,
Saturday Night Live
That was it. That is really all that has ever occurred between myself and Bill Murray.
But at the time, apparently there was much to be read in between the non-lines.
"Oh my God! You know him! You know Bill Murray!" My travelling companion smacks me as we reach our gate.
"I do not. What are you talking about?"
"I saw that look! That was a very telling look!"
"Telling? I have no idea what you're talking about. We smiled at each other. We nodded. It was just polite." It was two strangers, just being polite. OK, maybe my smile was flirty. Maybe I was checking him out. Maybe that was mutual. And maybe not. It was just eye contact and grins for maybe 30 seconds while we walked toward each other. Not a Word, not a gesture. Not a secret, not anything at all.
She is not having it. Not for one moment. "I don't know why you're hiding it!" She's laughing and slapping her hand against her thigh. "God damn, Veronica! You and Bill Murray!"
She's annoying me. It's non-sensical. "Why would I walk past anybody I know in an airport, and not say hello, or stop and talk to them. Why would I deny knowing them. And of all people in the world, why would I pretend not to know Bill Murray??"
She shakes her head. "The only reason I can think of, is a bad break up."
Wow. And I'm the fiction writer? So now, not only do I know Bill Murray, but I also have some kind of history with him. A relationship that ended so incredibly badly, that we can't even bring ourselves to speak to each other when we see each other out in public. "I'm not even sure how to begin to address that."
Her eyes are wide, her mouth is open, she is in utter disbelief. "I saw what I saw."
*****
A couple of years ago I'm in at a wedding reception in Los Angeles. I'm at the bar of course, doing lemon drops with an old friend.
"You know what I've always wanted to ask you?" He slugs down the vodka and bites into the sugar dipped lemon.
"What." I'm licking the sugar off of my fingers.
He looks like he knows a secret. "I don't think I'm supposed to know about this."
"About what?"
He is smiling as he says, "I know about your ex."
OK. I'll play along. "You're gonna have to be a little more specific."
"Bill."
"Bill who?" I do a quick Bill run-down in my head. I've had some Bills. None were a secret.
"Murray!" He laughs, as if he's playing into my obvious protectiveness about this.
It had to have been at least 15 years since that infamous LAX day. And the rumor of this is still going. "Oh my fucking god. Are you kidding me? You think I had a relationship with Bill Murray? SHE still fucking thinks I had a relationship with Bill Murray? BILL MURRAY??"
He is taken back a bit. He looks confused.
I tell him what happened. Word for Word. Happenstance. LAX. Walking toward each other. Eye contact. He was scruffy sexy. I checked him out. Maybe he did the same, and maybe not. Grins. Nods. That's it. Harmless. All of 30 seconds. I swear that is all that happened. That is my entire relationship with Mr. Bill Murray.
"Well why does she think there was more?" He folds his arms.
"I have no idea. It's ridiculous." I order another round.
He's staring at me.
"What?"
He shakes his head a bit. "It just seems to me that if that was really all that happened, she wouldn't be so sure there was more."
I watch the bartender pour. Then I pick up my shot. And I pick up his. And I walk to my table.
The one story I didn't write, and every body's buying it.
He follows me back to the table. "Veronica, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to sound accusing."
I hand him his shot back.
He takes it and looks down at it. "Look, if you don't want to talk about Bill Murray, it's cool. I won't bring it up again. Obviously it's a very sensitive thing for you to remember."
I can feel the volcano of me about to blow. But there's nothing I can do to stop it. My voice is loud. Everyone around us stops what they are doing to look at me while I scream, "I loved him! I loved Bill Murray! He was a sex-god, and I worshipped him! It killed me when he ended it! BILL MURRAY BROKE MY HEART!!"
There is a stillness. He's looking at me with this awful blank stare. Then he squints. And he grins, that same all-knowing grin as earlier. He looks suspicious. "You didn't really go out with Bill Murray."
Ask me again why I call EVERYTHING fiction!
"And Hey!
How 'bout that nutty Star Wars bar!
Can you forget all the creatures in there?
And Hey!
Darth Vader in that black and evil mask.
Did he scare you as much as he scared me?
Yeow!"
- Bill Murray
As Lounge Singer Nick Winters,
Saturday Night Live
March 12, 2007
The Inheritance
You are the charm. The attracting. The luring. The thing that brings us together.
You are the idea of what it was that we wanted to be. To become. You are the want.
It was dark outside, until it was light.
We all had thoughts and ideas about the who's.
The cowboys and the dancers.
The doctors and the rockstars.
But no how's. Or where's. Or what-if's.
I was wide eyed but couldn't see.
I've been able to say writer for ever. I've been saying writer, not knowing any other way. There is no other way.
But I never said how. No one ever asked how.
It was dark outside, until it was light.
I never let it go,
I only let it come.
Marginal
Almost
I never said good bye.
I don't want clarification. I don't want this fixed,
I just want to find my way. Through the darkness.
Honesty is selfish.
You tell somebody the truth
to make yourself feel better.
Not for their sake, not to help them.
People don’t want your honesty
They want you not to hurt them.
They want to be alright.
They want to think the cowboys and ballerinas exist in some small way.
I can't inherit this.
I can't give you this honesty
because you don't want it.
I can't hurt you like that.
…and I won't feel better anyway.
It was dark outside until it was light.
And I am a writer.
The higher voice is mine.
You are the idea of what it was that we wanted to be. To become. You are the want.
It was dark outside, until it was light.
We all had thoughts and ideas about the who's.
The cowboys and the dancers.
The doctors and the rockstars.
But no how's. Or where's. Or what-if's.
I was wide eyed but couldn't see.
I've been able to say writer for ever. I've been saying writer, not knowing any other way. There is no other way.
But I never said how. No one ever asked how.
It was dark outside, until it was light.
I never let it go,
I only let it come.
Marginal
Almost
I never said good bye.
I don't want clarification. I don't want this fixed,
I just want to find my way. Through the darkness.
Honesty is selfish.
You tell somebody the truth
to make yourself feel better.
Not for their sake, not to help them.
People don’t want your honesty
They want you not to hurt them.
They want to be alright.
They want to think the cowboys and ballerinas exist in some small way.
I can't inherit this.
I can't give you this honesty
because you don't want it.
I can't hurt you like that.
…and I won't feel better anyway.
It was dark outside until it was light.
And I am a writer.
The higher voice is mine.
March 09, 2007
Brad Delp
It's not where you can be
It's what you can see
That takes you there
Your destination
Your destination
It's here inside
Right here inside.
-Boston
We'll miss you, Brad.
It's what you can see
That takes you there
Your destination
Your destination
It's here inside
Right here inside.
-Boston
We'll miss you, Brad.
March 08, 2007
More LD
LD - Let's get another round.
Me - I don't think I want to. I tried to be friends with them, but it wasn't reciprocated.
LD - Why not? Are you gonna finish those wings?
Me - No. Here. I think I tried too hard. I can be pretty bombastic.
LD, licking her fingers - Yeah, you really can be. It's better than being stupid though. Wait, what's bombastic again?
Me - I feel sick. They haven't seen me. I want to go over there, but I know they don't want me to.
LD, looking around - Order us another round and mozzarella sticks. Who are we talking about, anyway? That really good looking gay couple?
Me - Yes. Them. And no, I don't want anything else. Let's just get the check. I thought we had such a blast the couple of times we hung out. I so enjoyed their company. I'm really hurt about this. I hate that I blew it.
LD - I hate it when a couple breaks up with me, too. Let's get fries.
Me - I don't like fries. I want to leave.
LD, pouting - No wonder they broke up with you.
Me - I don't think I want to. I tried to be friends with them, but it wasn't reciprocated.
LD - Why not? Are you gonna finish those wings?
Me - No. Here. I think I tried too hard. I can be pretty bombastic.
LD, licking her fingers - Yeah, you really can be. It's better than being stupid though. Wait, what's bombastic again?
Me - I feel sick. They haven't seen me. I want to go over there, but I know they don't want me to.
LD, looking around - Order us another round and mozzarella sticks. Who are we talking about, anyway? That really good looking gay couple?
Me - Yes. Them. And no, I don't want anything else. Let's just get the check. I thought we had such a blast the couple of times we hung out. I so enjoyed their company. I'm really hurt about this. I hate that I blew it.
LD - I hate it when a couple breaks up with me, too. Let's get fries.
Me - I don't like fries. I want to leave.
LD, pouting - No wonder they broke up with you.
March 04, 2007
Five Moments of Gail
"Burn out the day,
Burn out the night,
I can't see no reason to put up a fight.
I'm living for giving the devil his due.
And I'm burning, I'm burning, I'm burning for you."
- Blue Oyster Cult
Peanuts, Los Angeles, 20 years ago. She walks up to me as she's leaving and slides two fingers into the front pocket of my jeans. She stands close, grinning, rubbing the back of her knuckles against my hip.
"That's my number. Call me." She's gorgeous. Older. Redhead. She's wearing a black Frankie Goes to Hollywood t-shirt, cut up and knotted in the back. She pulls her fingers out of my pants and slaps my bare abs playfully. "You owe me twenty bucks."
She leaves, and I wonder what she means by that until I pull her number from my pocket. It's written in pink lipstick on a twenty dollar bill. She's older than I am, and I want her to teach me everything she knows. She's zoophytic. Curvy. Sexy. She's all woman, all x chromosomes and estrogen and chocolate covered cherry cordials. My heart races, and my mouth waters.
******************************************
"Drank so much hooch
It made my eyes be gettin’ blurry
They say I nailed her to the wall."
-Aerosmith
She had me in that carrying a six-pack pinch. My jeans around one of my ankles, my other leg up over her shoulder. My back against the wall. My hands gripping the bar of the coat rack over my head. She had one hand in my pussy, and the other gripping the hair on the back of my head. Her fingers deep inside of me, pumping. Filling me completely. She whispered things while she kissed me. Things about my scent. Things about my skin. My tightness. Things I will never forget. She pressed herself against me as she rammed me into the wall. Banging her hand into me with her hips. Banging. Fucking. Grinding herself against me. I was delirious as I came, quivering and whimpering.
******************************************
"And I hear the whole world laughing at us
But I don't care
That's not the point.
There's so much more.
So much more than meets the eye."
-Danny Elfman
Driving around Valencia she points out the window and says, "That's the house where I was grew up. See that window? That was my room." She tells me about the little girl that lived across the street that was her best friend. She tells me about her mother, and her family. She drives us past her school and tells me about her favorite teacher. Her first crush. The bully that stole her clarinet. She tells me about the first concert she ever went to, and the school play she starred in.
"I want you to know everything about me." Her voice has a tenderness in it. An innocence. As if underneath all of her street-wise strength, there is meaning in her reserve. As if she really wants this. As if she's trying the best she can.
******************************************
"Cab fare to nowhere is what you are.
A white line to an exit sign is what you are.
Oh but I saw in you,
Now I see through."
-Paul Carrack
Two in the morning and I am doing a drive by. Her car isn't at her house, so I drive to the club. I'm not surprised to see it. I circle. I want to go in and see who she's with, but I can't bring myself to do it. I'm embarrassed by the elaborate expensive birthday gift I gave her. I'm embarrassed by how much money I've lent her, that I know she will never pay back. I'm embarrassed by how many messages I've left on her machine that haven't been returned.
I am embarrassed that I know tomorrow I will pretend I don't know what she did tonight.
*******************************************
Five years ago, I'm in Chicago O'hare on a layover. I'm sitting in the terminal drinking a half caf half decaf reading Esquire when I see her. She's trying to book a flight, arguing loudly with the attendant.
I'm careful not to confuse remembering with missing.
I sit still and watch her. She's still a redhead. Still passionate and strong. Fighting with no one over nothing. I remember what I saw in her. I remember her fire. Her freshness. Her fingers. I remember she tried. And I remember she couldn't. She just couldn't. And part of me hurts for that, but part of me loves her for who she is. Without judgment. Still. Many years have passed. Nearly two decades. She can keep the six hundred bucks. And the guitar. She's a long ago and far away face that I've long since expelled. And I wish her well.
I lift the magazine so she won't see me as she turns away from the counter and leaves the gate.
And this time I watch her go.
"There will be times when all the things she said will fill her head,
You won’t forget her.
And in her eyes you see nothing,
No sign of love behind the tears cried for no one."
The Beatles
Burn out the night,
I can't see no reason to put up a fight.
I'm living for giving the devil his due.
And I'm burning, I'm burning, I'm burning for you."
- Blue Oyster Cult
Peanuts, Los Angeles, 20 years ago. She walks up to me as she's leaving and slides two fingers into the front pocket of my jeans. She stands close, grinning, rubbing the back of her knuckles against my hip.
"That's my number. Call me." She's gorgeous. Older. Redhead. She's wearing a black Frankie Goes to Hollywood t-shirt, cut up and knotted in the back. She pulls her fingers out of my pants and slaps my bare abs playfully. "You owe me twenty bucks."
She leaves, and I wonder what she means by that until I pull her number from my pocket. It's written in pink lipstick on a twenty dollar bill. She's older than I am, and I want her to teach me everything she knows. She's zoophytic. Curvy. Sexy. She's all woman, all x chromosomes and estrogen and chocolate covered cherry cordials. My heart races, and my mouth waters.
******************************************
"Drank so much hooch
It made my eyes be gettin’ blurry
They say I nailed her to the wall."
-Aerosmith
She had me in that carrying a six-pack pinch. My jeans around one of my ankles, my other leg up over her shoulder. My back against the wall. My hands gripping the bar of the coat rack over my head. She had one hand in my pussy, and the other gripping the hair on the back of my head. Her fingers deep inside of me, pumping. Filling me completely. She whispered things while she kissed me. Things about my scent. Things about my skin. My tightness. Things I will never forget. She pressed herself against me as she rammed me into the wall. Banging her hand into me with her hips. Banging. Fucking. Grinding herself against me. I was delirious as I came, quivering and whimpering.
******************************************
"And I hear the whole world laughing at us
But I don't care
That's not the point.
There's so much more.
So much more than meets the eye."
-Danny Elfman
Driving around Valencia she points out the window and says, "That's the house where I was grew up. See that window? That was my room." She tells me about the little girl that lived across the street that was her best friend. She tells me about her mother, and her family. She drives us past her school and tells me about her favorite teacher. Her first crush. The bully that stole her clarinet. She tells me about the first concert she ever went to, and the school play she starred in.
"I want you to know everything about me." Her voice has a tenderness in it. An innocence. As if underneath all of her street-wise strength, there is meaning in her reserve. As if she really wants this. As if she's trying the best she can.
******************************************
"Cab fare to nowhere is what you are.
A white line to an exit sign is what you are.
Oh but I saw in you,
Now I see through."
-Paul Carrack
Two in the morning and I am doing a drive by. Her car isn't at her house, so I drive to the club. I'm not surprised to see it. I circle. I want to go in and see who she's with, but I can't bring myself to do it. I'm embarrassed by the elaborate expensive birthday gift I gave her. I'm embarrassed by how much money I've lent her, that I know she will never pay back. I'm embarrassed by how many messages I've left on her machine that haven't been returned.
I am embarrassed that I know tomorrow I will pretend I don't know what she did tonight.
*******************************************
Five years ago, I'm in Chicago O'hare on a layover. I'm sitting in the terminal drinking a half caf half decaf reading Esquire when I see her. She's trying to book a flight, arguing loudly with the attendant.
I'm careful not to confuse remembering with missing.
I sit still and watch her. She's still a redhead. Still passionate and strong. Fighting with no one over nothing. I remember what I saw in her. I remember her fire. Her freshness. Her fingers. I remember she tried. And I remember she couldn't. She just couldn't. And part of me hurts for that, but part of me loves her for who she is. Without judgment. Still. Many years have passed. Nearly two decades. She can keep the six hundred bucks. And the guitar. She's a long ago and far away face that I've long since expelled. And I wish her well.
I lift the magazine so she won't see me as she turns away from the counter and leaves the gate.
And this time I watch her go.
"There will be times when all the things she said will fill her head,
You won’t forget her.
And in her eyes you see nothing,
No sign of love behind the tears cried for no one."
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