the thing between that boy and i has ended, had been ending, in fact, for the last few weeks. i feel lonely and sad and petulant and heavy. and mostly i feel tired. tired of the vigilance it takes to be alone, to be the only one looking out for yourself. to have no one to balance a bad mood, a tired day. no one to rub the soreness out of my neck or bring me juice when i’ve been sick. i hate getting up in the morning, knowing i’m alone, getting dressed for no one. it has been so many years of this constant watchfulness. no one has been in love with me for so long, now. a boy fell in love with me when i was sixteen. by the time i was eighteen he no longer loved me, and no one has since then.
i am the worst kind of person– always wanting what i don’t have. wanting to be just a girl with a dog and a fourwheel drive, wanting to rearrange my furniture, wanting longer hair, wanting a prettier smile. i want to do and be things that i will never do or be. i want us to have done this thing between us first, and had babies after. i want a one bedroom apartment with only my sweetheart. i want to drive a smaller car, i want to live farther south, i want a rabbit instead of cats, i want to wear only dresses.
all winter i scowl at the cold and wish for sun. during the hottest part of the summer i lie on the cool floor in my mother’s basement, watching the sweat gather on my cup and whishing for snow.
i am a wild thing: getting restless when in one place too long. taking flight when things seem to be coming down, without waiting to see how they might fall.
His room is low ceilinged and lit dimly, or warmly, or barely at all. The light shade is red, the comforter is red and usually this color makes me overwhelmed and nervous, but in his room I am usually sleepy and satisfied. The smells are vague and ambiguous; I cannot bring them to mind until I am presented with them, and at once they seem familiar and warm. The heat is individual to each room, and so when no one else is home we close the door and keep it so hot we sleep in out underwear, or nothing at all, and even then we are sweaty and restless. We throw off the covers, we spread out our long legs in tangles, the entire mattress possessed by our thin limbs. We spend almost all our time in this room, playing music for each other, and finding cities we would like to visit on the map that covers the wall above his bed. I have come to feel as if his room is a parallel space; as if it exists in a world where we do not have children, where we are not crazy poor, where we are not so bad at trusting someone else with our heart. I feel as if we are lovers in summer, or somewhere more equatorial. When I am there I feel tempting, interesting. I feel as if I am a woman not made up of things like my dirty car, paying for childcare, or my past-due schoolwork. I feel as if I am made up of only my flesh, and what is held inside it—my thoughts and feelings.
I can only say, I guess, that in the context of him I feel clearer and quicker; as if the good parts of me are magnified and the poorer parts are held, kissed and laid to rest gently, like tucking a tantruming child into bed.
it was a weekend of vice: pride, sloth, lust. i stayed in bed past noon, turned the heat up high enough to make it feel like summer. but now there is homework, housework and a feverish baby.now there is no friends or lover to kiss my cheeks.
i have often thought i would fall in love with someone like a sailor, who would be absent often, and for long nights. someone to have my letter tucked in his pocket, a handkerchief that smells like me folded into his suitcase, my love sent along, whispered in his ear. i imagined that we would always want more of each other than we could have.
i find, though, that uncertainty does not become me. i find that distance makes me sad, and tired and drink too much before bed. i find that my tolerance for being alone diminishes and i stay at my father and sister’s house until everyone has gone to bed, and even then i take the long way home for the company of the other drivers on the road.
lovely
January 4, 2009
my ribs feel like something else beneath his hands, delicate- lace, or spun sugar. a latice of something that means more than marrow and bone. he smells warm, like something to be sunk in to.
and i think of these things to say to him, but i want to make sense, and fear i wont. instead, i bite my lips until they swell.
i dream of rotting teeth, cruise ships, things in threes. i listen to johnny cash singing christmas carols as i clean my apartment. when my daughter is asleep i swallow mouthfulls of vodka cranberry and scowl at the aftertaste. once it hits me i turn on patsy cline and stand in my kitchen- the steam from the dishes fogging the window, my hands hot from the soapy water, my feet freezing on the black and white checked floor. the water drips down my fingers, and i feel as if it is something more, something being sucked from my fingertips. i need more skin against mine, the sharing of body heat, someone elses rhythm when i dance.
