After the Kiss (5 page)

unwanted memory #2: first sight

he caught your eye right as you first walked in, and you couldn't keep your eyes from sneaking back to try to catch him again: tall-tall-tall and cheetah lean, with skin the color of egypt, heavy black eyebrows and curls (moppy on top, short around the sides and back), and a white white smile that he pulled out like a bouquet from a magician's sleeve as he greeted each new person in the coat-check line. you had never seen such a boy and your eyes could not stay away from him as you stood behind mom, pretending to admire the—um—ceiling while you waited for tickets, looking behind you where sightseers and art students moved in through the main doors. every time you snuck your glance at him though—every time—his own eyes were just darting away. so you weren't sly and suggested that mom check her jacket—just a light little tweed thing; it was still summer then—trying to count the number of people ahead of you, to see if he'd call you next. you don't remember what he was wearing that day but you are picturing him now in the striped gray slim pants and the nubby wool sweater, the art institute badge around his neck, along with his collar and tie done in that way that made him look british instead of preppy. above that the firm hard knob of his adam's apple (oh that adam's apple, the sinewed hollows of his neck)
worked up and down over what he would say to you the
fourth
time you came in, after it was clear you were going to have something to check each visit. when it was clear this had become a habit.

these parties

have ever only served one purpose: drink to mouth and then mouth to mouth, from the beginning of time. it doesn't matter who you are or where you are: what city, town, or country. when you are beautiful and young and bored you will flock together like beads of mercury. here conditions are particularly ideal since this town's host is—at least you've heard—no one's best friend, only a rich kid college dropout party boy who's still trendy with the teens but too odd for his own kind. so as the weekend turns its lazy corner toward you, the messages get sent and the radar is detected and everyone spends all of friday going
who-will-drive-us-what-will-you-wear-is-she-going-what-time-will-you-get-there
, and just like in charlotte where everyone was everyone else's business and there wasn't anything else for anyone, you are swept up and dressed up and carried away. these-jeans-not-those and definitely not a skirt. that-top-no-this-one because it's warmer than it looks. ten minutes until willow arrives to pick you up and you almost chicken out—mom's not asking but you can feel her excitement for you buzzing up the stairs; she'd curl up with you and a movie in a minute though—maybe it's safer to just stay in. but then even just that idea in your head makes you suddenly a desperate bird in a cage, beating wings to be let out. the doorbell rings and it
is time to go. you smile as mom smiles at willow-edgar-dorie just inside the doorway. you are not sure you are (will ever be) one of them but just like always your coward heart wants to make sure she is the only one who doubts.

ellen explains it all

leaning against the cool smooth stainless steel of this stranger's refrigerator—you have not met the infamous host (are unsure even how many people live here, besides the two bong-eyed college kids collecting fives at the front door)—you are sipping only tonic, and are here only because it's where all your friends are, where everyone seems to be really: even everybody from everywhere else. although you are tired of noting faces, keeping track, paying attention, pretending to listen to these anybodies who will turn into nobodies in a few short months, you are still standing here and you are still watching everyone who comes in. it's like ellen's reading your mind then, because she rolls her already-bleary-blond head over to look at you, waving her cup in the general direction of all these nobody/everybodies both here and beyond, explaining,
this is what it's all about, man. we won't be here much longer. so crush as many people against you as you can. soon they'll be gone. and we'll be gone too. but if we experience everybody, maybe somebody will remember.
she clinks her cup with yours and gives you a lopsided half-sad grin, and though you feel yourself already becoming a nobody—though she'll never know (oh how well you know) the people you've crushed—this minute she just made you her somebody and you are both glad.

the surprise

he comes into the kitchen, and before you've even thought twice you're asking ellen who he is. when she tells you he's the catcher for seymour high's nationally ranked baseball team you aren't the least surprised: he is a pyramid boy with atlas shoulders and merman hips—a boy with muscle to spare. he is a quick boy—moving to one of the coolers under the table, fisting a mouthful of chips—but not a fast one: the ease of him almost too easy, everything about him actually
too
and
easy
as you're looking-not-looking at those glossy curls thick enough to balance grapes, the toothsome smile, the heavy hands that stay shoved in pockets while he talks. only thirty seconds in the room and everyone is moving around him like it is their birthday and he is the cake, even the other guys, the shorter soccer guys, the baseball-capped groupie guys and even those from tennis and track. he is stay-away-from-me handsome, likely all gimme hands and grabby mouth—one of the ones who knows so much and about whom you know lots better. you can spot them coming a mile away like a slowball high and to the right: this one no different with his chisel-chin-chin, except when he turns his eyes toward you its not a slowball but a curve—his soulful eyes a mirror that shows your own solitary reflection.

hooking up

not sure what time it is anymore—the room is full of smoke and mirrors but you could navigate it blindfolded, not a flitty bee but a smooth shark who needs no eyes, constantly moving and seeing with the edges of your fingertips, elbows—sensing with your earlobes. you are restless and it is time for something to happen. this one will not do and not this one either, too-tall/too-short/too-loud/too-just-too much leering there in the door frame. there is music you don't like but don't pay attention to—it's all part of the vibration of the current by now, what keeps the kelp swaying and what keeps you camouflaged. twice around the room, one time more (so many rooms, so many rounds, you cannot keep them straight anymore only a curved glass barrier against which you pace). your glass was half-empty and now it's half-full of something that vaguely tastes like rum. a friendly face you know swims before you, pale pulsing jellyfish aglow against the dark. the pyramid boy with the mirror eyes has disappeared but you are glad—there are simpler fish to shoot in this barrel. his name is josh his name is matt his name is kristopher his name is astrophel—it doesn't matter you only have to say it once. the smiling is the rest: that tender hooked worm that he will soon snap and swallow whole. there is a cove there is a room there is a corner there is a hallway there is a place you go where it
is dark and for a moment—when he doesn't speak—where it is quiet. it's there everything will be silenced and stilled and forgotten, only one mouth on the other, one hand in another fist, one body against another body and all the nattering talking remembering thinking parts of your brain dissolved and dismembered in a swirl of salt. there is only the fish brain working now, only the part of you that is octopus. the part that is disappearing now in a cloud of ink.

Sunday Morning Shift

Bacon-egg-cheese biscuit

two coffees here is

your change (seventythreecents). Nadia brings

Good morning what can I get you?

another basket of croissants from the back;

—Yes ma'am here is your bagel the toaster is over

there, here

More coffee? Refills are
—how much?—

ninety-eight cents

plus two muffins equals three

ninety-one—no four—my feet

are killing me already

Good morning what can I get you?

even in these new shoes. There's the phone ringing I

hope someone else can get it

—slice the bagel—what are the herbal teas again?—

Here you are, sir.

Yes whatcanIgetyou?

Smile hi to Denver grinding another batch of beans;

Yes thank you six eighty-one please.

Someone will have to get that man's

papers off the table,

and do I need to brew another batch I forget.

Good morning what can I get you?
; three people add

themselves to the line—I

was waking up

in a tent

with Alec

two weeks ago this minute.

It was cold

we had a sleeping bag—

so divebackdownunder warm.

He was at the Lake House last night

while I stayed home,

having to get up at six for this,

and I wonder

when we will ever

wake up together

again?

Subservient

Janayah is actually smiling

and Denver cracking me up

each time

I go in the back.

No orders mixed up—

and I'm giving the right change.

I'm beginning to be used to it—

beginning to fit,

when in strides Iris-Casey-Josey-Miette.

Their eyes say
we know you
,

but their nostrils jerk like horses'

and their lips smirk,
we don't want to
.

Being almost cool here flushes suddenly into being hot

with embarrassment:

this stained apron,

my lank ponytail,

the empty wallet

I am hourly trying to fill.

Their cashmere scarves,

perfumed bangs,

the sheaves of cash flicked in manicured hands.

Skinny mochas, all of them

—
hold the whipped cream
—

and for the first time

all day

Janayah has to take over.

She's so angry

she makes me clean the espresso machine,

but at least the steam hissing

covers up their high laughs.

When they're gone I get the bussing bin,

and I think of Cinderella:

even after the glory of the ball she was

still wiping up after the stepsisters

—still on her knees

cleaning up their mess—

remembering the prince

and his quiet, handsome charm,

wondering if he'd already

forgotten

about her.

Covert Operation

Two minutes stolen Monday

in the far-left stall of the bathroom—me and my

forbidden keypad—

saying simply that I love him,

risking everything for those words,

risking confiscation,

detention to remind him

that small

(gigantic) thing.

Busy Work

Afternoon of would-be no-work freedom

with my ankles chained instead

to scrubbing the bathtub,

vaccuming the foyer,

folding sheets and towels,

putting away each dish.

My housechores have piled up

clogging the table—cluttering the floor.

Mom pulls her weight, nursing at the hospital,

but she has me to do the cooking,

and no homework, either.

The acid unfurls now

across the back of my brain—

another afternoon without Alec,

another assignment in the way.

Why Poets Don't Belong in the Marketing Department

The universe of literary thought

—and all of poetic genius—

perches

on its toenails this afternoon

clutching

at its own tunic

with consternation

and suspense.

Rama puffs,

Sara sighs,

Caitlyn dutifully

takes notes

as the debate of the ages—or at least the hour—

rages

through the silence

of barely-suppressed disdain.

Three calls for submissions face the judges:

—Mr. Burland insists,
choose today
—

one of Rama's

one of Sara's

—the best one Charlie's—

all not quite right.

Will the dyslexic cats

call forth good poetry?

Or the blacked-in butterflies

and Yorick skull?

Is an open coffin

festooned with roses

the current equivalent

of
I Want You
?

I wonder what Alec

would say

if he were here.

The ancients suck in their breath—

they are too stunned

—we are all stunned—

by our stupidity

to even speak.

On the Seventh Day

Holy Wednesday again and I am

supine in the cathedral of Alec's embrace.

Peace washes over his

loosening Adonis face and normally

I would let my eyes worship

for an hour

the pew-straight line of his nose and

the tender dip—Aphrodite's fingerprint—

of his upper lip

before moving

fully

to the praise of his mouth.

But today I am a child in church

swinging my feet and squirming,

glancing at the clock.

There is dinner, as always, to make for Mom

but also math homework undone,

a senior “exit survey” to complete for guidance,

call for submissions rewrites,

and a chemistry test

too close for comfort.

With work again Friday and

then on Saturday too

Sunday will be no day of repose,

the thought of which makes even this sanctuary

feel a little like work.