Free Memory

I liked the room as soon as I walked in. It looked special and fancy to me, with matching woods in the tables by the sofa and in the frames on the wall. The sofa looked prissy but cozy in a regally-formed velvet way. The walls were the first I could remember that weren’t painted white. They were an oddly compelling green, like the tufted bench at the polished piano. The wooden floors looked spit-shined and were silent, no squeaks. There were crystal bowls and vases filled with colorful flowers and sparkling water. The bowl I remember most held my manna, little wrapped chocolates.

As the old lady slowly led me to the sofa, I could not help but feel I was in a dream. Certainly the home looked like a stylish ranch outside but was a veritable palace inside. What struck me most was the feeling of stepping into another world; a world of clean lines, soft cushions, sweet air, kind smiles, and chocolates. A block or so away was my house- never a home- with shabby furniture, cracked dishes, mismatched glasses, stale air, and angry, cold words.

I wished this lady would keep me longer. I wanted to hear her genteel voice tell me of the beautiful things I had read in children’s books. I was very reluctant to leave. I think she was confused by my hesitation, but she was just one of many who thought they saw my life as a pretty portrait. It’s easy to hide most hurts when people don’t want to see.

Surviving in that other house down the street was partly made possible by the brief views I had of Louise’s home. It often costs to look back but some memories are free.

September 3, 2013 0

Basically

Studying the curve of her face, following each lock of hair as it brushed her shoulder, he sat quietly and listened.

Learning the patterns of crinkles his eyes made as he smiled, glancing at his strong hand as it rested on the table, she savored a captive audience.

They were made for each other, but didn’t seem to know it. Without instructions, they were a bit lost. With all that’s properly acceptable in the world requiring manuals, people were forgetting how to act upon instinct.

Scent. Flavor. Touch.

The eyes can only behold a modicum of information. What these people need is a firm push out of their heads.

As if shaken from a daydream, she finished her story and smiled. He returned her smile and took her hand. They sat quietly, listening to their hearts.

August 31, 2013 2

The Slow Mash

She became mindful all at once in his arms. Drawing in a breath, maybe the first real one in hours, she let him guide her around the creaky, sticky dance floor. His voice rumbled through her as he hummed along softly. The sax was done wailing for now and the piano and bass talked to each other. Her hand slid behind his neck as his found rest at her lower back. Pulled closer, her head found rest against his chest.

She wanted to look at him but wouldn’t break this embrace. This dance was their first touch. They had talked, laughed, shared side by side but somewhere they picked up tendrils of something more. Picking at threads of possibility, tonight was a beginning.

Thank God jazz songs can go on forever, she thought. Their conversation at dinner had been rollicking fun. Their evening walk to this club felt sparkling. But this dance was … perfect.

She was disheveled, but when he looked at her she felt like a goddess. He looked like the most delicious sin. Any other thought, past or future, was peripheral to this moment. No matter what, she would carry this memory as a precious gem forever. This night, this dance, this moment.

She was smart enough to understand this was the most she could hope for. Whether they parted tomorrow or rode off into the night as partners for the rest of their lives, moments of perfection are fleeting. They just might venture to physical heights previously unknown to them. But those moments are not meant to be sustained either.

Quelling all busy thoughts, she breathed him in again. He smelled of scotch, bar smoke, and soap. She tested a patch of skin at his neck with her tongue. Salty and rough. He squeezed her hip and she finally pulled back to look at him. They stood staring for what felt like days. Reading eyes. Clenching fingers. Music slowing to a fade for them. Without a word, they moved together.

August 19, 2013 0

Who’s Afraid of Five Minutes?

Can’t stop laughing. Enveloped in smoke, I maneuver through the crowd. Nourishment and refreshment are necessities if I’m to last for the long haul.

The air is rife with quips and guffaws. If I bother to pause, some of the murmuring will coalesce and become real conversation. Since I am neither a meteorologist nor a physician, I’m going to pass up the opportunity to discuss the weather or current ailments. The only observations I could offer would be banal and I have no desire to fall any lower on any social scale, if the scaling was judged by banter.

Wanting to walk with purpose toward the dizzying array of foods I can’t pronounce, I quickly feel I’m wading through a swollen river. Each step is slow. I have to struggle to keep my bearings with the wall of humanity I must pass through.

I can’t feel my feet until I register the pain of someone stepping on them. I danced too long. With abandon. Without a thought. The only truly glorious time I’ve spent tonight was dancing. If dancing is truly like sex, I’ve made love to a whole room of strangers. And at least some of us are sated.

Finally reaching the cocktail party groaning board, I help myself to some morsels and turn to survey the room. Aside from a pseudo-flashback (an instance where I didn’t experience a scene but saw it in a movie so it felt familiar) recalling a party scene in “Breakfast at Tiffany’s,” I feel as though I’m visiting another planet. Who are most of these people? Are there occupancy laws being broken? Is the host a modern Caligula? How did I get here?

Before I start singing Talking Heads songs, I decide to try conversing with some other guests. But other than remarking on anthropological observations on the throng in front of me, I can’t think of a single subject worthy of small talk. So I smile and eat and drink some more.

Aside from some vague notion of my presence being important for business, I forget myself, as in my actual identity, for a bit and just bounce around the room like a giggling, tipsy pinball badly in need of social interaction. Part of my brain just won’t shut off and I register the fact that this night is not all meaningless; each experience outside one’s comfort zone is supposed to aid in growth of some kind. I’m just not sure how eating fancy-schmancy h’ors d’oeuvres, drinking until a future headache is assured, grinding anonymously with another body, and worst of all, enduring and perpetuating small talk- how does one learn or grow from these things? Are there lessons to be gleaned from adolescent discomfort even in adulthood?

When I look at the clock, I see that only five minutes have passed since I crossed the room. Another hour at least then, for appearances sake, and then I can retire to my own humble abode. It may be too quiet sometimes. It may lack the quality of food choices. But I make more sense to myself there. I’ll pop in a movie or maybe read a book. Anything to escape and erase this night.

Before diving back into the fray, I have the thought that I’m most likely not alone with my antisocial thoughts, even at this party. There’s no way to know for certain, but I would wager there are others as desperate as myself to get out of this stifling circus. If only there were socially appropriate signals that we could give each other. If I could come up with a solution, I’d be the pied piper of outcasts and we’d all have smoother sailing.

But then I’d have another social group to navigate. I may as well wave my silent white flag and dig in. It’s gonna be a long night.