November 2011 – Page 2

The happenstance of running into an ex is unknown to me. I am either a homebody or so far out there that the chance of running into anyone familiar is significantly reduced. So, when I saw Marlene walking down the aisle toward me I had to stop and be sure that she was smiling at me, and that it was in fact her. Her hair was no longer the old peroxide orange. It was more of a dark cherry. Her hips and breasts had expanded, and she wore unflattering clothes. My verbal thinking was merely that she’s grown up.

The first thing she said was, “Oh, my God!”

And then she brought her arms out and I hugged her.

“Hey. Look at you.”

“And you! It’s been so long. Like, more than ten years? You have so much hair on your face! It feels so different.”

“So I’m told. How are you doing?”

“Ah, busy! Everyone’s coming over and I forgot so many things.”

“Who’s everyone?”

“Mi ama, Carlos, ALL of Ruben’s family.” She laughed and placed her hand on my arm in a familiar way. “I’m married! I forgot to tell you. What about you?”

“Notoriously single. Kids?”

“Yes, two. Here…” She produced a wallet from her purse and pointed at two boys in a photograph. “Ruben Junior y Danny.”

“How old are they?”

“Well, Junior is ten—I got pregnant with him at the end of high school—and Danny is eight.”

“Good ages. They’re strong-looking boys.”

“Ruben takes them out to futbol. He makes them practice every single day.”

“Yea, well. Practice makes perfect.”

“Yea, I know, I know… So what are you doing?”

“Oh, just picking up some buns for dinner. My mom forgot some things, too.”

“Como estan?”

“Good, good. They’re doing good. Just worrying about all the people that will be there, like you.”

“Your mom sola?”

“No, my brother’s girlfriend is helping with the turkey. The rest of us still watch movies and hang out with the cars.”

“Que huevones!”

“Yea, I know.”

“Pero es bueno. It’s good you’re together. Where are you living? Are you coming for Christmas?”

“Up in Oregon. I don’t know about this Christmas. I might just spend it alone somewhere.”

“Really? But you hated being alone.”

I perceived this as a weakness to be abhored. I didn’t like her saying it out loud.

“Asi es. We used to be some things, and now we’re others.”

“I know. You’re right.”

She paused long enough for me to crane my neck in search of a clock, or a person, or whatever she wanted to imagine.

“I better get going. I need to get this stuff back to the house.”

“Oh, me too. It was so good seeing you! Tell your mom I said hi!”

We hugged again and she went on her way. I watched her walk. If I’d only seen her from the back I would have never recognized her. Two boys, I thought.

In pondering the problem of going out with a bang of desperation and bitterness, consider ego. People don’t generally want to be forgettably benign. Even the dispassionate desire an emotional response to their existence, whether happiness or disgust or hatred. To be readily dismissed as one who was once cared for but is now forgotten—or worse, perceived to be a non-threatening element—is to lose control over not only someone else but the part of oneself that was wholly dedicated to being an influence. The type of influence is sometimes irrelevant.

There is no more effective nourishment for the ego than acting or speaking and receiving a response.

I placed an iron candle holder in each corner of the bedroom. They light the parts of me that look at you like I am predator and you are prey. A lost lamb who’s stumbled into a wolf’s den. Battered, bruised, used, devoured from the inside out. Watery thrashing in a tangle of limbs. Made to twist and turn and call out to the shadows. Listening to you want more. Then left to lie there, consumed. Dripping beads when I put out one candle; nursing pulled muscles when I snuff the next; curled and lonely as I blow out the third; all bones and heart when we sleep in the dark.

I plod along at a snail’s pace. A desire for slow, inefficient love. Saliva along folds of unwashed skin. Crawling, clawing, long and howlsome moans. A need for softness, to hold someone’s clammy hand in mine. A wet kiss to a furrowed forehead. I would say that what I am is a resolute, stubborn, canine-baring beast of burden. I carry hopes that I prefer to nurture than release. They burn brightest in the dark, in the cold, lighting a path that I follow in circles, missing some crucial element that might be acceptance or might be callousness or might be you. If anything I am missing navigational ability. The only star I follow is the one directly ahead of my muzzle.

The first thing

The first thing about this girl is her nails. They are coated in glitter. It’s the gold kind. Next, her red hair. Simple braidwork, loose travel strands. Then her face. She’s pretty and about sixteen years old. She’s the slightest presence in the world seated next to me. Her knees are like twigs.

She commences to do phone things and I turn to a book. It’s to do with a young woman coming into her own as a passionate, desirous person. She’s desired by various members of my gender, as is the way of things. Her thoughts interest me more than her actions.

Some hours in I’ve placed my book in the seat pocket. My shoulder aches. I’m well aware of the activities of those around me even as I feign interest in the flashing red light outside the window. The kid in front of me is flying a F-18 beneath his reading light. His dark-haired mother is asleep. Behind me I can hear the muffled laugh track of the sitcom playing on the overhead televisions. The girl next to me has been doodling on her left arm. She lifts it toward the seat ahead of her with her fist clenched.

-Do you do tattoos?

She laugh-sighs and retracts it to the safety of her lap.

-Oh, no. I’m just bored.

-And you’ve run out of space.

-Yea, I guess so.

-It’s good work.

-Oh, thank you.

-Can I ask you a favor?

She hesitates as anyone with sense should.

-Um, okay.

-Would you draw something for me?

-Oh, well I don’t have anything to draw on.

There’s a barf bag peeking out from the seat pocket. It isn’t what I had in mind.

-Well.

I lift my right sleeve to show her my wrist.

-What do you think? Nothing fancy.

She smiles and nods.

-Are you sure? I’m not an artist or anything.

-Sure am.

-Okay then.

-Cool.

She lifts her pen over the tendons and pauses.

-What kind of drawing?

-Anything. Whatever looks good to you. Like yours.

She presses the ballpoint to my skin and proceeds.

We discuss destinations, things we do as she works on my arm. She plays water polo. She started four weeks ago and still finds it difficult to stay afloat with the strength of her legs. I used to swim until the autumnal downpours. My shoulder really bothered me when I was in the water for too long.

I watch her glittery fingers work across my skin. The designs are reminiscient of Japanese whirlpools.

-Do you only draw on arms?

-Sometimes on my notes.

-You should try a blank canvas. This is good work.

-Maybe.

-At least now I know what I’ll look like when I get drunk and wake up with a tattoo on my wrist.

And she laughs.

When she finishes she removes the phone from her bag and photographs the elaborate piece on her arm. She turns to me.

-May I?

I lift my right wrist into the light. She captures a portion from my lower palm to the first quarter of my forearm. The ink has begun to lose its shimmer. She may have drawn an ornate octopus.

I look at my wrist in the light.

-This is awesome. Thank you.

-Your welcome.

She returns the phone to her bag. I lay the back of my closed hand on my book and stretch my neck toward the ceiling.

I glance at my wrist when we’re off the plane and she’s gone. I listen to the clipping feet and conversations. I think of her in a busy parlor with a tattoo needle in hand. I start to feel fatherly of her. She’s going to go through things and I want her to make it to the other side.