November 2011 – Page 3

One brother’s girlfriend sits nervously at the corner seat, eager to get along with her man’s family. Laughing delightfully when a joke is made, speaking respectfully to the elders – that sort of thing. The other brother’s girlfriend is more natural. She makes good conversation and presents witty retorts to the patriarch’s good-natured but overly critical jibes. The couples are both of the age at which their parents engaged in the conception of their offspring.

The observer is temporarily removed from the moment. A meticulous catalog of each expression is recorded and dated in the available memory for future analysis and comparison. The beauty of a nervous smile and a tearful toast are noted.

(Pictured L to R: Grandmother Teresa, aunt Rosalba, aunt Chuy, great-grandmother Maria Isabel, great-grandfather Ricardo).

The pilot’s voice came on over the speaker on approach to Dallas-Fort Worth International Airport. He ticked off a list of connecting cities and their corresponding gates—Jacksonville, Austin, Seattle.

“Los Angeles,” he finally said. I paid attention. “Dee twenty one,” which was clear enough, but there was a pause and on he went to say, “David twenty one.”

I cannot explain clarity if you have never experienced it. It is like a merge of all threads—stepping back to see the richness of the tapestry from corner to corner. All paths cross at all points. It makes sense.

The pilot’s voice was that of a clever fucking universe.

He repeated that name for several more gates. I did not visibly react, but thoughts came to me. Having just completed the second part of “A Clockwork Orange,” I briefly pictured an anonymous bloody face, as human as you and I. I thought to engage in a bit of ultra-violence and a round of the ol’ in-out-in-out. I wanted to laugh at the absurdity.

A man behind me spoke on the phone when we arrived. He was relaying instructions, including his arrival gate: “D as in David.” I smiled again. I thought ahead to Los Angeles and raising the kind of hell an epiphany demands of me. It would be like I never left.

“Los Angeles,” he finally said. I paid attention. “Dee twenty one,” which was clear enough, but there was a pause and on he went to say, “David twenty one.”

The pilot’s voice was that of a clever fucking universe.

I wanted to run my fingers along her hairline and tell her to kneel as a means to direct her mouth to my cock. It was on the tip of my tongue. She was lying on her side, looking up. She was there. I failed to seize that moment. It didn’t matter that I’d have any number of moments with her. That one was lost. I couldn’t do anything after that, knowing why I’d failed to follow through. Instead, I sat down beside her on the bed. I felt the the rush of blood to the tip of my erection and twinged. She stared in the direction she was facing—deftly grazed the hair on my thigh. I wanted to explain why I was hesitant. That I thought of someone else when I was with her. If I had, it would have ended that night. Instead, I chose to continue for another few weeks, seizing all the moments I could to satisfy myself. I knew I would revert to reclusion when it was over.

The last real discussion we had was about me walking from one coast to the other. She supported me. She seemed to always do that.

“Harder.”

She possesses a normal voice and a timid voice. This is her timid voice. I don’t know if it’s intentional.

But I do what she says, slap her harder. I leave a several days mark.

When I leave a hand print it is both aesthetically arousing and symbolic of an agreement. The sort of contract people don’t talk about. It doesn’t work that way. The mark denotes an excitement of cells beyond the designated zones between the hips and the mouths. Sometimes I want in other places. You might say it’s an attempt to penetrate what’s impenetrable.

She rests her head on her forearms. Dark, hairy forearms. Dark, hairy crotch. I’d just been in between her legs and left her sore. I haven’t shaved in days. I can tell when it hurts. There’s a twinge of the body. She’ll love it when my face is soft enough to run fingers through. Tangled, matted face. That could be symbolic, too.

She asked me if I was trying to hide something. The beard, I mean. People who ask this question are untrusting. I’m hopeful of changing their minds.

Her skin isn’t white. She might be of Latina or Mediterranean descent. My hand looks like a turkey.

“My hand looks like a turkey. Hold on.” I press in a winking eye with my thumbnail. “You’re a nice canvas.”

“Would you be mine?”

I lie beside her and face her.

“Where?”

Her eyes are closed. I’m caught unawares and close mine.

“Your shoulders. They’re smooth.”

I’m self-conscious in response. She reaches her hand to my shoulder and helps me feel better.

“Victor, will we ever be in a relationship?”

This was left field. I stood there and watched it arc over me. I had no glove.

“You mean a romantic relationship?”

I missed it completely.

She paused. She was thinking. There was something to say that she wouldn’t spit out until she passed it through her tact filter.

“Yes.”

I passed my thoughts through my bullshit filter. I want you here. I wanted you here from the beginning. I didn’t know that I wanted someone to love. You were unexpected. This is who you are.

“Yes, I think so. We’re friends. I want to keep that. Yes, someday, we will. We’ll try.”

No consideration of certainty. No consideration of time. No consideration of the fact that I’m not the only one.

“Okay.”

I was on the balcony overlooking the lawn. It was gray and December-like. I had a bottle of mineral water and nothing else to look forward to.

I’d heard that Korean mothers are particularly critical of the men who date their daughters, and this is the vibe I picked up. I could see it in her forced smile. I tried to imagine what it might be like to be a Korean man and realized I didn’t know enough to do it. I’d only seen some films. Some of them were dubbed.

I parked across the street and approached. It was important not to be the guy who sits in his car and waits.

“Hello,” I said. “Nice to meet you.” She was shorter than you. Her hands were even smaller.

She welcomed me into the foyer, where I waited for nearly a minute. I liked the small framed paintings of country cottages. You never believed me because you’ve seen them since you were a kid. Your mother stood there politely as I told her the name of the film we were going to see. I was prepared to discuss what I do, where I’m from, and all those usual things, but you got us out of there quickly. You explained that she could be overwhelming.

“So can I. Are you afraid she’d chase me away?”

“No! She’s just nosy. I didn’t want to make you go through it.”

“I’d be alright.” I wanted to add that we’re all adults, but it felt ignorant. I don’t know what it’s like to be a mother or a daughter.

The rest of the night went well, for a first date. The film, the tamales, your frankness and mine. It was relatively new to me, but you slipped into it like a warm bed. A side some people didn’t get to see. We were far more personal than I’d become accustomed to in our morning talks. Your love of virtual pets was endearing. I’d never told anyone that I cared for a pair of mice for a brief time in third grade.

“I like you,” I said. “I think we’re hitting it off.”

“I think so, too.” You were inviting. Your smile.

“Would you like to come up? I mean, come back. With me.”

Your face was flushed, but not nearly as much as mine.

“Mm hm.”

“Let’s pick up a bottle of wine.”

I thought about your mother again when we were meant to be asleep. It was a series of thoughts. It goes: I’m fucking your daughter. You hate me, but I’m fucking your daughter, and she’s here in my apartment tonight instead of the bed in your house. I’m keeping her safe. She’s warm and I hope you won’t argue about any of this when she gets home tomorrow. She loves you.