Saturdays alight and we, me especially, lit to the ceiling. There are strategically placed lamps, the angles of the light so sexy that it all becomes a magazine shoot.
Mysterious shadows, people in the mirror across from the circle of small chairs and table. It’s us, laughing raucously at things that are sometimes funny, sometimes sad. Drinking highballs, downing shots, smoking a primo in between. We used to try not to waste it, but waste is relative. No one should be serious on a Saturday.
Pose, sip, pose, laugh, pose.
“Be somebody, baby.” She likes to say that but won’t tell me where she got it. Grin so wide she’ll stretch her face wide open, show the fleshy insides. She’s good at lies and better at truth. She lays it all on her line spun from classy silk and homegrown cotton. Her eyes speak volumes but not nearly as much as her rhetoric.
“I’m glad Europe is feeling the pressure. I feel bad for the Germans.” Glossy red lips, polka dot dress, patent leather shoes, all guiding her eyes where she wants them. It’s magic.
Into the night until someone decides they’re high enough to leave, and the slow trickle begins. First Charlotte, all alone (we think she’s gay), then Sven and his Thai girlfriend, Megan. My baby and I slide into the corner, flanked by Mort (that’s his name!) and Samantha, the very tan English friends of the parents, on our right, Julie and Chi. They convinced her sister to stay in and watch him. He’s three now, and very independent, very alert. “He’s probably the one watching over her!” they say. How sad, their whole thing. They leave next.
The English stay and we get along, well into three but maybe not until four in the morning. They’re staying across town, we insist. They come back with us because of the beauty of a condo in the city, right there.
Strolling through nearly empty streets, smiling, holding each other. My baby shivers but I have no coat, so an arm does what it can. The English walk close, too, and maybe it was me but the girl looked cute. She looked at me. She’s blonde, perhaps a real one. Before my baby and her short, boyish hair, I liked blondes.
Sundays never begin, not really. First it’s Saturday, then it’s go, go, go, then it’s Sunday all of a sudden, and sun’s out again. Sometimes I see it and half remember it, sometimes it’s there when I wake up in the middle of Sunday and slump into the shower. Water into burning eyes, washing over alcohol and lipstick stained lips. Swiping a hand down across my face to make sure this is real.
I finish and walk into the kitchen. Silence is golden, not a peep. I look out through the kitchen window and my baby’s on the balcony, in the wicker lawn chair, on the little lawn island that we pay a short, sun burnt man to maintain.
She sees me and calls out. “Hey, baby. Can you mix me up a mojito?”
I nod and get to work on the lime, sugar, and leaves. Gently pressing down into the glass, a little in, and little out, and I watch her read. I remember this, from a long time ago. Fascination with watching women read was new. It made me want her to see read all the time. My baby, she reads like a pornstar. I pull out the bourbon and treat myself for a job well done.
“Hey. You coming out, baby?”
I knock on the kitchen window and she looks over and smiles, waves her fingers. I pour myself another and stare out, smile until she returns to her book. My baby is frosted hills beneath canary fabric, she’s burning red and, like a strawberry, ripe for the plucking.
Her mojito is ready.
A condo in the city, the place to be on a Sunday. Our friends of our friends crash in the spare room and we lounge, grass so blue it can’t be real. Wind howling through the city canyons on its way to the ocean. Echoes in our heads.