Doorframes

Ava has been walking through the mud for what seems like hours.

It, of course, has not been hours. It has been exactly thirty three minutes and forty-five, forty-six, forty-seven, forty-eight...seconds.

The heavier the count, the lighter the steps become. At this rate, well never mind.

Clouds, fast moving. Time doesn't stop for anyone. 

-

Max is trying to touch Ada. A sunbeam has arranged its tresses on an eyelash. On her cheek. Beside a beauty mark. Or a scar. 

Max does not know how to begin this touch with regard to Ada.

Ada is of course sitting smiling pleasantly and staring at the wall. The white wall.

She's wondering if the touch will feel like velvet or like toffee. Toffee? Toffee. Toffee melting. 

"We should walk, Ada"

Elastic, malleable like a piece of untamed fabric, she drapes upwards in a flush of perfume (flash flash) and rests her lovely hand on the easy chair until he resumes leadership and opens the door.

Bright. Bright bright sun.

He steps out briskly and waits. Clean, uncomplicated, neatly drawn Max. Like a youthful general in a J-L David. Ada remembers when her papa took her to see David before the governess ever was employed and reproduced dirty sketches in neat notebooks. Poor governess. Resuming a gentleman's enterprise. An eternal failure. Perhaps.

----

I am sitting across a guy I met this summer with smiling eyes and an easy manner. He reminds me of this supposedly handsome young man described by Henry James in one of the first modernist novellas the world would read.  There was a shy, pretty telegraphist in it. She lived in a cage. A telegraphist's cage.

How cruel. How unfortunate.

People reading this story did not know they were reading a revolution. 

They took a bite. The knowledge was to come afterwards.

We met at a party. I forgot where. I was with many friends. I remember only leaving. I remember him running after me and asking why I was leaving. We chatted next to his building steps. He lived near. There was a beach. He lived near a beach. I was anonymous. He was rich.

My hair was blonde. My happiness, settled.

They say be careful what you wish for cuz you might get it and boy oh boy did I ever get it cuz I used to say mama Mama I wanna live many lives in just one life and she's say hush baby cuz wishes like that come true and then you've got to be in different places at once and it's like you're living but I mean are you babygirl? Are you?

Am I?

Yes, I am from America. Of course. I laugh. He is French Canadian. Has a sailboat. Oh, we sailed. We never really sailed. We just sailed through.

 He's holding my hand. I forgot his name. He's drinking a beer. I'm not. I'm drinking vodka on ice and wishing Maria was here. No, I'm not. Maria, maria. Who's Maria? Who am I?

He asks me if I like the music. I nod and fail to mention I've gotten to know the lead singer really well over the summer if you know what I mean. I fail to mention how we climbed over the church's gate across the joint three winters ago when I was wearing my furs and we rang the bells and almost got caught but didn't because by the time we ended up home we were in some guy's car who was friends with the friend of a friend who lived in Paris and I just mentioned the obscure Dali beside Sacre Coeur and we were set for the night. In retrospect, should have kept my mouth shut but couldn't. It was pouring out of me. It is always pouring out of me. If my heart wasn't stitched tight, I'd probably leave it as a generous tip on some table.

Put up signs, come back later to claim..a bloody table? Not even, we'd laugh. Not even, we'd say. Not even. Not fair. Perhaps. But what ever is?

He asks something about why I like reading or something. He's being as deep as he can be with a looming lunch "with Mother" for the next day and me half asleep wearing all white. 

All white

let's call it a night

Alright.

Alright.

I tell him because of my dad. My dad taught me loads. We are impeccably complementary. Daddy issues. mummy issues. How hilarious. I wish him well. I can't even kiss him. In another world, maybe. Maybe in another world. Maybe baby. Oh baby. Maybe.

I get home. Home? What's home? Where's home? Where do I go? Where am I coming from?

And against the door-frame that becomes a most ornate focus, Max's portrait is contemplated. By Ada. Oh, finally. She has five seconds' worth of inspecting the face that will become the face which, in profile, will meet her profile. Every night. And the time is flying, and she sees nothing but disparate anatomy. A blue eye, a clean jaw, a face. 

And time is flying and I see nothing but disparate anatomy. A sparkling eye, a clean jaw, a face.

I breathe in and close my eyes and take longer to re-open them.

-

And the time is flying, and he sees nothing but disparate anatomy. Same eyes, same cheek, same face. But it could be any face.

It's any other face.

Ava carries Ada's face on her own. She has assumed a cruel mask and prepared for the fair. The carnival. 

"I've come to set things right because they've been set wrong"

"Pardon?"

"Wrong. It's wrong"

"What is?"

"Well, the feelings and the meetings and the talking"

"Those do not constitute a wrong. I am getting to know my sister-in-law. We are family"

"We are not family"

"Ada is my family"

"Not yet. The timing. I can only find, as such, that it constitutes a wrong"

"How mangled you are"

"You don't understand her. She seems fine and free. Ada is empty. You think because she laughs and knows when to be quiet and for how long..."

"Understanding her is of little interest to me"

"Because you're beyond that"

"Because she's becoming yet"

"Becoming what?"

"Anything she'd like"

She wants to scream, to tear into him, to rip him to shreds. Doesn't he see? It will all go wrong and Max will suffer and the families might fragment in society. Might be left in tatters on gossip's doorstep. Ugly ugly turn of events. 

*