Tiny shoulders, straight shoulders. Beautiful shoulders. Honey shoulders. Mine. My shoulders are on the ground outside his house.
I want to sip at his trunk. I want to see him come out of the place and I immediately want to become lower, vulnerable.
Our encounters, a series of good-byes and scraped knees. Hurt, who knows.
Am I complete? Am I running out of time?
Tommy remains an enigma. After three years, we hurt and discover and strip away but keep hidden as much as we want to expose.
I never described Tommy. I always let him slip by unbeknownst to me, to himself. I let Tommy be cruel. I let him get away with so much. I let him. I. It's me who does it.
Streetcar. Rush. August. Summer nights. I was in town for a Fellini exhibit wearing a necklace that was prominent. Made me look like a mini Cleopatra with my smoke eyes and kitty expressions and eye glint sparkle.
I let the air pile on top of air. The stamp from the dance club I went to after the exhibit is inky. It is on my wrist and sweating out on his sheets. His bare back, a crescent against the velvet darkness of the master bedroom I know inside out. Soft, musky crescent setting and rising with slow breaths. The condom wrapper is tough this time and I wait, quiet and heart beating. I'm a rabbit. Bunny bunny you're so funny. Funny? Funny.
The AC is loud. I take a sip of vodka. Because I crouch to reach the glass, I feel too naked.
Finally, the plastic sound of surrender. Finally, the tidal waves have promised us pleasure.
I'm sick to my stomach. I want to walk home. 30 streetcar stops. All the way to my front door in the rain. In the snow. Only to be far away from here.
Only to be transported immediately after the minutes slip by, slithering and dripping.
If only the hours didn't add up, if only my mind didn't race, if only I didn't break. If only I only had one strand of thought. But now, I'm two.
I am me. Where I can just be. Attached is the siamese twin of heaviness. She's too aware. She takes measurements, she wants to fit in, wants to project the best version of me.
And I'm somewhere in between this amalgamation. I want to be but I want to grow alongside the perception of me.
Tommy is still moving on top of me while I'm contemplating that life is slipping away. Men..
I went through his notebooks while he was in the washroom earlier. Sketches of my body, of my smiles, of my profile, of my jaw. Broken pieces of what he's written me.
Broken pieces of what he's written about me. Hurtful. "Made her sweat it out." "Didn't even look back" "Knew she looked back"
I play this in my head as I come and I run out of there. I put on my dress backwards, wanna do a line and never look back.
I want to throw the phone in the water. I want to strip three layers of skin off. I try and seek refuge. Art. Fellini's photographs. His sketches of fantastical worlds and kaleidoscopic glimpses of women he's seen come in and out of his house. Raising him, raising him. Skinny blondes. Maybe helping him on the swing. Hitchcock's wet dreams for sure.
For. Sure.
Svelte brunettes with attitude. Girls girls girls. Fuck Fellinniiiii!!!!!
I'm in heaven. White everywhere. I take a deep breath and close my eyes.
I am part of a bigger plan. I am a tiny petal in the grand design. A tiny kid several galaxies away pointing in our direction saying, "Look daddy" with his weird green alien arm and his tiny index finger. Is it called an index finger several galaxies away?
I don't know.
And this reminds me of my first boyfriend. We're 17. He is sleeping over. He is beautiful. He looks like an alien. Glowing green. The TV is on and I'm watching Deep Space 9. I want to turn it off. I don't want to turn it off. I turn it off. I'm inside his back. His back, a curved piece of moon disappearing into the velvet darkness that I know inside out. The darkness that's me.
* I want to do all of the above. None of this happens. Instead,
I wipe my mouth. I sucked all the life out of Tommy. I consumed him and his fears. Lunch snack. Double tap, smack that. Yeah I like that. Yeah baby? Oh yeah, I like that.
We listen to some Floyd. Deserts, some talk show, my messy hair. Hickies. Good night.
Tommy, my rebellion. Tommy, a Salieri. Not a rock star but a rock star. Tommy, my rock star.
I know inside I will marry Tommy. Don't ask me how.
Have you read War and Peace?
:)
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