I Wish That Your Hair Was Orange

He's over as he often is these days.  It's that golden hour, or two, when neither of us have anywhere we're supposed to be.  So we're on the couch and he's reading aloud to me the words he's written.  Poetry, actually.  With a gentle cadence, the words trip off his tongue and fall not only on my ears, but all over me.  We all know I'm a girl that's all about the words.  If you can use words well, I might just follow you anywhere.

There's one line of his, in particular, that pierces right through and sparks a deeper memory.  Sweeps away some very heavy cobwebs and re-minds me of a long forgotten monologue from a play that was perhaps far more autobiographical than I am still willing to admit.

Inspired, I walk over to the bookshelf where those ancient words have rested, dusty and unread. 

His girlfriend comes to visit and she's one of those girls -- you've seen them-- the kind who have everything together and look like Barbie dolls.  Well, she comes and suddenly I'm nobody.  I mean, it's like he's never met me before or something.  Here I am trying to talk to him about the latest situation with Gorbechev, or the motives that influenced Pollack's last painting and this man, this man who usually hangs on my every word, this man who finds me so "intriguing" and all that, this man is looking right through me like I"m not even there.  It's enough to make me want to scream.  I mean, he's talking to her about what they ate for lunch that day and I'm sitting there wondering what he sees in this chick, other than she looks beautiful and all and then I notice that he's just walked away and left me standing there.  Alone.  All alone.  Alone.  (PAUSE) It's how I've been feeling lately.  Very alone.  (PAUSE) I know that I've got you to talk to, but who comes to see me in this place?  Who'd want to? My friends all abandoned me pretty quickly, didn't they?  They were never really friends, anyway.  Just some people I knew, people I passed the time with. (SILENCE)

I made a really big mess on her oriental carpet that night.  She probably thinks that I did it in there on purpose.  It wasn't enough that the dog pissed on it every time she left him alone.  It was his revenge.  I'm sure she thinks that it was my revenge. 

But it wasn't.  I never even intended to do it in there.  I wanted to do it outside, so it would take a lot longer for them to find me.  So that they wouldn't be able to save me.  I was saving myself.  But that night...That night...It was too impossible; it was too hot to even breathe.  I had walked in there to sit and play the piano.  (PAUSE) I did play.  I played "Fer Elise" porbably better than I had ever played it before.  But when the dog started howling, started singing...(LONG PAUSE) She had to throw that oriental away.  The blood stains just wouldn't come out.  Blood and dog piss.  I hated that rug.  (SILENCE)

They probably think that you fucked me that night.  You spent the night in my room, even slept in my bed, but you didn't touch me.  I was screaming inside-- my whole body was waiting to jump at the slightest brush of your hand.  I was sure you wnated it just as much.  All I needed was the signal.  But it never came.  I wished you'd fucked me.  (PAUSE) You didn't even roll over on to my side of the bed.  (LONG PAUSE)

An interesting that, isn't it?  By the time you were ready to do it, I wasn't even really interested anymore.  You were old news.  And your insecurities about --well, they almost kept us from ever making love. (PAUSE) Still, it was good, wasn't it?  Remember the first time we did it?  You were worried about getting pregnant.  (GIGGLES) I told you that I knew my body better than anyone-- I knew when it was safe.  It was safe.

We spent the entire afternoon rolling around on my brother's double bed.  First, you climbed on top, then it was my turn.  It lasted forever.  Our bodies lying tangled in an exhausted sticky sleep.  Your lips gently sucking my lips...Whispers to each other of promises we both already knew we would never ever keep...The breezes whistling from the fan propped dangerously on the windowsill...Champagne.  It was never that good again, was it?

Comments

[ronfortoby]

ah! Jen of old is back! must be love!.