Sky Blue

A tiny Bic lighter rests on top of my desk, which is built to resemble an old school desk and has afforded me near-daily joy for almost one year. The lighter is sky blue and is the companion to my lavender Mrs. Meyers candles. I was in the powder room of my favorite café in Brooklyn when I discovered the things. The label had been peeled off and I assumed it was a luxurious and handmade item, as everything in that neighborhood was a luxurious and handmade item. Craning my neck and lifting it overhead, I was delighted to discover the candle was acquirable and affordable. I've rarely been without one since.

I've also rarely been without a lighter. There was a time when, I'm a little afraid to admit, it was a constant, a talisman. I'd actually owned several; they were strewn about the house, where we could always find one, where we'd smoke when it was too cold to go outside. I'd pick a color to match my aesthetic, or if shopping in a bodega and given few choices, the least offensive hue. Sometimes I'd be feeling blah and the brown lighter would be purchased. It somehow felt natural and neutral, warm, earthy, and comforting.

When I finally quit (which I was actually proud of, which I probably should not have been, as it's really a no-brainer; but such was the result of my depression, slight addiction, and unsteady sense of self during those years) it hurt to see them around, to pull out an old handbag and brush my fingers against one hiding inside. I had dreams of banishing them all, but sometimes there are compromises you make, and so they stayed.

In time, the lighter became just another object. I couldn't continue on a path that was wrong for me, that was perhaps right for others, simply because I was afraid to go my own way. So I still keep one around and it no longer instills any feelings of anxiety. And yet, in a strangely sentimental way, it does remind me of when I was younger, grasping for my identity and hoping to find it in a kelly green, in a walnut brown, in a sky blue.

January 21st

My love, did you know
That ten years ago
I was wind-tossed and wrecked by you?

I asked over the telephone, "Did you ever receive your package?" You had not. So many things lost.

(A week later the battered box arrived at my door, having exploded somewhere around Maspeth and now missing a few of the gifts I'd packed. The birthday card survived. I threw it away.)

"Hmm, I sent it awhile ago." I tried to sound cheerful, but the fact that I perhaps carried much more sadness than mirth was evident upon my last visit to New York. I'd sensed it the morning I was to fly back, a panicky feeling that caused me to apologize over and over for my behavior on New Year's Eve. Behavior that was born from a longing to make us work and the discovery that you were moving on without me. It was desperate, it was not pretty, but it was love.

You ended it over the phone. It was your birthday. I couldn't quite grasp why you hadn't done it a couple of weeks prior, in person. As I fell to my knees howling, fistful of white blouse over my heart, I was glad you had not. Before the phone call ended you mentioned something (tearfully?) about keeping in contact. I said I didn't want a pen pal. This was before Facebook. We did not remain in touch.

What followed was an anniversary of sorts:

February 21st, one month, he's just going through something, he'll call. March 21st, two months, I'm slacking, teachers hate me, should I visit the city? April 21st, I was to move there soon, maybe he'll remember and change his mind? May 21st, my own birthday, I smiled, had the very best of friends surrounding me, and got black-out heartsick drunk.

By January, I was in California.  I was living alone for the first time, I was lonely, I was cleaning toilets, I was acting, I was happy, I was miserable. Sitting in the theatre during a break, other actors were asking a new guy about his birthday plans. My body trembled, a little shock, as it occurred to me that your birthday was coming up. And with it, the end to this awful anniversary of what ifs. It had been an entire year. And you had not changed your mind.

"When is your birthday?" I asked the new guy.

"January 21st."

I now understand what you mean by

This is not the end of it.

And you’re probably right:

The narrative is far more thrilling than the actual events. 

The story will grip you far harder than I ever could. 

Stretch it out, make it span a lifetime, cross county lines and countrysides and children and burials and years and years and years and

Why not? 

It’ll keep you far more fascinated than my actual presence ever, ever could.

Flowers

The significance is not lost on her, as she arranges flowers in the kitchen.

It gives her great satisfaction, and (dare she admit?) joy, to do so.

Outside, her neighbor is gardening.

Tending to what he loves, constantly shifting things to make life beautiful. If it doesn't work, no matter, he uproots and replants and begins anew.

It is not lost on her that they are doing the same thing.

But.

He is caring for living, breathing things.

She is artfully arranging something that is already gone.

Five AM

I often think of your mother's white cat.

How, at the end, her hair was matted and her movement slow. No one wanted physical contact with her but that was all she craved.

The only place you dared touch was the little triangle between her eyes down to her nose. That was enough for her. Enough to go through the night and wake the next day.

Until, at last, she trudged under the bushes and disappeared.

My cat has curled up beside me. He hums at my nearness, loves to have his back or some part of him touching me. It was not always thus.

He is getting old and I wonder at his change in behavior. How he no longer snaps at me out of fear, how he seems to truly sense when I am unwell. I wonder how many more years we have together.

I used to hate the white spot on his little triangle, the one that mars the otherwise symmetrical markings on his face. Used to think that, besides that spot, he was quite a handsome cat, for trailer trash.

It is now my favorite thing about him. I pet it, as if it gives him power. As if it prolongs the time we have together.

He owns me as much as I own him.

She also thinks:

There are so so many things held in our hearts.

All we want is to release them into the world, and for someone else to catch them.

To grasp the ribbon at the end of the balloon before it floats away.

And to nod, and say yes yes I understand.

She thinks: 

Perhaps, this is why we make art, and why we make love, and why we make war.

She thinks:

I’m no good to anybody in person. 

 

In person, you can overwhelm me physically, in person, you can silence my words.

Seem eager to own me.

So.

I should correspond only in letters.  Freely, unfettered.  There you know nothing of my fading beauty, of my trouble with living.  Perhaps you hear my voice, or what you remember of it.  Perhaps the musicality carries over in the pretty arrangements of my words.

Perhaps you will think me better than I am.

Perhaps I am better than I think I am.

The letters will be sent by sparrow.  Dropping down, he will land, blinking.  A note will release from his beak.  Should you be inclined to respond, he will wait for you, and then return to me.

This is how it shall be done, she thinks.

The Massage

She'd kinda gotten a little set in her ways. Living in that trailer, eating that canned tuna, never seeing nobody, it was what it was.

Then the money came in.

She moved to a real city in Florida. Every week, she'd walk back from the Piggly Wiggly and pass The Healing Hands Day Spa. It was one of them real nice ones that cost you an arm and a leg for a massage. It never felt right, to pay that much for something that disappears as soon as you walk out the door.

Just plain selfish.

Might as well use that good money on somethin tangible, like paying off the QVC card.

Then, after a particular rough week, burning pain from her neck down, she decided, "To hell with it. I'm gonna see what they can do."

It was dark and cool inside, and there was music playing that sounded like them nature CDs at Target. She made a mental note to go pick one up later.

In the room, she got nervous. Disrobe? Disrobe what? She decided to leave on her undergarments. She wriggled under the sheet and faced down, as instructed. She was glad her masseuse was a female. Not one of them fairy men or, worse, someone who'd think scandalous things while looking at her. The therapist knocked on the door; she was young and Asian. At least she spoke English. She began with her shoulders.

It was the first time the woman had been touched in years.

It was, Lord, she couldn't begin to describe it. She dozed off twice, swaddled on that table like a newborn. The only thing that she disliked was when that girl worked on her legs. It was ticklish, and she tensed up every previously relaxed muscle.

But by the end she felt like a million bucks. Like a dream version of herself. Floated, or zombie-walked out the door and into the sunshine.

She wanted to call her ex-husband, she craved to be touched some more. Her heart was as wide open as the sky.

Best damn money ever spent.

Nail Salon

She took her time selecting the perfect red.  A List by Essie was the winner.  Sometimes the name matters, she thought.  If she was prepping for an important occasion, she liked to choose a name that would embolden her, that would somehow fit the person(a) she was going for that evening.  Absolutely Shore, Neo Whimsical, Wicked, East Hampton Cottage.  Other times, she was just reaching for a bottle that seemed recently opened.  One that wouldn't clump and would apply smoothly.  Such was the case today.  She'd never been to this salon before and was the only soul in the place.  Must've just opened at ten.

It was dead quiet, and the little nail technician/proprietress turned on the radio.  Christmas music filled the space.  The woman didn't speak to her or ask her any questions, so she turned to face out towards the window.  Felt a little awkward to stare at the woman while she was working.  Something so intimate in the act of massaging another's hands.  "Silver Bells" came on and a memory pushed into her mind.

She was back in college, tucked away in the costume shop.  It was drizzling back then, too.  The shop was located right off of the stage.  Most of her time was spent inside that theatre building, and she especially liked to be there on rainy days.  The costume designer was out of town and her much-maligned assistant was running the class.  Everyone was silent, but seemed content.  She looked out the small windows near the ceiling.  The needle pushed into the fabric, and back out, in, and out.  She was hemming and the little "cross the street and pick up your neighbor" instruction would occasionally come to mind.  She felt pride when her stitches were tiny and even.  It was soothing, didn't feel like work.  Christmas music was playing and she thought that soon she'd be back in her hometown.  She'd see old friends, try to ignore the distance that had been creeping between them.  She'd hope to see an old love, would stop by places they used to frequent together.  Most times that would result in a "He was just here!" and she'd think to herself Always a little bit behind, now aren't you?

Years later, that thought still pulsed through her mind.

She stepped out onto the street, her nails polished a classic red.  Maybe it was taking her a little longer than most, but she was finally on her way.

Cat and Puppy

The Couple

"Do you ever, like, put off going to bed?  Like not because the day was so awesome or anything but because you can't deal with all the things waiting for you tomorrow?"

"Hmm.  No, I can't say that I have."

"Oh.  What's wrong with me then?"

Nothing.  It's not all about you.  I promise.
  
"Well, anyways, tonight was totally like that 'Romeo and Juliet' movie, like at that party when they're in that bathroom all wanting to do it because they see each other through the fish tank and then he grabs her arm and they're running running running?  I saw this guy tonight and he totally looked like someone I know, but, like, less broken?  Like younger and handsome.  And I kept staring at him and he kept pursing his lips, watching the party.  Then I kept staring at his mouth.  He didn't grab my arm though.  He didn't really pay me any mind.  Now that I think about it, it wasn't like 'Romeo and Juliet' at all." 

"Did you ever see the Zeffirelli film?"

"Um, no."

Can't say that that surprises me. 

"Alrighty,  I love you.  Going to sleep.  Turn out the lights before you come to bed, will you?"

"Will do."

The Elevator

The lady went to pay for her appointment at reception.

She tapped a red nail on the desk, then brought it up to tuck a cotton candy wisp of blonde hair back into her bun.

Yet again, she had to remind the male secretary the amount she should be charged.  It was sliding-scale, and perhaps she should feel bad about how little she paid, but she often watched him taking money from other patients and she was paying far more than most.

This is fair, she thought, with a little jerk of her head.

She eyed the secretary as he swiped the card; he seemed to sense this and fumbled when handing her a pen.

He's always staring up at me from that chair, she thought.  Examining her face whenever she walks up to him to pay.  As if he takes pleasure in the fact that she'd likely cried for an hour straight.  Pervert.  He probably gets paid in free therapy.  Seems too incompetent to hold an actual paying job.

The transaction was complete and she click-clacked into the hallway. 

See ya next week, Slob-o.

Pressing a red nail to the elevator button, the doors immediately opened and two men scurried off.  She wondered where the lift had come from; wasn't this the lowest level?

Stepping in, she realized another guy was still on.  He hit floor 3 and she checked to see that L was lit up. 

They began their ascent.  The guy looked at the lady.  Her pale skin flushed with the realization that her sunglasses were in the car.  Her eyes must look like all hell.

"What's on that floor? LL?" he asked.  "I've always wondered."

She turned and focused her gaze, really looked right into his face.  She had crazy wobbly anime eyes, she felt it.

"A counseling center," she said, more forcefully than she had meant to.

He leaned back and looked at the ceiling, processing what that really meant.  "Ah," he said.

The doors opened and he wished her a good day. 

She responded in kind, and as she click-clacked out the door, a strange thing happened.  She truly wished for that, felt that it might be attainable.

A good day.

The Studio

It wasn't until she was leaving, walking down the narrow hallway covered in headshots, that she felt it.

Or the absence of it, rather.

She had not been to this studio in four years, since she was dutifully making the audition rounds at her agent's request. Every single time, she'd walk in the door and her chest would tighten. Girls would be tucked into every corner, legs blocking the hall, stretching and chatting.

Cacophonous, she thought now.

She'd tuck her head and push through, all the way to the back entrance, to the parking lot. There she could breathe, stand in the sunshine, and begin to warm her muscles.

She'd see girls she recognized, well, she used to in the beginning. In the beginning she'd usually have someone to pal up with, someone to chat with to take her mind off of her nerves. At the end, she mostly felt older than the other dancers. Out of place.

She would line up to register, hand shaky with self-doubt. Thank them kindly, and pin a number on her chest.

Learning the combination, she used to push right up front and center. Towards the end she'd hang in the back. She was much taller than the other girls. It was fine.

Things got better once she started moving. She'd usually gain a bit of confidence when she sensed she was picking up the steps more quickly than the others. She'd laugh a big full laugh when the director or choreographer would make a joke. Show them how sweet she was, what a joy she'd be to work with.

She would often be called back. She'd walk to her car and phone work, "Hi! I just got a callback! Yay! It's at 3, so I'll just be an hour or so behind. Thank you thank you thank you!"

Always a callback, never a job.

She'd begun to turn down auditions. Tell her agent she had work. The woman didn't get her anyway. Woman, hah, they were probably the same age. Always submitting her for things that she was obviously so wrong for. Waste of time.

And that was it.

She stopped dancing for a few years. Every once in awhile she'd catch something on TV or on YouTube, and her heart would hurt. She'd take a class here and there, and it almost made up for everything else. She'd throw herself into yoga, and because the city was so big, there was always a new-student-month-unlimited-deal she could afford. She'd hop to a different studio when the month ran out. It was almost the same, she thought. More practical, even.

And then she woke up.

She came back.

She was moving at a snail's pace, but moving nonetheless.