T. Oso (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
campkilkare) wrote2008-12-26 03:28 pm
campkilkare) wrote2008-12-26 03:28 pm
Entry tags:
Alice/Zora, 3 of ??
Waking up in someone else's bed is never easy, and it helps if they're there. She wasn't. I thought about the room I was in, which was spare. The whole apartment was a little crackerbox over a bodega. The walls were sort of silver, and tired. She had good furniture, though, and a big closet, which was open. It seemed like an invitation. I smelled cooking.
I put on a shirt that fit me like a tent and said I DRINK NOZZ-A-LA, which meant nothing to me. It struck me that this was all a little practiced. Gobbling up arty girls with pencils in their hair, I thought, even as I was trying to wind my hair up. I gave up.
She was cooking eggs, in a t-shirt and pajama pants. The pants offended me. She didn't understand that, then or now, and maybe you don't either. I don't know what to tell you. It seems obvious to me. It was ridiculous. I told her that: "You're wearing pants."
"I'm cooking eggs," she says. "Are you hungry?" I looked at a clock; it was six am. On a Saturday. She was some kind of monster.
"I guess so," I said. "Why the pants?" She looked at me like I was a crazy person. I told her: "You get up in the morning, putter around, make eggs. You don't want to get splattered with grease. Fine. You put on a shirt. But pants?" The t-shirt hung easily past her hips. "Who does that?"
She shrugged at me, and turned back to her eggs. I wasn't having any of that. It was a problem easily solved; I grabbed the baggy seat of the pants and yanked, and they dropped around her ankles. She didn't even have them cinched up properly.
Look, it makes sense to me. I'm sorry if you can't follow it, but it was ridiculous to me. I liked how she dealt with it, though; she kicked them into a corner. I like someone who knows how to concede gracefully.
I sat at her table and wondered how many other arty girls with pencils in their hair had sat her and eaten their eggs and then been shown the door. She brought me the eggs, still in just the shirt. Good legs.
"Eat fast," she said, and it was so bald it was like a slap in the face. "What?"
She was already eating, salting her eggs while she chewed. "In about five minutes I'm going to jump you," she said. "Ready or not. So you better eat those. You're going to need your strength."
I did finish them. We didn't make it out of the kitchen, but I did finish them.
Well, it went on like that. If you're someone who doesn't want to read about it--my children, for instance, poking through Mama's files for cute stories of how they met--you may want to stop. We had a lot of sex, is what it comes down to. That first weekend we had a perfect storm of sex. We talked a little bit--I grew up in California, she was a New Yorker from the start, she had some college but didn't finish, I went to UC Berkeley--but none of it seemed to mean anything, the way the things she said on the train did. I didn't know her any better that way. I learned more about her from the way she moved and the way she touched me.
We started and didn't finish two or three movies. At a point we ordered Chinese food and devoured it; it may have been dark out by then. Sooner or later she looked at me and said, why do we keep putting clothes back on?
And I said: "She gets it! Ye gods and little fishes, at last she gets it."
She had scars. Has. More now than then. She wasn't comfortable with them. Other than that she was completely unself-conscious about her body, no more than a cat, and she had nothing to be ashamed of, but the scars bothered her. As if they took something away from her as a woman. Her back was muscled amazingly, like something from Grey's Anatomy, and when we slept (was it night? or a nap? I forget) I picked them out one by one, making patterns in the web of sinews, and felt her falling asleep under my hand. I was sure she was asleep when I reached her shoulder, grazing over the knot of scar there. It was worse in the back than the front, something that had blown straight through her, and it made me feel--I don't know. Shivery. She was solid, a rock, but something had gone through her like that. When I touched the scar what I knew was that she had healed. She was still solid; the wound had been beaten. She didn't see it that way I guess. I felt her stiffen the moment I touched it. She didn't wake up--I don't think so, anyway--but she reacted just the same.
I moved back down her back, doing everything in reverse, until she relaxed again. It was the best moment in a weekend of bests, I think; she was mine, then, when the last knot let go. She belonged to me. Had any of the other arty little girls--damn Robert anyway--felt the same way, watching her sleep? Maybe they did. But I had doubts. She seemed unwound in a way that was basically alien to her; that seemed obvious at the time and was borne out later. She could let go. She was with me, after all, and she was mine.
Sunday morning there was a late brunch. Omelets. There was nothing in her refrigerator but eggs and ketchup and olive oil and three heirloom tomatoes; she had some onions in a basket. She had me run down to the bodega wearing one of her sweaters like a dress to buy peppers and shredded cheese and more cheap Puerto Rican wine.
In the evening I told her I had to work Monday, I needed to go home. She said all right, and she put my dress in a garment bag. I didn't have a bra and nothing she had would possibly fit me, so I rode on the train in her sweater with my arms crossed over my chest and she stood behind me with the bag. She put a hand on my hip and her chin on the top of my head, and I closed my eyes and the train rocked us together, back and forth, and I felt the other half. It was the beginning of loving her. The Lord help us both.
In my apartment I fed the Lord first, and then I went into my bedroom to change, so I could give her her sweater back. I was saying something inane, thank you for a wonderful weekend, and then she came in. It wasn't far to the bed. She didn't have to carry me.
I put on a shirt that fit me like a tent and said I DRINK NOZZ-A-LA, which meant nothing to me. It struck me that this was all a little practiced. Gobbling up arty girls with pencils in their hair, I thought, even as I was trying to wind my hair up. I gave up.
She was cooking eggs, in a t-shirt and pajama pants. The pants offended me. She didn't understand that, then or now, and maybe you don't either. I don't know what to tell you. It seems obvious to me. It was ridiculous. I told her that: "You're wearing pants."
"I'm cooking eggs," she says. "Are you hungry?" I looked at a clock; it was six am. On a Saturday. She was some kind of monster.
"I guess so," I said. "Why the pants?" She looked at me like I was a crazy person. I told her: "You get up in the morning, putter around, make eggs. You don't want to get splattered with grease. Fine. You put on a shirt. But pants?" The t-shirt hung easily past her hips. "Who does that?"
She shrugged at me, and turned back to her eggs. I wasn't having any of that. It was a problem easily solved; I grabbed the baggy seat of the pants and yanked, and they dropped around her ankles. She didn't even have them cinched up properly.
Look, it makes sense to me. I'm sorry if you can't follow it, but it was ridiculous to me. I liked how she dealt with it, though; she kicked them into a corner. I like someone who knows how to concede gracefully.
I sat at her table and wondered how many other arty girls with pencils in their hair had sat her and eaten their eggs and then been shown the door. She brought me the eggs, still in just the shirt. Good legs.
"Eat fast," she said, and it was so bald it was like a slap in the face. "What?"
She was already eating, salting her eggs while she chewed. "In about five minutes I'm going to jump you," she said. "Ready or not. So you better eat those. You're going to need your strength."
I did finish them. We didn't make it out of the kitchen, but I did finish them.
Well, it went on like that. If you're someone who doesn't want to read about it--my children, for instance, poking through Mama's files for cute stories of how they met--you may want to stop. We had a lot of sex, is what it comes down to. That first weekend we had a perfect storm of sex. We talked a little bit--I grew up in California, she was a New Yorker from the start, she had some college but didn't finish, I went to UC Berkeley--but none of it seemed to mean anything, the way the things she said on the train did. I didn't know her any better that way. I learned more about her from the way she moved and the way she touched me.
We started and didn't finish two or three movies. At a point we ordered Chinese food and devoured it; it may have been dark out by then. Sooner or later she looked at me and said, why do we keep putting clothes back on?
And I said: "She gets it! Ye gods and little fishes, at last she gets it."
She had scars. Has. More now than then. She wasn't comfortable with them. Other than that she was completely unself-conscious about her body, no more than a cat, and she had nothing to be ashamed of, but the scars bothered her. As if they took something away from her as a woman. Her back was muscled amazingly, like something from Grey's Anatomy, and when we slept (was it night? or a nap? I forget) I picked them out one by one, making patterns in the web of sinews, and felt her falling asleep under my hand. I was sure she was asleep when I reached her shoulder, grazing over the knot of scar there. It was worse in the back than the front, something that had blown straight through her, and it made me feel--I don't know. Shivery. She was solid, a rock, but something had gone through her like that. When I touched the scar what I knew was that she had healed. She was still solid; the wound had been beaten. She didn't see it that way I guess. I felt her stiffen the moment I touched it. She didn't wake up--I don't think so, anyway--but she reacted just the same.
I moved back down her back, doing everything in reverse, until she relaxed again. It was the best moment in a weekend of bests, I think; she was mine, then, when the last knot let go. She belonged to me. Had any of the other arty little girls--damn Robert anyway--felt the same way, watching her sleep? Maybe they did. But I had doubts. She seemed unwound in a way that was basically alien to her; that seemed obvious at the time and was borne out later. She could let go. She was with me, after all, and she was mine.
Sunday morning there was a late brunch. Omelets. There was nothing in her refrigerator but eggs and ketchup and olive oil and three heirloom tomatoes; she had some onions in a basket. She had me run down to the bodega wearing one of her sweaters like a dress to buy peppers and shredded cheese and more cheap Puerto Rican wine.
In the evening I told her I had to work Monday, I needed to go home. She said all right, and she put my dress in a garment bag. I didn't have a bra and nothing she had would possibly fit me, so I rode on the train in her sweater with my arms crossed over my chest and she stood behind me with the bag. She put a hand on my hip and her chin on the top of my head, and I closed my eyes and the train rocked us together, back and forth, and I felt the other half. It was the beginning of loving her. The Lord help us both.
In my apartment I fed the Lord first, and then I went into my bedroom to change, so I could give her her sweater back. I was saying something inane, thank you for a wonderful weekend, and then she came in. It wasn't far to the bed. She didn't have to carry me.