novembre ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- from scratch i ran my hand over the back of his head and noted how long his hair has grown since october. i love his hair; it reminds me of a four year old's. soft and curly on the tips, perfect. he scratched his chin through his beard with a thin hand. we passed a cross outlined in lights nailed to a roof as he drove me over. he cocked his head and said, "my mother has a pin that says jesus is the reason for the season." i laughed because i remember his mother, her perfect little bowl haircut and her calm, bright eyes. she's very proper and quiet but has a well paced, wry sense of humor. i didn't voice any of this; i watched out the window as we drove, passing ventura's older houses built into the hills overlooking downtown. the tallest trees in the county, just off main street, had been strung with lights. first time i ever noticed. we were talking at the table when she came home and held me for a full minute. my old friends. my old friends the old couple. the old couple in young bodies and fresh hearts planning their future that happens to coincide together. with a lot of work. how long have i known him? nine years? i've known her for fifteen. their neighborhood is flat. the streets are wide and evenly paved. some blocks are tree-lined, shading the shoulders of square southern californian houses. between the stucco twenties houses, outlined in tile and illuminated by isolated little windows, sat the odd victorian and the even older ranch. always tiny. small and perfunctory, built when sand mixed readily into the dusty soil. before lawns. prior fences. pre christmas decoration. their next door neighbors add something to their lawn every day. chevy chase would be amazed by the blow up winnie the pooh characters in santa hats, the lights snaking around the white picket gate and gazebo, the lit up candy canes lining the tiny winding path. the plastic electric biblical scene. i poked tigger in his stomach and heard its engine puff him more air. a snail crawled through evening dew collected across his nose. the house they are renting is magnificent. small but amazing. perfect for us in our beginnings. ceramic boxes shaped like acorns with ceramic squirrels sitting on top for handles. crystal unicorns hanging. lithographs and paintings framed. mickey mouse and the queen of england. brown polyester pants and little sixties sneakers. waffle knit potholders. flat wide beds. three-dimensional lightboxed scenes of waterfalls. rocking chairs. white tile with blue crescents and tear drop designs. his portfolio for mfa application spread out before the fireplace. tall lamps with round shades. design books. mugs advertising the largest ball of twine (made by one person) and the endearing characteristics of beavers. i want to take portraits of their stove (forties with script font across its white unstained face), of their bicycles (seventies with brown and blue racing stripes). walking through you can't help but feel their comfort palpable in their living room. even in the hallway and the renovated bathroom. out back is a printmaking studio and i was jealous of the etching press with the adjustable bed. i was jealous of her breaking up blocks of bittersweet chocolate for homemade cookies and of him as he sat on his knees against the living room couch wrapping presents. i didn't have any money for presents this year; i don't have a warm house; i don't have a person to be a couple with. sometimes the holidays make you realize what you are lacking. but it's okay. in their backyard i had flash daydreams of being neighbors again and going in on our own studio, our own presses, our own space. we drove to the beach while she opted to finish her baking. (i am always sitting on that swingset watching the sea and its skyline whenever i visit my hometown.) we swung for a while and i showed him how to swing upside-down. he worried for me; i got sand in my hair. we worried over worrying. when we returned, she was standing over the sink scrubbing out her mixing bowl. she looked like she was ready to cook outside; she had her blue and green calico apron over the jacket i'd just given her, the jacket i promised to give her once i stopped wearing it regularly. (we are the kind of girl friends who trade clothes. last summer she gave me a few shirts and sweaters that i had given her when we were seventeen.) its gathered yoke puffed out the apron's breast slightly, which expanded and contracted as her arm moved. she turned on the tap and rinsed the bowl (blue with a ribbon of white across its lip). brow knitted, she frowned and announced that the cookies were "too chocolatey." but he and i ate them, and they were decadent. in the living room after i opened the present she wrapped for me, carefully gathered at the ends like an oversized piece of hard candy, i said they were the best cookies i'd ever eaten. "then you don't know cookies." she leaned against his shoulder, resting her arm over his, her elbow fitting easily over the crook of his. eyes smiling but face serious. "because i can do better." when we left i hugged each of them the same way: arms wrapped around shoulders and my face buried into their necks. tilted my head up and placed small kisses at their jawbones' bends. you know that spot, that vulnerable spot, it feels like the underside of a wing. 11:47 pm - 12.21.04 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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