Silence. ~ I'm pressed against the bus window. I've scored the back three seats, and although the bus is pretty full, there's an unspoken rule that who ever gets the back, gets all three seats for as long as possible. I text. Scroll Facebook. Chat with friends. My phone bill will be high this month. The window is cold. The snow outside is piled higher than the bus. We break down coming up the mountain pass. ~ It's just me and my little Wallace, roaring down the freeway. The border comes and goes. I sweat a little bit, passport clammy in my hand. I have no real reason to be nervous at the crossing, but I am, anyway. But quickly, I am through and free, and rattling down the patched pavement. A hotel, an event, at the end of my road. Some hours away, still. Maybe G will be there, a little voice whispers, but I try to ignore it. ~ My home town is hip-deep in snow and memories. I keep my visit short. One day for each friend. I don't know any faces anymore. The one screen movie theatre is playing the movie I worked on most recently. My mother forwards me an email from the operators of the theatre, wanting me to speak before the film. I read and re-read my non-disclosure agreement. I can't decide. Eventually I ignore the email, and no one bothers to follow up. I spend hours on the main street, sitting in cafes, half-listening to old friends, but mostly staring out the window. ~ After I change into my dress (early 15th century Florentine), I wander down to the ballroom. There are dancers, there. A very fat women in a red feathered mask, wearing maybe bad Venetian, or possibly bad Elizabethan. A square man, somewhere north of sixty, in a leather skull mask. Two young, potato-shaped ladies in matching sequined dollar store masks and generic 'medieval maiden' dresses. My mask is a hawk, a simple half-mask, a quick paint job. G is not here, and I don't feel like dancing. ~ Christmas comes and goes in a flurry of turkey, plain cranberry sauce, and half-appreciated presents. Someone gives me a bag of weed. For christmas. Only here. My mother critiques my hair cut, my dress, but neglects to call me fat. A whole nine days, and she didn't once call me fat. A successful Christmas, I think. ~ Parties. A former princess drags me around with her. Pours beer into my cup. Introduces me to strange men. Eventually I forget to watch out for G. "We should go have a shower," a man tells me. He is drunk, very drunk, with a beard long enough to braid. But he doesn't push into my personal space, doesn't try negging, or pick-up artist moves, so he stays in the pretty hilarious zone. "Like..." He sways a little bit. "...you and me. Get out of here. Go have a shower." I laugh, and flirt circles around him. ~ The technician taking my blood chatters cheerfully about the upcoming holidays, about his home life, as he turns my arm this way and that. He can't find a vein. He tries warming my arm. Chastises me kindly about showing up dehydrated, and cold. I feel like all my blood has fled my body. "Never mind!" he says. "We'll give it a try anyway." He takes an alcohol swab and wipes the crook of my elbow. The inside of my arm is so pale and white, the arm so plump. Where are my veins? What if he doesn't find any? What will my blood tell them? I can feel my blood pressure drop, my face goes cold, my throat goes thick, my breath goes thin. "Don't look at it," the technician says sharply, recognizing the look. It's enough to cut through my mesmerized stare, and my eyes crack to the window into the parking lot. "A little pinch," he says. It is snowing. I can't see my car, my little Wallace, from here. "Put your fingers here, and press down." I look. I press with my fingers. "That was fast," I say. My voice trembles, and so does my smile. He smiles at me, deftly packaging up my vials of blood. "They only wanted two vials," he tells me. "Very quick." He sets a jar for my urine sample on the desk before he leaves. "Don't forget this sample before you go." I smile, nod, but my smile is brittle as obsidian. My arm pulses. Where did that blood come from? ~ Sunday morning, I pack my bags, load them into the back of my car. I go to the lobby one more time before I go. I'm not sure why, really. I hardly know anyone here. Standing, chatting with one or two people, and I happen to glance over my shoulder. He's there. Standing in a small group, the only one in garb. Oh, he looks just as I remember him. Lean, athletic, dressed in dark late period clothes. French, perhaps? He is standing in the shadow of the staircase, and the whites of his eyes and teeth glow in the half light. The expression on his face...surprise? Happiness. Sadness. Hesitation. He abandons the people he's with. "When did you get back?" he asks. "I didn't expect to see you." He slides an arm around me sideways, pulls me into a half-hug. Oh, his arm. He presses his cheek to mine, his stubble pricking my cheek. He says words, but they disappear into the web of my hair. His fingers are shaking as he pulls up his contact list. He draws my phone number out of me, like blood from an invisible vein. ~ Christmas. A cafe. Two friends, two acquaintances. I sip my matcha latte with almond milk. It's bitter and strange, and I like it. They talk around me, over me, through me. The windows are too far away. They carefully outline all the ways their life is terrible. I silently calculate how long it will be until I have enough for the down payment of a house. It's not that I don't care about their problems. But I care less when they're doing nothing to change them. I finish my matcha, and they're still complaining. I silently calculate how many days are left before I can return to the city, and the busy. ~ I've stopped quite by chance in a tiny hardware recycling store. My phone rings. I recognize the number instantly. "Come over for a cup of tea," he tells me. "I'm basically on your way home. Five minutes out of your way. You can see the house I bought." I humm and haw, playing the reluctant card, but I know I would never say no to that face. That stupid face. "Great," he says. "I'm just cleaning up. Some other friends are coming over. Don't want my dirty socks lying around." Well, a relief. Other people mean bad decisions are less likely to happen. ~ Sitting in my livingroom, sorting my UK tax paperwork. Calculating things out on a note pad. Mail comes in. Healthcare stuff. Union stuff. I fill out forms, stuff them back into envelopes. I don't dawdle, and find the stamps immediately. Put the completed envelopes in my purse. I wash all my socks, and put them away immediately. Almost unheard of. ~ I pull into his driveway at twilight. The steel blue sky leaches colour from the trees. The house is a single story mid-century number on a sleepy street. I knock. He presses his face to the window beside the door. He's soaking wet. I instantly imagine him naked in the shower. "Let yourself in," he calls. "I'll be there in a minute." I let myself in, take off my shoes. Sit on his oversized couch. Text my best friend, tell her where I am. "FUCK HIM!" she texts back. She's a bad influence. He comes out of the shower in a pair of linen pants, and a thin long-sleeved top. How I hunger to push my hands under that hem. But I don't. "Dime store tour?" he offers. He shows me the whole place. Small, two bedroom. He's there on his own, it's quite obvious. He shows me his closet of suits. I tease him about them. He goes through each suit, and what each one is good for, up to and including a three piece white linen suit appropriate for cruises. We sit on opposite ends of his love seat. He touches my leg, his thumb pressing into the muscle like he was testing for ripe fruit. "You were missed," he says quietly, and the phrasing isn't lost of me. "You too," I say, and I can feel my heart hiccup. His friends call. They're lost, but close. He gets up, bare feet slapping on the floor. "I can't see you," he says, standing at his front window. "Oh! There you are! See me waving? No, no, look to your OTHER right. There! You see me. Okay. Okay. Bye." He sits back on the love seat. His face is very close to mine. I can feel the approaching intrusion on our privacy, like a spear thrown from a distance. "If you're going to kiss me," I murmur, "it had better be--" ~ Michelle, at the bank, punches numbers into her computer. "Well, you need to get me those notice of assessments, but if everything checks out, you should start looking for places in the $330,000 range." I didn't expect so much. I won't have an extravagant place for that, not here, but it's enough. It's enough. ~ His fingers in my hair. His mouth is hungry. We crash together like burning logs, exploding sparks into the dim evening light. Oh, that face. Those hands. He bites my lip. I bite his. His short hair scrapes my palms. In another world he would push up my shirt, bite my nipples. We'd go stumbling down his hallway, dragging at each other's clothes. Pushing fingers into short, curly hair. His duvet would fall to the floor. The cold air in his bedroom would raise goosebumps on my inner thighs. He'd bend over me, like a bow over an arrow, and look me in the eyes as he entered me. It would be fast, hot, angry, beautiful. There would be a recess. Then again, and again. He'd make me a cup of tea. I'd call in sick to work, and stay the night. He would wrap both of his arms around me and bury his face in my hair as we slept. He'd make breakfast in the morning. Eggs, rice, and spam. We would fuck again, slower, while he was supposed to be working. Then, and only then I would go. But it's not another world. A knock at the door. He pulls away smoothly, abandoning me on the couch. There is no air left in the room. I can see half an erection tenting the front of his linen pants. Who wears linen pants in winter? He does. He doesn't give a shit. His friends are funny, interesting, kind. I stay only half an hour longer before I beg off. "It's dark," I say, honestly. "I still have a ways to go. I need to get over the border." His friends smile, maybe knowingly. He walks me to my car and kisses me against the bumper. I pull out of his driveway, onto roads recently wet. I can smell him still. I can feel him afresh, a fish hook in my heart. I drive into the night and don't look back. Miles to go. . Rosie.
Before&After
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