words can mean the same thing. So can man and friend. Kiss and talk. We use our mouths and tongues for both of them, don’t we?
Your phone rings and I’m sure it’s your wife. Sure you’ve been lying about everything. You answer and I turn away from you, an attempt at gifting you a private moment. I get up from the table, take our dishes to the sink, wash them by hand. The faucet water sounds like rain.
It’s your daughter. She needs a ride. She got in a fight with her mom. You say they do this all the time…this is what they do…I better go get her…they always end up scratching each other. You make a small claw with your hand, scratch at the air. You tell me you were never married. You tell me your daughter is very thirteen. You slip your phone back into your pocket when you say it, slip your hand in too. I tell you I understand…my daughters are very eleven. I say you can drive my car and when we get downtown, the sun is coming up. Your daughter has been crying and her long, wet eyelashes are black butterfly wings behind the slight lens magnification of her thickish red-framed glasses. She is beautiful and short and brown. Zaftig. You tell her I’m your friend, I let you drive my car. You drive it to your place and when we go inside you make a big pot of coffee. I drink it black out of an auto body shop mug. I never drink it black, but I don’t want to bother you by mentioning soy milk and stevia because you don’t seem like the kind of guy who has heard of either and I like that. You point at the mug and tell me you used to work there. I look closely at the design and see your name at the bottom written in white cursive. Above it, there is a drawing of a half-naked woman with huge pointy tits. She is resting on the crushed bumper of a broken car. It’s so stupid it makes me laugh and makes you laugh too. Your daughter comes out of the bathroom and says she’s going to bed but then she asks what’s so funny. We try to explain, but it’s not funny anymore. Our laughter swings down slowly, reverses itself back into our mouths. You hug her and kiss her head and I tell her goodbye, that I hope I see her again soon. Maybe. I tell her how much I like you and the confession feels like an accident. Like stubbing my toe.
I finally walk onto the porch to leave and you hold the mug out for me. Tell me to keep it. I hug it to my chest like it’s a baby animal. You ask if you can kiss me and I say why do men ask—either do it or don’t. And you say you are a gentleman, that you are only being polite and I say we’ve already kissed and like, done things, so I don’t know if it counts anymore. I whisper yes, gentleman, please kiss me. You do. You kiss me with the deliberateness of carefully pouring acid from one beaker to another—the slightest mistake and we could have a Situation. This chirping summer morning, ever so surely our catalyst.
When I get home I text, hey you left your socks. You write me back, wow I didn’t realize I took them off and ask if you can call me later. I write, yes, gentleman. I tell you I will take off all of my clothes and put on your striped socks and sleep in them to keep them warm. You send me a word you like: erstwhile. I send you summer afternoon.
Cellar door.
Dandelion light.
California, Keep Us
Marco had this idea that twelve times a year, we go away. We leave here. We don’t tell anyone what we’re doing or where we’re going—it’s no one else’s business. The first time? He’d mailed a typewritten letter to our house. It’d gotten here on the first day of his business trip. Marco is a very capable man, rational, a planner. He’d flown from Kentucky to LA. I hadn’t expected to see him until after the weekend and I was busy too. His letter was addressed to Miss K. Huff, traveling. He’d used my maiden name. Inside the envelope was a plane ticket and a letter:
BOUGAINVILLEA, BUNGALOW
UPCOMING FRIDAY BEFORE DINNER UNTIL SUNDAY AFTER BREAKFAST
x
M(arco)
PS: