Unloved at First Sight

I remember the precise moment I stopped loving him.
We had gone out to dinner.
I was just getting back from the lady's room.
He looked up at me and smiled.
His eyes, I noticed, were dead and lifeless.
Not even a dull glimmer of light remained. 
I blinked
thinking eyes would appear in the two gaping holes in his face.
They only grew deeper.
He looked at me quizzically.
Perhaps something in my expression had given me away.
I sat down beside him
avoiding looking at what had once been a pair of chlorine blue eyes.
It was as if something had changed in the time it took me to use the restroom. 
When I left everything was normal.
But when I came back he was no longer the man I loved. 
I denied it for a while,
dismissing it as a feeling that would pass just like indigestion. 
But it never did.
It only worsened.
An unexplainable bitterness began to build up inside me.
Today I looked through some old photos of us
and realized that I'd imagined those chlorine blue eyes of his
because he'd never had eyes of his own to begin with.
Funny howI was the one with the eyes and I was blind the whole time.
Maybe I should pluck my eyes out.

Muse

October 3, 2012 10:49pm

                                                                              

It’s a sensual process.

Watching him paint.

But today I’m his subject, and there’s no talking. He likes it completely silent when he works. He talks about his paints like they’re a person, his brushes – a fine wine, and his canvas – a beautiful lady. He’s the kind of person that has a mind so complex that after a five minute conversation with him you’d just assume he’s dumb, or extremely high.

He says he can taste color. Sometimes I think I’m dating an eight year old. Then my eyes roll over his body, and I remember why I put up with it. When my eyes get to his waist he makes a hand gesture, signaling me to look at him. He wanted this painting to be profile. He’s very persistent about keeping eye contact. He says that the muse is as much the artist as the painter. They’re both part of the process. I open my mouth to say something, but he puts a finger to his lips and shakes his head. I scowl at him from behind wisps of my unruly curls. He smiles. He loves when I pout.

I’m wearing nothing but an oversized, tacky Bill Cosby sweater and a pair of his grey boxer-briefs. I’m sticky. I can feel the sweat dripping down my back. He’s been at it for an hour now. I’m uncomfortable, cranky, and tired. He says It’s sexy. He says I look better when I’m all grungy.

The cat curls up in my lap. He looks up from his canvas and frowns. He walks over to where I am on the couch and shoos the cat away. He walks back over to his canvas. It’s so large, he can nearly hide behind it. That’s saying quite a bit considering his large frame that stands as a whopping six feet and two inches.

Sometimes I think he enjoys painting more than he enjoys physical intimacy with me. When I see the way he looks at them – the paint, the brushes, the canvas – the way he speaks to them – the way he touches them. I envy them. What I wouldn’t give for him to caress me so gently. To whisper so sweetly. To love me so tenderly. My heart aches.

His fingers are on the canvas. He’s smearing the paint. He pushes his hair back from his brow and gets some blue across his forehead. There’s yellow on the bridge of his nose, and green on his left cheek. If I could taste color, I’m sure he’d taste divine.

He finally drops his brush against the easel, steps away, and smiles – admiring his work.  I stand and he waves me over. I look at it. It’s beautiful. Gorgeous even. But it’s not me. The girl in the picture is radiant. She’s flawless. She’s happy. She’s what he wished he saw when he looked at me.

We’re all just somebody’s muse I guess.

I wish I were the one behind the canvas, instead of the one on it. 

Laundry Mat

                 He looked out of place in a coin laundry mat. I can always tell when it's a person's first time. Call it a sixth sense. He set his basket down on top of a folding table and rubbed his chin, eyes searching...I know that look. Every newby gets that look. We meet eyes and his face brightens. Then he's striding towards me, eyes darting here and there. I'm shoving wet clothes into a dryer when he approaches me. I brush back my bangs and look up at my visitor.

                "Hey, I'm sorry to bother you, it's just - well I'm new to this whole thing."

                "I guessed as much. You don't really look like the typical coin laundryer."

                He laughs at this, pushing his hair back out of his face. "I forgot my soap."

                I grab my bottle and hand it to him. "Use mine."

                He accepts it with his left hand and reaches out his right. I think he wants to shake my hand. I place my right hand in his and he pumps our clasped hands up and down for a moment before retracting. His head tilts to the side. "You're a lefty aren't you?" I can feel my eyebrows knitting together in confusion.

                "How'd you know?"

                He shrugs, "I took a class on body language. I kinda guessed when I was watching you load your laundry, and confirmed it with that handshake."

                "Hmm, very observant of you."

                "I used to be a lefty. Trained myself to be a righty though. Just more convenient."

                "Lefties have more fun."

                "Is that so?"

                "It is."

                "I'll have to test that theory some time. Thanks for the soap," and then he sauntered back over to attend to his laundry.

                I felt anxious. I'd say half an hour had passed. He was reading the paper. I didn't think anyone read the paper anymore. Other than stock brokers...and he was far too attractive to be a stock broker. Maybe he was the intellectual type. He looks up to turn pages and I forget to avert my eyes. He smiles and waves. I give a half grin. He goes back to reading. I go back to reading him. So far I had gathered the following: he was tall - probably 6, 1", perfectly groomed teeth, coffee drinker (I could smell it on his breath), and a hunch told me he had a tattoo. I racked my brain, trying to think of a reason to go up and talk to him without seeming creepy. Nothing comes to mind. Just then I hear the crinkling of paper. I look up to see him folding up the newspaper and placing it in the seat beside him, leaning back in his chair, hands behind his head.

                I grab a pack of gum from my purse and shove a stick in my mouth. I think chewing will take away my anxiousness, but I quickly realize it doesn't. He stands, stretches, and rubs his hair. Then he walks over to the vending machine; leaning his tall frame against it. I watch intently. B7. Twizlers. Pulling open the wrapper, he rips one off and takes a bite. I reach for another stick of gum. When I look back at him, he's looking straight at me. I sit still. Unsure what to do. he grins again. Why does he keep doing that!? He stands up again, finishing his Twizler and grabbing another, and my bottle of laundry soap.

                "I believe this belongs to you," he says once he's made his way across the laundry mat, to the corner I've tried to tuck myself away in.

                I stand and take it, placing it beside my empty laundry baskets.  "Thanks."

                He nods and takes another bite of his Twizler. "Do you like Twizlers?" he asks, pointing it towards me.

                "Yeah, it's my favorite candy actually."

                "Is it now?" he says, eyebrows raised.

                "Yep."

                "In that case..." he places his hand, palm-side up, in front of my mouth.

                "You want me to spit my gum out?"

                He just nods. My mouth involuntarily forfeits my minty gum. He then places the Twizler to my mouth. I take a bite. There's that grin again. He pops my gum in his mouth, hands me the rest of the Twizler, turns, and walks back towards his chair. I sit back down and finish the candy, hardly tasting it. We're having a staring contest. I can't tell who's winning. Maybe there's no loser in this game. He's chewing my gum, his jaw moving rhythmically. His right arm lying limply over the seat beside him, his right ankle resting on his left knee, his left hand is tracing the patch of five O' clock shadow on his chin. My eyes wander slightly upwards to his lips. They look soft and chewy, like two marshmallows I wanna slurp into my mouth and devour. His eyes are oddly dull for the brightness that seems to radiate from his entire being. On his head lies a mane of thick brown hair. It looks nicely groomed, styled suitably, slicked back with a few loose strands that dangle down in front of his face. He's dressed in a way that says "I care about the way I look, but I don't care enough to spend more than fifteen minutes getting ready in the morning". Today that entails a pair of jeans, and a snugly fitting white T. The fabric strains over his chest...I'm tempted to grab another piece of gum.

                He puts his wet clothes in the dryers. I pull my dry clothes out of the dryers and begin to fold them. He's watching me. I'm not looking at him; but I can feel it. He wants me to look up. He wants me to look at him. I can't muster up the courage, so I just keep my eyes down, admiring my now clean clothes. I hear footsteps approaching. He's standing beside me. I recognize the worn converse. I finally manage to look up at him. He's not chewing anymore. Must've spit out the gum. He's standing very close. I can smell him. He smells like cinnamon and cherry Twizlers. He bends down so we're nearly eye to eye. I smell the sweet on his breath when he finally speaks:

                "We were dying since the day we were born. How long does it take to die?"

                "A million years, and be there much sorrow for we only have but a short span to live."

                "So live, and live well. For sleep soon becomes eternal. Lasting."

                I'm amazed. "How did you- "

                He grabs the book half hanging out of my purse. "I glimpsed it when I first came over. I love Lockwood. He's my favorite poet."

                "I couldn't agree more. He's a rare gem. A true poet among imposters."

                So I was right. He's an intellectual. He leans in a bit closer and whispers, "That thine kiss were like that of an ember, dangerous and smoldering."

                "My lips do kiss to douse the flame that awakens a burning that cannot be numbed."

                His hand traces up my neck, to the nape, entangling his fingers in the waves of my hair. His fingers form a fist around the hair, and he uses it as leverage to pull my face closer to his. Our lips make a few brief encounters, brushing against each other as he speaks.

                "And oh, my maiden, rosy cheeked and fair, arousest thy not what thou' art not trained for."

                He spoke the last few words into my mouth as he kissed me. My lips parted eagerly to taste his. His mouth tasted fruity and minty. His lips were soft, and his kiss was firm. His hands groped my back. We were in a slight backbend over one of the folding tables. When we finally broke away, we stumbled a few feet apart, trying to balance our footing and steady our breathing. His hair was a bit disheveled. He pushed it back nonchalantly as I smoothed the non-existent wrinkles in blouse. Looking around, I noticed we'd acquired an audience. I counted four women, a few scattered children, and an older looking fellow who looked a whole lot like Bill Cosby.

                We smiled at each other, trying to contain our laughter. "Can I tell you something?" I asked.

                "Go ahead," he replied warily.

                "I lied. I hate liquorish."

                He smiled again. "Do you think if I took you to dinner later I could get your name, maybe even your number if I'm well behaved?"

                "There's Starburst over there in that vending machine. Those are my real favorite. I'm in a good mood - if you bring me some, I just might tell you my name. No promises though. I'll be sitting over there," I said pointing at my chair a few feet away. I walk to my chair and sit down, watching him lumber over to the vending machine with that grin on his face.

Bus Ride With A Stranger

September 25, 2012 8:18pm

What is he staring at?

Surely he’s not looking at me like that?

Is there something on my face?

I grab my purse and pluck my compact from the inner pocket. No, nothing on my face.  His eyes shift to his phone. He’s checking a text. He smiles. It’s a pleasant thing, that smile of his. I find myself smiling too. I look back at him – he’s looking right at me – his grin stretching even wider. Then he points.

“Do you mind if I sit?”

The whole bus is empty, yet he wants to sit in the seat beside me. Who is this guy? He doesn’t wait for my answer. He’s already accepted his own offer.

“I’m Abel,” he says, tipping his hat.

“Harley.”

“That’s different. I’ve met a boy with that name. Never a girl. I like it. It suits you.”

“Thanks, I think.”

He chuckles, “I just meant it’s not the norm.”

“The norm is drab.”

“So I’ve been told.”

Enough with that smile already. It’s distracting. It’s…wait – I forgot what I was saying…oh, right – that smile. My goodness, his teeth are as white as porcelain. Oh, I think he asked me a question…

“What was that?” I ask.

“Fade out there for a second?” he jokes.

“I was just thinking.”

“About?”

“You’re awfully nosey for a stranger.”

“I prefer the term ‘curious’.”

Now it’s my turn to laugh…but it stops short. “Why do you keep looking at me like that for?”

“What do you mean?”

“You have this intense stare. It’s creepy.”

“You’re awfully blunt for a stranger. I’m creepy am I? Maybe I just have intense eyes.”

“Either way. It’s still creepy.”

He goes quiet. Pondering something. Now I’m staring. I look out the window. The bus jerks to a stop and my body thrusts forward. I try to catch myself, but somehow I end up in his lap instead. I don’t even have to look at him to know he’s smiling. He helps me straighten up.

“I may be creepy and nosey, but you’re clumsy.”

An older couple, a black man in a construction uniform, and a girl in her mid-teens pay their bus fair and find a place to sit.

“Harley?” Abel’s lips are so close he’s nearly kissing my ear.

“What?” I say, trying to sound annoyed.

“Try something with me.”

“With a stranger? I know better than that.”

“Just listen, I have a proposition.”

“Oh?”

“There’s something in it for you too.”

“Do tell.”

“It’ll be fun.”

“That’s subjective.”

“Just follow my lead.”

He stands and holds out his hand. When he sees my hesitation he smiles. He turns around to look at the others on the bus.

“Can any of you strangers sing a tune?”

The black man smiles. “Whadaya wanna hear?”

Is this really happening?

“You know any Frank Sinatra?” Abel asks.

I open my mouth to object, but the black man is faster. He belts it out.

“Fly me to the moon. You’ve got good taste sir.”

Then Abel turns to me, removing his hat and placing it on the seat beside me.

“Harley, may I have this dance?”

“Are you mad? We can’t dance on the bus.”

The black man pauses.

“No, I’m not mad. I’m nosey and creepy.” He looks at the bus driver in the rearview mirror. “Tony, you mind?”

“C’mon lady. It’s just a dance.”

The black man chimes in: “He seems like a nice guy. Just dance with him will ya?”

I sit there for a moment – mouth hanging open. He’s waiting. They all are. They all want me to dance with him.

“You can’t be serious?” it was more of a plea, than a statement.

“Oh, but I am. Please. You won’t regret it. I’m light on my feet.”

“You better be, because I have two left feet.”

 I put my hand in his. He yanks me to my feet and into his arms. He smells like cinnamon. I hear the black man start up where he left off. Abel’s body is firm against mine. We’re both staring. I see that smile flicker across his face. He’s whipping me around like I weigh no more than a feather. I stumble often, but he catches me every time. I’m enjoying it more than I’d care to admit.

The first song ends and another one starts up in its place. It’s one of my favorites – Lay your head on my shoulder. I melt against Abel’s chest. He radiates enough heat that I forget how miserably cold I was prior. His idle hands become attentive; one slips down to the small of my back, and the other in between my shoulder blades. He leans closer.

“Was that cherry chap stick I saw you putting on earlier?” he asks with a subtle grin.

“Strawberry.”

“Can I try it? …That was creepy wasn’t it?”

“Extremely. But I have a thing for creepy guys.”

“Really? Since when?”

“Since now.”

We stop dancing. The black man stops singing. The bus driver is watching the scene from the rearview mirror.

“C’mon Romeo.” I laugh.

His eyebrows knit together. Maybe he’s lost his nerve.

“What’s there to think about? Kiss her already!” The old woman shouts from the back of the bus.

Abel and I smile simultaneously. His face nears mine…suddenly the bus turns a sharp corner and he’s thrown into a nearby seat and I’m thrown onto him. My face is caught by his chest. We both sit up, trying to regroup. His hands find my face and he tilts it upwards until our eyes meet. I can feel everyone watching, waiting to see what happens.

                “While I’m still being creepy – I’d very much like to taste that chap stick of yours.”

                My lips find their way to his cheek. I drag them lightly over to the corner of his mouth. He turns his head – our noses touch. I feel his breath on my lips. Our lips collide with a jerk of the bus – we welcome the initiation. His mouth lingers on my bottom lip, sucking it into his mouth. His teeth faintly prick – nibbling. A smile breaks out – it’s mine. I guess it’s contagious because it’s on him too.

                I pull away suddenly. “What stop do you get off at?”

                “I was supposed to get off seven stops ago.” He smiles.

“Well since you’re here…” I pull his face to mine again; using the front of his shirt as leverage.

…Let’s just say there’s nothing quite like kissing a stranger.