a wine-colored turtleneck
In her mother’s large house, I sat on the floor, leaning on the ottoman. The front room, or den, whatever it was, had speakers for the sound system built into the walls, which were painted green, though a different shade than the upholstery on the couch and chairs. Our parents conversed at a table in a different rooms; my brothers and her brother and sister were elsewhere, watching TV or carrying on. We discussed music, and movie stars and celebrities, and friends and it was easy. Somehow, and I’m not sure, the conversation took a turn for the serious. We were young, and just hearing ourselves say these words, as if we were kids watching adults when the words fell from our lips made the experience positively electric. I knew she wanted to tell me she liked me, an admission that up until that point hadn’t even been on my radar, somehow not having seen her for who she was—a breathtaking beauty who looked 5 years older than her age, a lack of apprehension which most likely played in my favor since it allowed me to converse with her more easily… But I made her say it. I did. I looked at her intently with some kind of ridiculous notion that she would “draw strength from my eyes,” when actually I was probably having precisely the opposite effect. By and by she made her confession, and I returned it, shocked that she liked me but determined not to leave her hanging.
Every subsequent relationship of mine that began without intentionality on my part utterly crumbled as my emotions, not having been present from the beginning, easily wandered away. But not this one—it grew stronger as the realization of what I’d been given dawned on me day by day. And the eventual breakup six months later was exceedingly acrimonious.
(spring ’96)