I was on my way to get to get him, and I had traveled a great distance. The house was 6 stories and full of people. Creative types hanging from chandeliers, piled on the stairs, dangling from open windows….. offering me this escape and that escape, a sip of something blue, a snort of something pink. I’m not afraid, but I’m focused and can’t be bothered with the natives and their request that I ingest their offerings. Where is he? He said he’d be here…..
I haven’t seen him in 6 years. I’ve changed I think. I’m rounder and wiser…..—….zaftig. Real wisdom comes with a heavy dose of hips and belly…but I’m not worried about my curves or my hair which I forgot to wash, or my lips which are bare…I forgot my lipgloss too. The last time he saw me I was wearing short shorts because I could, yet I was hiding so much while showing all that skin. The stairs are thick with stinky musicians, guitars used as foot rests and pillows. I want to pass, but there is only the landing where I feel solid. I stand and wait for him to saunter down…I decide I’ll call. I can’t get up there. The thickness of his people puts me off, I don’t want to waste my energy climbing over bodies, elbowing sensitive poets and stepping on the hands of great sculptors, painters, and pianists. I don’t know his number. I can’t read the numbers on the napkin he gave me all those years ago at The Rhythm Room…there are too many numbers, most of them have rubbed off. My brother is here too, he has the number, but is teasing me. He is the best friend of my lover, and he’s tickled that I’m working so hard to get nowhere. He won’t give me the number unless I answer his riddle. The riddle that has no real answer. His riddle isn’t even made of words….it’s an intricate puzzle made of heavy emotions. My brother is no match for me…. I answer it, I construct complex emotional designs served up to him with anxiety and desperation. He gives me the numbers and they don’t work. My phone doesn’t work. I won’t climb those stairs to knock on his door. I just won’t. I step outside the house and sit down to catch my breath, I’m still messing with my phone….a man with sepia eyes and hair sits down next to me and asks me if I’m ok. I study him for a moment…Is it him? It’s been a while….but this man is younger… his edges are softer….innocent and open. He’s sitting so close to me I can feel his breath on my face, see the thick constellation of sepia freckles that decorate his cheeks. It’s not him….I shake my head in disgust…why is he bothering me? Why is he sitting so close? Can’t he see I’m busy trying to connect with the impossibility of the man up the stairs? I roll my eyes and continue to struggle with my phone.