Part Two

Part Two -

The car moves forward in the dark, swings in to the parking lot.  She looks ahead, left, right, finds an empty space.  Parks.  Puts the car in park and removes the key.  Opens the door and turns outward.  And Pauses.  Is this what she should do?  It is what she wants to, needs to, has to do.  But, is it what she should do?  And turns inward, closing the door.  She lifts her hand to her throat, feels the silky softness of the cashmere, takes a deep breath.  Leans her head back against the headrest, forces herself to relax her shoulders, closes her eyes, turns her head to the left, the right.  Exhales.  Inhales.  Moves her head again to the right, over the shoulder, pushing just a bit to try to stretch out the tension and pain.

Is this in my best interest?

These are almost hated words, said once many years ago by a therapist who eventually made her feel sicker, who made the weight of whatever it was/is wrong in her brain heavier than it had been before she tried to sort through the dark tangle.

But, is it?  Will getting out of this vehicle, walking through those doors, taking in the darkness and the noise and the seduction of the hunt for tonight's comfort be in her best interest? 

It gives her pause.  Her left hand reaches up and her fingers rub over her lips slowly.  Damn, the lipstick will have to be reapplied.  If she goes forward.  Her hand returns to her lap.  Sighing again, she lifts her bottom to give her more room in the coat, easier access to the pocket where her lipstick lies.  Palming the tube in her right hand, she reaches up, flips down the make-up mirror, pulls the cover off, twists the tube, glides the color lightly over the lips, checks the corners of her mouth for caking.  Flips the mirror back in place and opens the door again.  She steps out of the car and stands, turns to close the door.  Clicks the locks with the remote.  The keys go in her coat pocket, the lipstick back in the pocket of her slacks.  And she walks forward to tonight's destiny.

Early Monday Morning

He is a siren call.  A compass point that I quiver towards.  The dream of what we used to be calls me, has become polished and perfected over days and months and hours and weeks and years of dreaming.   The sound of his voice sends me aquiver as it did so many long agos.  The blue of his eyes; I don’t see them rheumy and clouded as they might be.  I see them clear and shining, glittering and reflecting my longing.  My longing then. 

It was a hunger that began at the core of me and ran through my bloodstream, dancing quickly, setting each nerve ending alight.  Onwards, upwards, overtaking my lungs, my heart, my throat, and detouring down towards my fingertips which would lift of their own accord towards him.  And then, back, up my neck around the base of my brain and spiraling outwards through the flesh of my earlobes that beckoned him, and dancing aloft my eyelashes, cast to the winds and calling to him.  Ah, how I did lean towards him.

A lone spruce on a lonelier promontory, buffeted by teenaged days and nights.  But always true.  Always yearning.  Until, I forced myself to yearn no more.

And now, long years later, still I point true north.  I yearn true north.  I seek the sunshine of those blue eyes, the rich liquor that was his mouth, the scratchy false comfort that were his teenaged arms.  He is a siren call and I dash to the rocks, dash to the shore, dash to the depths of danger and the shallows where I have perished once before and in my old age, I long to be dashed asunder again.

Part One -

Outside, the rain is driving against the roof, the side of the building, the pavement.  It has a noise, like a train flying through the yard.  A noise, like a throbbing drum beat.  It is pushing, pushing, pushing against me.

I am only just, only just there inside my skin.  My atoms are straining, shoving, pushing against the framework of me and they want so badly to be free.  I can feel them shoving, kicking, biting, straining.

I drink from the glass of water.  I roll the mascara wand inside the tube.  I force myself to be slow, slow, with the wand, turning up my eye as the black liquid glides on the underlash; swoosh, swoosh, the mascara inside the tube again.  Look down, caress the wand over my lower lashes.  And now to repeat, slowly, the other eye.  With the outer edge of my right pinkie finger I smudge the liner, the shadow, blending it into the mascara line.  I reach for a damp washcloth and gently clean my finger.  I am forcing myself to slow down.

Five tubes of lipstick, and which to choose?  They all go with basic black.  I swipe a bit of Vaseline over my lips and choose the darkest ruby color.

A last glance in the mirror as I stand from the dainty poof of a vanity chair.  No feminine perfume.  I reach for a men’s cologne, Bvlgari, and I spray just a bit behind the knees, about the wrists.  From the moisture on my left my right middle finger dabs and carries the mist to the pulse at my throat and then down between my breasts.

The heavy black felt coat covers the leather corset and black silk slacks; I wrap a ruby red cashmere scarf twice, three times around my throat and tuck the ends inside the coat.  As I button the coat, I slip the lipstick, a credit card and a drivers license in the inner pocket.  Keys ready, I turn out the lights and lock the door behind me.