0 comments/ 9166 views/ 0 favorites Love's Anatomy : Eyes Pt. 01 By: Jai_Saraswati ONE — Open your eyes, Allie. His voice was so far away. I felt I was underwater and he was somewhere on the surface, reaching down to me. I needed all of my strength to swim back to him, back toward the light, out of the warm current that was pulling me down and in, deeper, down and into myself. I needed more than strength; I didn't want to surface. His voice was far away. But he was right there, his wanting muscle straining so hard I could feel the tension and desire drawn in it. I felt the ridge of the head was slick, the ridge of the head had just spread my lips and stopped, where his hips met mine — that's when I closed my eyes. I couldn't keep them open if I tried. He asked me to try, I couldn't, I wasn't strong enough. I couldn't or I didn't want to, the current took me deeper it swallowed me and I surrendered, beautiful wave, embracing tide, I embraced the tide, down down down down. — Allie, can you open your eyes? Right here... That's when a golden cord inside of me began to unwind, when he used my name again, a golden cord that began at the base of my body, unwound from where he was entering me, where I was accepting him in, unwound like a powerful, sunlit snake. Reaching itself around my stomach and my heart, it's tail still there at the entrance to me, it stretched itself up behind my eyes, dangerous and lovely, came up to my thoughts and took them in its mouth and pulled me down. Pulled me down, oh god, I opened my mouth and gulped in shaking air before the plunge, and the cord rolled down and showed me the way, until the only thing in existence was the band of muscle there at the end of it's tail. The ridge of flesh, life inside of it, drew back so slightly, until the firm smooth edges touched me all the way around, one ring circling another, my ring tightening around his ring, my diving into the beautiful darkness, being drawn into the warm darkness... and his voice came to me there, I can't believe he found me, so far under water, I couldn't believe he brought my name to me so far under. — Allie! he whispered. — It's all right. His breath was on my lips; I felt his breath first, then felt my lips. I could hear a smile in his voice, what a gentle voice, but strong, this man was much stronger than I thought. I thought the men who could bind me with their arms were strong, no, that was nothing, this man was stronger than I thought. The circle of my body pulsed once against his strength, then opened, what was held I released, as though opening my hand, and I felt his beautiful muscle inside of me still, while I climbed that cord back up to my heart, then to my head. I felt the heat of his body along the length of mine. I felt his eyes on me... I could feel his eyes on me, calling to me, and I opened my eyes, they were full of tears, I opened my eyes and looked right into his, as if surfacing I had broken the waves and was staring right up into the face of the sun, the smile he wore widening into a grin, I don't think he could help it either, and he said my name again smiling like that, and then said nothing, smiling, and moved his hips so slightly, so that cord tightened and yanked at my eyes again, and I had to open them wide, wide as I could not to lose the sun, and breathed deep, all the way from the head of the snake to its base and back again to its head, stretched up high behind my eyes, and then I could see clearly again, just then I could see clearly, how hard he was working to keep his eyes open for me as well, look at his struggle, his smile, he was trying hard to keep his eyes open for me for me for me for me I let out a small cry or a laugh who could tell which and held my eyes open on the embers of his to be burned blind or be burned beautiful and his smile somehow got wider than it already was until neither of us could help anything but share our eyes our eyes and then without a word we said yes and as slowly as time we moved our hips toward each other and my god into each other one cell of our flesh before another as electric currents ran in circles from me to him to me to him to me faster and faster and faster and faster. + I met this man — I think. Can you call it a meeting? He sat at the other end of the café, absorbed in what he was reading, or writing I suppose, when I walked in. The place was half filled with a lunchtime crowd, a few regulars like me, and a few that apparently were in no hurry to be anywhere, who had come in from the rain and decided to let the world outside dry off. There is usually space at the bar, always room for one more it seems; and a table you can share with others, which can be delightful or odious, depending upon who your draw for a lunch partner; and often one or two seats around the room. Your eye takes it all in as you choose where to sit, takes in the room and its people, while your heart begins to imagine what is underneath the surfaces. Standing there in the door, I sometimes imagine I am looking at a landscape, and I try to find the softest patch of grass for a seat, or a quiet circle of shade on a hot day - not by that crowd, their brightness is pouring over on all sides - maybe a window seat in the corner? Sometimes color, sometimes warmth, sometimes a smile. What part of a landscape is a smile? At other times I am with friends, one of whom may be more intent on deciding with his or her inner reason which table and which chair and which bit of earth is best; then I just follow and find whatever corner of their garden is most inviting. That day from the doorway it was familiar territory, and a familiar time of day, and since I had spent the entire morning on the telephone my attention was leaning more toward a Dark Roast and a deep breath than anything else. The landscape was in fog. I looked around absently for an empty seat - lunchtime crowd, regulars, me - around the room once. Vague and in fog. I stifled a yawn. But then I woke up a bit, as though someone had called my name, or had given me a nudge: back in the corner I thought caught sight of a small island, population one castaway, or a pool of stillness, population one heron. After the constant rattle and disconnection of the phones, the quiet felt good. — Table for...? I hadn't noticed the waiter approaching, and he brought me back to myself with a welcoming smile. — Just yourself? I nodded. — Well... you've been here before, haven't you? You can sit where you like. I'll come by and take your order. — Thanks. There's... nothing available in the corner, is there? Maybe that couple will finish soon? I glanced back toward the pool. Still quiet. We could both see the couple was deep in conversation, absorbed as much in each other as in their words, they looked like recent love, still discovering even a lunch break. I felt a gentle gnawing inside - was that hunger? - imagining how they may have spent the morning, spent the whole morning away from work, both mysteriously suffering the same ailment the night before, and calling in before breakfast to say No, no they could not come in today, and Yes, they knew they would have to forfeit a day off, no help for it... oh, I'll feel better very soon I'm sure - the telephone hiding a smile - yes, I'll feel better, I'm sure, thank you, thank you, and I will surely be in to work tomorrow, no matter how I am feeling. — Well, sit where you like. The waiter, who couldn't tell how long my hesitation might go on, gave me a nod and moved off to take his orders and deliver his food. I took a breath and decided on a small table by the door: a little drafty, and as far as landscaping was concerned pretty poor soil, but I could see to the far wall of the café, and feel some of that quiet water from where I sat. Taking my coat off, I folded it over the back of the facing chair and hung my purse over the arm of my own. Then I moved to sit down, and as I settled myself I crossed my legs. Then I looked up, just as the man in the corner looked up briefly from his book as well, and saw me. Or I might say he took note of me. His eyes were quiet as well water, and I saw them move quickly and quietly over my legs as they rose to my head, my long hair perhaps, then rest briefly on my face. The contact you make with strangers says, Here I am, there you are. It seemed there was a little spark in that water, a reflection of sunlight, and that the corners of his mouth moved, but scarcely moved, into a smile. Was that hello? I felt myself open up, and smiled to him. His eyes saw my smile, in some way I could tell he saw it. He took note of it. Then he turned back to his work, and I collected myself back to my drafty table. making a point of considering the possibilities of a menu that I already knew by heart. In a minute the waiter was back with a glass of water and silver. — Yes, I'll have the house salad please... no, wait: what is the soup today? That's better for a day of rain, isn't it... a bowl of the black bean soup and bread. And would you bring a little cilantro on the side? And a cup of chai, now there's a combination. Thanks. At the table in front of me was an older man, who by all accounts had eroded in stormy weather; or maybe weather had nothing to do with it, maybe he had been washed out by life's storms. He was slumped over the news and taking huge bites of a large, greasy sandwich. A mug of coffee steamed by his left hand, and before he finished chewing a bite he would take a gulp from it and then, without waiting to swallow, his jaws would go to work again. There were several days of stubble along his cheek, but it hadn't grown out into a beard. He hadn't removed his raincoat, a London Fog look-alike, and had stuffed a napkin into the neck of a bright blue shirt. I felt that his sandwich was as important to him as the news, and both the headlines and the food were simply there as a distraction from something dismal that was waiting for him when he left the restaurant, or that had followed him there. He looked up as me with a gray glance as he chewed, his mouth slightly open. I quickly looked away. Behind him two women were chatting about something I couldn't quite make out. Friends or colleagues, they were comfortable in their conversation, no sign of the intimacy family or love creates. By the way they were laughing I knew the subject was men; men can make you talk in heated whispers and laugh out loud, often in the same sentence, even in the same word. The younger woman bent in eagerly as her lunch companion spoke, and her eyes sparkled as though disbelieving, but wanting to believe. I smiled to think of the story that was being told. And there, over against the wall, the couple was bending nearer to each other than before, as though whispering a similar secret... but no, they were sharing the sweetest kiss! I couldn't see my face, but I remember how I felt. With the couple's kiss in my eyes I glanced left and saw the man in the corner looking my way, and this time I could tell he was smiling: his eyes were happy as well, the sunlight had risen all the way to the surface. He looked at me and nodded his ear to the left, indicating his neighbors, then arched his eyebrows, lucky them, eh? I let my body laugh silently, it felt good to let it go, a laugh that could be seen but no one else could hear. I wasn't laughing because something was funny. He held my eyes a moment longer, then looked down again, still smiling, shaking his head. The food came and I ate it. The soup was quite good, and the chai, too, as long as I didn't eat one and drink the other right afterwards. The women laughed loudly once or twice more, their humor clapped around the room like two pigeons and escaped out the window. The older man used his arms to stiffly turn his body, in an effort to catch up with the joke, or to see who was enjoying themselves, and knocked the mug of coffee into his lap. He swore, then soaked his napkin trying to clean up. He leaned over and took the extra napkin from my table, still swearing, making no notice that I was there in front of him. In the corner I could tell the man had glanced up again, toward the coffee-drenched raincoat, and then I felt him look toward me - I suppose I saw him in the corner of my eye - and my breath caught. I looked down to my soup bowl for another bite, a bite which wasn't there. I set down my spoon and ran my left hand through my hair, twisting it back and over my shoulder, baring my neck in the process, and thought of something I wanted in my purse. I reached and began to rummage around for whatever it was I wanted. I couldn't find it. Then someone passed behind me, a warm breath followed by a cool breeze. I closed my purse and straightened myself. Outlined against the far wall I saw the lovers were sharing one more kiss as they rose to leave. As they met, the door scraped closed on the other side of me, and the bell rang as someone had gone out. The corner table was empty except for a few bills. Was that a meeting? I spent the rest of the day trying to decide. Love's Anatomy : Eyes Pt. 02 TWO That's what a best friend is for: figuring things out when you aren't up to the task. Sometimes it takes more than your best friend, and you have to tell your story to the next circle of acquaintances as well, even though their opinions haven't hit the mark so often in the past, and their way of seeing things doesn't usually line up with yours. In a normal set of circumstances, would I ever have brought this up with Tracy? It's not as though there was anything obvious to tell - and she was never top of the class in handling subtleties, was she? That's catty, but that's true: and if you can't allow yourself to even think what's true, you are most certainly lost. Think it; just don't say it. And Tracy was the one who was home, when I arrived full of my story. — Hey, Trace. How was your day? I once heard it said, that the question a person asks is often the question they would like to answer. Guess so. But there are things one shouldn't ask Tracy. — My day? My day was shit, that's how my day was. You know, it started shit 'cause I really stayed at that party way too long last night, waiting for Jerry to make any sort of move at all - which of course he didn't as you could tell at breakfast. Too many beers, waiting for Jerry. And I don't even like beer. Okay, so I get to work? Late. The bus was late because of the rain, but you know my manager, and he says so if it's raining you get the earlier bus, and it's resolved, like I control the buses. He loves to say resolved. Resolve it, get it resolved, is it resolved, Tracy? What a pain in my ass. The whole fucking morning he's riding me. — So to speak. — What? Oh, hah hah, yeah, but if he were even cute! I bet if he rode me everything would be resolved hah hah. That's a good one Al. But I better not think that next time he's chewing me out. So to speak. Hah hah. I tell her that I'm sorry to be hearing that story again, I mean sorry that her boss is at her again, that I'm glad I don't have a boss… — Except that as your own boss, you start talking like that, talking down to yourself. Then you can't even go home at night. — I suppose. I wouldn't know. Anyway, you know what happens then, I go for lunch down the street, instead of staying at our godawful caf, and walk right into who? Jerry, that's who. Hey, Jerry, I say, giving him this great show even though he was so lame last night. You know, really putting the flirt on. And here I am with my hip out this far, and this total come-on look on my face, when this… girl, steps out from behind him, like she was hiding back there or something, and latches onto his arm. He says How are you Tracy, says it in this formal voice, like he's a banker or something, and then I see it's this girl from the party, oh my god. He's looking at me like he actually likes me, but the girl is just sending these hate things at me, and maybe she had her fingernails in his arm, because his expression changed like that, all of a sudden he stops liking me, and a satisfied look creeps onto her, ugh, her whole body is just reeking of satisfied, she had him for the night and managed to keep him in the morning, too, Oh boy. Like I care, right? So I wipe my face off and put my hips back where they should have been, and I can feel those beers, you know, start to move up and down inside of me. I really had too much beer waiting for that loser. Then I said something stupid and took off. Oh god, I was so embarrassed. — That sure is embarrassing... — Tell me about it. Shit, what a shit of a day. At least I made it through the afternoon without being resolved. I rummaged around in the refrigerator and poured a tall glass of orange juice. I offered some to Trace, but she just shrugged. I took the paper and sat down at the table and read headlines. We were quiet for a few minutes. — So I hope your day was better than mine. I thought, do I really want to get into this? The more I thought about it, the funnier it all sounded, and the less I knew what to say. Tracy turned my way and saw my body shaking. I tried to contain it, without much success. — What are you laughing about? I just laughed harder, holding my head in my hand. I gave up. — Ah, Trace, I'm just so stupid sometimes. Her mouth widened and she showed teeth, but her brow was already furrowing into a puzzle. — So… is… what kind of a day are we talking about here? — I don't know. Nothing happened really. My inner boss didn't bitch me out today. I just had a funny… nothing happen at lunch today. Tracy didn't say anything. I wasn't being fair to her, really. — Ok, so I stopped at my favorite restaurant for lunch, and… God, Trace, I don't know. I feel like I met this guy, but I didn't. — That's… cool? — I mean. Ok, I'm not exactly making sense, but that's because nothing happened. Like I said: I just looked at this guy and he looked at me… but I felt like we met. Except we didn't say anything to each other? The wrinkles in Tracy's face smoothed over then, her puzzled look disappeared, and she laughed like she does so often when she's with friends. She has a laugh like a child's, so light and open, as if she weren't responsible for anything, and never would be. As if someone had just told an easy joke, or given her a chain of daisies. When she laughs, it's almost as though someone has given you a chain of daisies. That's what she's like, too. — Oh, that is cool. I love when that happens. Especially when the look says Hey, baby. Hey…baby… She said it in a false, low voice that took itself terribly seriously, a cross between Elvis and Lou Rawls, and we both had to laugh it was so awful, so impossible, while at the same time so much what we wanted to hear. — Well, his look didn't say Hey Baby. I don't think so, anyway. I don't know what his look was saying. I liked it, though. But as I said, it was nothing. He left and we didn't say one word to each other. Tracy arched her eyes and took out her southern accent. She usually keeps it packed away, living way up here, but it is so sweet and so teasing at the same time. It pulls you in to hug you, then gives you a little pinch. Musical, it makes me feel I'd be at home in a place I've never visited. She tilted her head and leaned in my direction. — But it's buggin' yew…! You've never even seen him before? — Never. Just today. See, he's nothing. No number, no name, nothing. Nothing but a glance. So that's the kind of day it was. — A purty nice one, seems like. Tracy and her southern accent. + One end of my street runs into the river, so on days when the weather is fine I can sit on my small balcony and lean on the wrought-iron rail, watching a parade of children and parents make their way to the park. Sometimes there are couples who have given themselves an hour or two to wander out of doors, and their fingers twine together or arms reach around each other so tightly that they can only walk at a common pace, only look in the same direction. I haven't seen one of those couples come apart yet. Sometimes professional dog- and cat-walkers tow entire menageries of house-pets past on strings. Once I saw a man with a monkey tied to his wrist with a leather thong, and I thought — Oh, the jailer cares enough to walk his prisoner! Then I had to smile and wonder who was jailer and who was jailed? From above, everyone's expression is hidden by the angle of my chair to the street, by the shadow that covers their brow, hidden even by the sunlight at times, in the way it catches and washes their features. But now and then, in a particularly animated conversation, someone will throw their head back, and I can see their eyes. The day's events take place in the body, I know, but the eyes are the window to the soul… Who said that? The body is a ship the spirit chooses to sail, and the eyes are little portholes looking out… I said that. If you look closely enough, you can see who the passenger is. There, look at that huge smile! But the eyes are almost unbearably lonely and hungry. And that woman there seemed so drab as she approached my balcony, but now that I see her face I notice there is some bonfire burning inside of her. — Look out, you're going to set your ship on fire! But maybe she is careful to keep everything flammable away from her heart. It's not hard to see, if you stop to look. There's nothing at all to learn; you only have to watch, and avoid getting caught up in the masquerade that each one puts up in their own defense. I guess that's how old Trace busted me. Her masquerade is that she's a flake, but even if she drives you crazy with her talk, she watches everybody, and she sees behind your mask. She looked behind my mask. Some days when enough of my work is behind me - like today - I'll put my phone lists aside, grab whatever book I am reading, or grab a light magazine to get me flirting with myself, like Elle, and skip downstairs, out the door, to become part of the parade myself. I really do skip downstairs. There is nothing that makes you feel younger than leaving pages of work behind you, and aiming yourself at the sun. Except maybe talking to Tracy, I suppose. The street is often noisy, because River Road traffic is close at hand, with the hum of the city a constant in the background. If my copy of Elle is too stale, there is a newsstand two doors down where I can pick up a fresher edition, or something else, maybe even the Times if my mood is running cool. Next to that is my favorite coffee shop, favorite because it serves up acceptable brew at all hours, and Julio, who runs the place, always looks so happy to see me. He looks happy to see everyone, must be whatever Latin blood he's got in him, or maybe it's just Julio shining out of his portholes. His eyes match his face, by the way, and that's why I like his coffee, even if I have to load it up with cream to drink it. After Julio's, there are a few apartment buildings like mine, each one more upscale than the last, as their view of the river widens. The windows of the last one catch dawn, follow the sun over the entire skyline to the west and then, if you move to the dining room, you can watch it set. When it has just about dipped below the horizon you can casually make your way to the bedroom, letting the last rays warm the walls with deep red. That's how I imagine it. I actually don't know how they lay the rooms out in those chic flats. But if one were mine, the sun would follow me to the bedroom, and put me to bed. In the last building there is a sheltered, ground-level veranda where, rain or shine, and at almost any time of day, Mrs. Wheeler sits rocking in her chair, with knitting on her knees and in her hands. She must produce a tremendous number of sweaters. If you live on my block, it is impossible not to meet her. At least, you can't help notice her, and sooner or later you'll stop to ask what she is knitting, and hear for whom, and make small talk that ends in learning her name. She wears a wig; I hope I never have to wear a wig. Imagining my long, silky hair falling strand by strand… I feel sad. Mrs. Wheeler must be eighty-five or ninety, and she hasn't much to say. Simply a hello, a how are you, a question about the weather tomorrow, and perhaps a short comment about something she noticed in the neighborhood. She doesn't put much into words, really; but she was born before the 20s, and you can see all of that history piled up inside of her when you meet her eyes. Like an attic filled with dusty books. Those eyes are slightly clouded with age, as if they had filled up with wisps of smoke left over from the wars, or the storm clouds that blew away the prairie farms. Or just the attic dust. She told me she lost her husband in '44. I suppose she never remarried. Along the river is a dirt path most people use for walking, and a paved sidewalk that is owned by everything with wheels. Between the walk and the water is an old iron railing that the city repaints every few years. Its points and edges have softened under many layers of paint. My favorite place to sit is under a sycamore tree, right there at the end of my street. I love the smell of sycamore, and how it is made of hidden gold, as if it were in a perpetual Autumn. There always seem to be a few leaves scattered around my feet. If I had been sitting in my balcony this time yesterday, I could have looked down and framed that whole scene: the branches of the huge tree reaching out over the water and above the bench, and there below them the back of my head as I sat facing away, above the graying slats of the bench, my beautiful hair like a blond cascade whose currents the breeze brushed from side to side, as if it were threading the strands through its fingers. My body would have been hidden and revealed by the weathered wood, the brief stretch of grass beneath me, the blurred railing beyond and then, sparking in the sun, the river and its paddlers and sailboats. This time yesterday, if I had been sitting on my balcony and looking toward the river, I would have seen myself, and around me the day's motion, a steady stream of roller blades working their way up-river, while pedestrians hurried out of the way of their chaos. Moving slowly in the other direction, the same anonymous faces you would see any other day, out walking through a pleasant afternoon, mothers with their new babies - I always set down my book to meet them, if they are talkative, to hold or coo at their children - and bicyclists either coasting down or pedaling up the slight slope. Yesterday, if I had been watching the river from above, I would have seen myself and the day moving past me, and against its palette of colors a bright yellow bicycle, similar to all the others, would have come over the crest of the hill, coasting downward in the direction of my bench, as though pulled toward me by gravity. I might have seen it hidden briefly by the bulk of the sycamore, then rush by me. I would have seen my head raised just as the bicycle was passing, and when the wheels were exactly opposite, I would have seen the rider look over his shoulder. I would have seen his face brighten as he glanced quickly forward and back several times while he spun away, making sure he neither fell nor missed contact. I would have watched myself suddenly sit up very straight, almost rising from my seat, as though my body were ready to leap up, but my mind was slow and undecided. I don't think I could have heard myself say — Hey...! I doubt any sound actually passed my lips. But I may have seen those lips move, even from so far away, and my hand shoot half-mast in a greeting that was also a parting, as one of his hands waved back over his shoulder, waved twice before spinning around the corner. Then he was gone, and everything that was not me was frozen in time. I would have seen myself stand up. — Damn it! Aren't you going to stop? I might even have stamped my foot. But that I don't remember. + — What happened to you? You look like you've seen a ghost. — Trace… where do you come up with lines like that? Do you have to read things somewhere before you say them? Jesus, I walk in here, I feel like I'm living in a B-movie, and you're the star. Her eyebrows raised and she pursed her mouth into an Ooh - or maybe it was a Whoa - then turned away to rummage for something to eat. I think we always meet in the kitchen. I can't remember the last time I saw Tracy in the living room or on the street. — And for your information I have seen a ghost. And I am living in a B-movie. There was a moment waiting for that to sink in, and another moment for it to wander around in Tracy's head, looking for a home. But she was pretty quick. She whirled around with a grin on her face that in my opinion was bigger than it should have been. — Heeey BABY! Love's Anatomy : Eyes Pt. 03 THREE I found myself eating at the café quite a lot. In fact I had lunch there every day of the next week, making myself what seemed, at the time, to be reasonable excuses for eating out, but all of which I discovered - after having finished and paid and hurried my way back to work - were complete nonsense. The mornings drifted by quickly, beginning well and growing somewhat distracted as the hours passed; while the afternoons were filled with an almost savage productivity which impressed me, but which, when each task had been completed, felt utterly unsatisfying. Worse still, the regular waiter had convinced himself that my visits were a sign of growing interest in him, as more than a means to my lunch that is, or at least he sincerely wanted them to be, and he began to offer more and more of a preferential treatment I found myself wanting less and less. I grew tired of the menu, too. On Friday, I left what I hoped would be seen as an unmistakably small tip, and gave up the café for the streets. The day was quite warm for the time of year, and the sun was out, so I didn’t head back toward my work, but made my way instead out to the river, joining the current of people heading downstream toward an early weekend. Near the walking bridge the river curves, but not as quickly as the riverbank, and just there a rounded field of grass and planted flowers reaches out into the water. The red brick wall of the bridge keeps the wind away, so most days in summer the grass is carpeted with sun-worshipers, and students with books, and lovers draped around or over each other. On days when the grass is empty, I like to sit with my back against the wall and shield my eyes with my hands, making blinders for myself, so that only the river and the field are in view, gray-blue and green, with the sun lighting both of them. In Autumn, the brick may have been warmed all morning, and I can feel its rough heat through my blouse or sweater. This day, though, it was warm enough to stretch out on the lawn, and as no one else had stopped there, I went right down near the water, where I was furthest from the road and the walk, and a screen of rushes allowed some glimpse of the current, while the sound of small waves slid easily between their stalks. I lay back on the warmed earth, and the moist heat of it supported my back, like two hands cradling my heart, two palms holding my hips and thighs, two more for my feet. The sound of the water around me and the ground underneath, I closed my eyes and felt my whole body soften and open, while the sunlight played on my face. That autumn sun, my autumn sun, is so gentle. I didn’t need to cover my eyelids with an arm, as I do in summer. I could feel it like the face of a lover, that hint of warmth just above me, watching me. I felt it softly watching me for a time, as my brow grew smooth and the muscles around my lips and mouth relaxed. Then it reached out a hand to caress my face with its fingers, running them over my eyes to my cheeks, and pausing at my lips like a kiss. I ran my tongue out to wet them, then left them parted, my mouth slightly open. I imagined a finger tracing those lips, then gently moving between my teeth to find my tongue - or did I feel it? Warmth. I could feel the hands grow larger and rest upon my breasts, a golden weight, opening my heart. I was sinking into the green earth with the easy weight of that sun upon me, and let out a soft moan of pleasure, a humming sigh that started high in my throat and skipped down the scales through the rest of my body. The sound of water surrounded me. I was released, half dreaming. My feet fell apart, and my legs opened slightly, and the golden hand of the sun rested there between them. There, its fingers were on my calves, naked below my skirt; the insistent heat of them followed the curve of my legs, along the inside of my knees. I felt as full as a ripe fruit, a fruit whose seed has yet to be planted, full to bursting, growing red with the sun’s attention. My breath was light and quick, and the red color rose into my face, my closed eyes seeing the glow of his face behind their lids, feeling his hands on my upper thighs. I thought something brushed the hem of my skirt, as though to lift it. I held my breath, gently bit my lower lip, and slowly let it out again. I remember hearing a moan then, it was my voice, and the light was so bright in my eyes, too bright, but the heat told me stay; my mouth opened wider and I breathed deeply into my lungs; filled with breath, the rest of my body began to soften and melt, to swell and become wet from the melting. The sun was too bright. I turned on my side, away from the intensity of his stare, and curled my knees toward my chest, my hair falling over the grass like a golden harvest, ready to be gathered. I turned away, but the sun wouldn’t leave me: immediately I felt him embrace me from behind, I felt his chest along the length of my spine, could almost feel his breath at my ear; felt it, felt him at the back of my calves, caressing my thighs. My breath was coming deeply now, it was easy to breath into his warmth, his warmth as it weighed more and more into me from behind, as it filled me with its embrace, entered me, through my skin, rained on me and flowed into me like a shower of warm golden coins, like a god warming me, softening me, planting his child. Like a god or like a man working his body up under my skirt, and my lips swelling to meet him, I curved my back so slightly, slowly, allowing my hips to widen, my lips opening and reaching back toward the heat of that sun. I could feel the long erect tongue of his body licking at my lips, an irresistible and invisible pressure drawing them open, and my mouth opened with them, a gasp of exhalation, my hips turning further into the light to receive him completely, my legs opening there at the base of me. Hidden by my open blouse my hand softly ran a line down the middle of my belly, below the navel, reaching the long middle finger along the light line of hair, feeling each hair with the sensitive tip, reaching... reaching... A sound from the path startled me, and I sat up quickly, running a hand through my hair to straighten it. It was a moment before I understood where I was. I looked about me: no one was near. I think no one was watching. The red brick wall was lit by the afternoon, someone walked a dog; the traffic made a gray noise over the pavement, while the river whispered seductively behind the reeds. No one had been watching. Even if they had been, what would they have seen? A sleeping woman, not her lover. + I walked home. I bought a loaf of French bread and some imported cheese. I bought the Times from a street vendor to give myself some gravity. I stopped at my bench on the river and read it, tearing pieces from the baguette and cutting slices of the pungent cheese with the small plastic knife the shop had provided. That was thoughtful of them. In the news, we were still at war, though no one seemed able to write the word with any conviction. The news seemed as real as a television image, that winks out the moment you turn the dial. There were so many of our soldiers dead, but no one could even picture a soldier, to picture him dead. There were innumerable foreign civilians lost: no one would count them, or counted, no one would tell us how many they were, or their ages, or why they had perished. Perhaps our bombs killed them with their families. I hope it was while they slept. The price for oil was rising, but no article tied the price to the war, which was being fought upon oil-filled deserts. Apparently, the whole region was in such disarray that leaders who once promised a decisive victory now promised to remain, controlling the government and fighting anyone who resisted, so that a true democracy might take hold. I tried to picture a democracy which required a stranglehold to function. But there was another word for that. Someone had made a mistake when proofing the article. I felt the sun seeping out of me. It was setting upriver, and in the sky the clouds were touched with red. The Times doesn’t print comics. I think that it’s a conscious mistake. They’re missing the point, though: they’re as wrong as the warmongers, both seem colorblind, stuck in a world without nuance or paint. The “D” Section reported that our market was stable, but in International News, Europe was cursing my neighbors, cursing people like Mrs. Wheeler under its breath, and Latin America was cursing out loud, cursing without even knowing names or faces or anything about their lives. My friends and neighbors were called short-sighted and tyrants because of what their government was doing, because they were unable or unwilling to make their government more accountable for its mistakes. The sun had set. I folded the Times neatly, putting the sections back in order, and left it for someone who might appreciate it more than me. I crossed the road, and could see Mrs. Wheeler herself, Mrs. Wheeler the tyrant, rocking in her customary spot on the veranda, the lights turned on. She was looking down and her fingers were working - another sweater I was sure. She had just finished one for her grandson overseas, though I doubted he would have much use for it. There were violent protests in the Middle East because of Mrs. Wheeler, can you imagine that. I called out to her and waved, and she nodded and smiled to me. Her fingers never stopped working. I continued past her down the street, but she called me back. — Oh, Alison! I retraced my steps until I was leaning on the short wall, facing her chair. — You know, there was a young man looking for you earlier today. He seemed very nice, but I thought it a little strange… I didn’t answer right away. — A young man? You mean my age? — Yes, I haven’t seen him around here before, otherwise I would have thought him one of our neighbors. He seemed very nice. He didn’t know your name, but I am sure he was talking about you. You know, your hair is so beautiful, dear. I didn’t lie to him. I told him I was pretty certain of whom he was speaking. But then, he didn’t know your name. I asked, Are you a friend of Alison’s? I can’t believe I told him your name, I felt so foolish! Then he smiled - a very nice smile, I thought… but still. He smiled and said, Alison, what a nice name. Oh, I could have kicked myself: a perfect stranger! — Did you tell him where I live? You didn’t tell him where I live, then, did you. I was watching Mrs. Wheeler and she looked at me intently. Intently, I knew, for she had even stopped knitting. — Oh, no, dear! I started getting wary, and asked again if he knew you. What did he do…? He rubbed his head with one hand - that didn’t seem very ominous, did it? - and he said, No, he guessed not. He said he had seen you the other day in a restaurant, and then over by the river, and thought that perhaps you lived around here. I told him, Well, I knew of you, but I didn’t know where you lived, and then he said quickly, No, of course not. I wouldn’t ask you to tell me if you did. — Yes. Well, that’s good, I suppose. What was I feeling? I closed my eyes for a moment to catch the tail of an emotion, but it moved too quickly for me to grasp. — So, he left, then. I’m sure I’m safe enough. Thank you for being careful, Mrs. Wheeler. The news is so full of stories… Anyway, I do remember the man. I don’t think he was dangerous; but I don’t know him. Who knows, maybe we’ll bump into each other again at the restaurant some day… or somewhere else. But it might have been nice to say hello. — Oh, but he left his number, dear. — He did...!! He did? Mrs. Wheeler lifted her knitting again and added a few stitches to her work, then once again let hands and wool come to rest in her lap. — He said, We aren’t at all friends, not even acquaintances, I haven’t even said a word to her, but I wouldn’t mind… And then he found a scrap of paper in the waste-can over there and asked if he could leave you a note. He seemed such a nice man, I thought, well, maybe there was no harm in it - you can always throw it away if you don’t want it. Or give it to the police. I put it here somewhere. Let me see… She looked over one side of the chair and then the other, and picked up a bag of yarn. I stepped through the entryway and onto the veranda. She prodded the bag for a moment. — Now where did I…? Then an expression stole over her, a coy curl played across her lips, and she suddenly seemed years younger. After a furtive glance to see if anyone was near, she reached into the top of her blouse and drew a folded and wrinkled note out from between her breasts. — I always kept the best ones here, she said with that coy smile. Then the years seemed to rush back upon her, as though a wave that had receded had gathered itself again, and returned to break against the shore. Her youth folded up in the note she slipped from between her breasts. Not all of the dust returned to her gaze, though, and she leaned toward me, putting her hand upon my arm and confiding in a stage whisper, — I don’t have any pockets to keep things in, now have I? I took the paper she offered. Her hand shook slightly, and the skin of her fingers was dry as a fallen leaf. — Thank you so much, Mrs. Wheeler. — Betty, dear. — Thank you… Betty. I bid her good night, and was at my door before I noticed. I ran up the stairs to my apartment, feeling my breath deep and fast again, and feeling the warmth of the sun moving through me. Love's Anatomy : Eyes Pt. 04 Allie - Sorry I didn't stop on my bike, late for a meeting. Big mistake. Spent hours trying to find you again. Would you have lunch with me (together this time)? At the bottom he wrote his number, and beneath that, his name. — Yeah, so what is it? Tracy was at the edge of her chair, in the kitchen, of course. She had heard me rush the lock, throw the door open, and slam it again as though I had been chased by a mob. And then she heard me scream. She came running out into the hallway with a look of southern concern on her face, ready to comfort and mother me, and just as easily set the dogs on whoever had harmed me. Didn't know she was that fierce. What did I tell you the other day about Trace? I take it all back. I had stood there like a statue that had just been delivered and dumped inside the door. No, I didn't: I started giggling and prancing about like a third-grader with a valentine. Tracy had asked me What, in tarnation, had gotten into me? so I gave her a brief and slightly breathless account of my past week, not bothering to mention the sun in the park, which would have taken some explaining even to myself; then I recounted most of the conversation with Mrs. Wheeler down the street, and finally revealed the folded piece of paper in my hand, which I had not yet opened. She looked at me as though I were crazy and stupid all in one, and simply said Well, read it! So I did. — His name is Brennan. Nice handwriting. Allie, no one calls me Allie. — Someone does. I like it. It's cute. I think I'm going to start using it, it's more like you, you know. Big mistake, huh? That boy's a sweetheart. So you going to call him up, or just sit there imagining him? I just sat there imagining him. What did he look like? The picture I had in my mind was faded; to begin with, I had scarcely seen his features. It was as though I had seen him, but not his clothing, not his face. I didn't see his eyes so much as I saw how they moved, how the pupils opened when he looked my way. How they sparked from the light that leaned in through the window, or the café light above his table. But I couldn't remember the color of the iris. I could remember the shape of the whole eye, but not the shape of his face. His hair was brown, I thought. His smile was beautiful, but I didn't know anything about his teeth or even his lips: I should have seen his lips. What kind of attraction is that, when you didn't even remember a body, with arms and legs? But I did remember his hands, I remembered watching him write. He had shrugged and smiled at the couple kissing next to him, then leaned back to his writing. I had watched one hand steady the notebook, while the other moved over its pages. It wasn't a worker's hand, but then neither was it soft, as though it could hold a hammer as easily as it did a pen. As though it could as easily and gracefully hold a woman as it did a pen. As though it could create art with a woman's body, as though it could stir a woman's body like stirring a pool of water, faster and faster. — Allie...! Hello, Alison! — What? Sorry, Trace, I was... — Yeah, I know. So are you going to call him...? Hey, what's on the back? She took the paper from my hand and turned it over, so the half-sheet that had been behind the fold, in the palm of my hand, was revealed. As I looked at it I looked into my own face, sketched in ball-point ink. It was a perfect likeness, as perfect as a ballpoint could make it, and underneath it he had written my name, Alison. — Whooo hoo hoo hoo hoo, darlin'! What'd he dew, take yer picture? I took a deep breath. I felt empty, as though I had nothing inside of me, almost as though I were nothing, nothing at all. Or as though I were everything in the world. — Tracy, I need to eat. Did you cook already? Not yet? Come on, I'm buying. + There is a piece of music that runs through my head, but I don't know where I've heard it before. It may have been a song that played on the radio, before I was old enough to make words, and too young to have begun to string thoughts like melodies, or remember the pictures that accompanied them, like harmonies. When I am quiet at night it finds me, and I begin to hum it to myself. I want to know what it is, so that I might find the lyric which is married to the sound. So light it is, and yet so deep. Now, if I close my eyes, I can almost see it, I can almost taste it. The music is something like a bright apple shining ripe in a high branch, under a late August sun; it is something like swimming naked in the lake behind our cabin under a full moon in spring. It is something like my first kiss, and even more like all the kisses which followed after. It is like the child I haven't conceived yet, but in my imagination, it is that child's laugh, and it is that child's cry. I suppose I may have created that delicate melody myself, and my imagination adds to it a man's deeper registers, in counterpoint. But I don't play an instrument, so I can't play it; and I don't read music or write it. I only sing under my breath, slightly off-key, when I am quiet at night. Whenever I go to a concert or buy a new recording from the store, I know that I will always be slightly disappointed: all those beautiful musicians and poets. But they don't know my music, and blind, they can only hunt about for it within the darkness of themselves. Some dive down deeply enough that they approach me, we approach each other there at the beginning of all songs, almost touching the single note common to every singer. The ends of their reaching fingers almost touch the ends of mine, they almost, almost meet, reaching to spark me alight like God and human on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. They have come close, an electric current tingling between us, though I was never shocked awake or stopped in my tracks. I was never quite brought to life. I suppose I resisted being brought to life. What would happen if god touched my fingers, or surrounded me with his arms? What would happen if I let god into me? Would there be anything left, would I know myself anymore? I sat up so quickly by the river, though no one was near but he and I. Why did I turn away from the sun; and why didn't I reach the extra hair's width toward a musician's perfect orchestration? I went up on the mountain I stood down by the sea I called to hear my echo I called my love to me Our Irish nanny taught us that song when I was young. She brought all the neighbor children to the park on sunny Saturday mornings, to the hill that overlooked the lake, and sang it to us. She taught us the children's game that accompanied it: we made a circle around one person in the center, who was blindfolded. Hands outstretched, he or she would spin, a colorful pinwheel, while we sang the refrain three times. When the singing stopped, the pinwheel stopped, and whomever you were facing would walk up and give you a kiss on the cheek. You had to guess who the person was, and once you succeeded, you would trade places. Our nanny's daughter and son accompanied us, and sang with their lilting voices beneath the red curls and freckled cheeks. Liam and Sandy Grady. Everything was so green, I could close my eyes and imagine their home, far away to the east. I was ten years old. I stood down by the sea; I called to hear my echo. One of those summer days I spun until I was silly. I guessed each name, but always guessed a turn after or a turn before; I was dizzy, and I spun with a smile on my lips. Shy kisses of the little girls, shier kisses of the little boys, like small birds that would fly up and steal a tiny seed. Then one kiss was warm and slow on my cheek: — Jeremy, I said laughing. I spun around and around. The next kiss was warm and slow again, the same I was sure, and this time below the cheekbone, just at the corner of my mouth, just touching the soft line where my lips came together. Had I come full circle to face the same person again? — Liam? I guessed, and the smile was less on my face, but had burrowed down inside, or fallen like a coal dropped into the ocean, heating the water as it dissolved. I listened to the song and turned again, the coarse weave of the cloth gently holding my eyelids closed. I went up on the mountain...I was spinning the other direction to unwind my dizziness, dizziness that was not purely physical. I called my love to me. I stopped and waited; there was a pause, and I felt someone approach me, more than simply hearing the footsteps, I could feel the approach, and my skin tingled as though a slight breeze had rushed along the hairs of my arms and had climbed up the back of my scalp. Was that not Liam? Then there was the warmth of a soft hand on my neck, and the warmest... oh, the warm and slow invitation of those lips... lips upon my lips! Softness into softness. My mouth responded, as though someone had called my name from close by, and I had answered without thinking. Lips soft as petals between fingers, moist and smooth... but petals warmed from within by an indefinite pulse of blood, and scented not with perfume but with the sweet tang of tea and innocence. The lips parted and a whisper of breath entered my mouth, touched my tongue, and without intending to I gasped slightly and drew the sweet air deep into my lungs. Then the lips closed and brushed away; then a cheek rested as softly against my cheek, and a voice spoke softly that only I might hear, gentle as an echo: — 'Tis Sandy. — Well, I think Alison has spun about quite enough, now, hasn't she? Nanny's lilting voice was kind and businesslike as her feet stepped smartly up behind me, then her fingers were working out the knot in the cloth. The hand and cheek that had warmed me slipped away, away, while the skin where they had rested was warmed as if by the sun; my head reached forward against the blindfold, my lips parted slightly into the air. Then my eyes opened on Sandy as she stepped backward to her place in the circle, her sea green eyes washing over and into my own. + A melody played in my head as we made our way to the restaurant, played in time to my footsteps. I'd write it down if I knew how to write music, or sing it if I were sure I could get it right. It seems it is only there when it is there, and afterward it's like a shell the ocean's roar has abandoned: if you hold it to your ear, it's an empty shell, without the waves that you imagine still exist. We went slowly along the water. I recall nothing Tracy told me as we walked.