Stewing Story-Part I
"Danielle called for you." Why do I always think of Daniel in the den of lions when I hear her name? I ask myself these questions when it has something to do with Danielle, Em’s last girlfriend.
Silence. I wait.
"Em?"
"Ok. Thanks." Not turning her head, not even her eyes move towards me. Something's tightened in her.
"So...are you going to call her back?" I feel like I've missed a step in the dance, and she's turned without me.
"No." Said very quietly.
More silence, and her body language murmurs anger.
"Did I do something wrong?" Only I'm confused.
Neither of us move.
"I just don't understand how, after everything we've talked about, you'd think I'd want to talk to Danielle." She responds quietly, but not hesitantly.
"Ok." After everything we've talked about.' But you haven't really ever told me anything." Again, silence. "Jesus, Em. How am I supposed to know?"
Now she turns to me.
"Remember the time you forgot the sheet music for the social I was supposed to play at, and you felt so bad you were so careless, and I said 'forget it', but I still couldn't play?"
"Em." She's so used to side stepping me, because in the beginning it was her side stepping that charmed me the most. She's never forgotten that.
"No, this is important here. You do things, or don't, and say things, or don't, and you feel bad when you realize that you fucked things up, but things are still fucked up in the end."
I just look at her. She's told me "It didn't end well.", "Dani and I didn't work because I could never be what she wanted." or "I'll never date another poet again".
But never what it was that ended this tiny, vibrating part of her.
Dani was Emily's last girlfriend. As the new girl I can't talk much. At least not there.
When I first met Emily she was wearing this flowing black skirt and an orange-yellow-orange scarf around her chest and that's it. Her hair was long- like her, and curled, those loose curls, and dark.
Generally, I like my ladies short; short hair, short fuse, short list of interests. Me foremost among them. Em has no short fuse, isn't feisty. Doesn't like feisty. Perhaps I've not been honest about what most appeals to me.
She was swaying her hips and twirling, wrists, arms, neck, sort of loose and slightly out of control. Neither the fact that she was out of rhythm or out of partners seemed to affect her. My partner and she used to dance at these hippie gatherings, so she introduced us.
"Cassi this is Emily. Em, this is Cassi."
She didn't offer a hand, or smile even, but I'm not accustomed to being rude, so I stuck out my hand to her head nod. I think I was slightly wide-eyed in that appeasing sort of way.
"Nice to meet you."
"Yeah, you too."
That's it. Not much of a first encounter, really.
After I left the room that night Danielle called, she sat at the piano and played Chopin's Nocturne in F #, Op. 15, no. 2.
That was the first song I ever heard her play, and I laid my head down on cool down pillow and wept.
That was 8 months ago, I could tell you the days, but that would silly and rather dramatic.
I should tell you a bit about Emily now. Her hair's short, and not a cute moff either. About two weeks into our tango she gave herself a haircut; a choppy slop job that left about 2 inches of hair to cover her scalp.
She was changing then, I see now.
So her hair's short, still dark, and she wears these baggy jeans; 'pantalons' she calls them.
Whatever, not much to hide there anyway, all bony legs she has.
I miss her skirts though. Those flowy, hippie skirts, half see-through and bordering indecent.
God I loved those skirts.
Their all gone now, donated generously to the Sally Anne by none other than me. My first 'how high?' to her 'Jump.'
I don't ask 'how high?' anymore, just jump.
Like when she tells me Danielle can go to hell, so I know to stop telling her when she calls. Em thinks Danielle will stop calling soon, if we don't respond.
I'd never stop calling. Danielle might not either.
You see, there's not 'something' about Em. Never just 'something about her'. With Em, it's everything.
The way her head falls back against dirty stone walls, or cushioned leather, or your very shoulder, when she's tired (I'm just fucking tired, Cass.), allowing a quiet osmosis of her grace, and the way she reads your lips when you talk, her extended sigh upon your questioning fingers, and how she walks up behind you so she can breathe on your neck and smell all of you. The way she won't talk to you when she plays the piano, and she closes her eyes and how she blinks. How she won't let you shower alone, and won't ever let you feed her, and will never feed you. How she's so wiry, this long, wiry, hard body with sharp corners and secret places and you want to find all her secret places.
That's Em, and that's why you don't ask 'how high' anymore, or maybe why you started asking.
I asked her why she cut her hair. She opened the door, and walked two steps in, put down her bag and I said: 'Em. Your hair.'
'Cassi.' As she looks at the mail.
'Wow.' Pause. 'It looks good.' Looks up at me, just her eyes. 'It does. Why'd you cut it?' Drops the mail, looks fully at me.
'Why did I cut my hair.' She crosses the room to me, and frames the edges of my head with her tight, cold hands, presses slightly. 'Why did I cut my hair.' She so close, and she has coffee breath.
'Yeah.'
Then she kisses me.
Exit stage left, with me hitting my heels on door edges and table legs because she's not going to stop kissing me.
Tonight I will cook dinner before she comes home. She won´t eat if she has to take time to make food.
First I browse her vegan cookbook. Ridiculously I have to smell it to see if her scent lingers there like it lingers all over our place. Even her garden gloves on the windowsill smell of her, the bookshelves, the dish clothes, our sagging couches and the throw pillows around-all of it with her lingering smell. We eat the vegan dinner of spicy carrot coriander soup and focaccia bread with humus. Does she like it? She eats whatever I put before her these days, mostly because its less work, I think, than when I have to roll over her protests that she doesn´t want to eat anything
-just make some coffee Cass, please
-fuck coffee Em, you have eat.
Days can go by now where this is the most occurring and stimulating conversation between us.
I’m cooking her another meal. I think about how she’d like it to look. Realize she won’t care. May not. Care. May not. Care. Small rolls of hot soft dough, not even hard on the thinnest outer layer. Just soft, warm dough. When did she tell me she likes buns like this? I must have been 8 months ago, or something – it must have been days before I started making buns like these.
“Cass?” That tinkle of metal keys on hardwood table. Our wooden table. “Cass, I’m going out tonight.” Did she smell my cooking? Wood does not ring, it does not echo. She looks so thin, just a pearly white scarf and black tights, a bracelet from Thailand. I think she looks fragile, but no, her face is set in lines, one line of her brown eyes over the line of her nose above the lines of her mouth, unsmiling. Even, unconcerned lines.
“Yeah.” I turn and watch the steady color of the dish cloth in my hands, “Yeah, that’s fine.” Place it on the counter. Water spots have been left. I wipe the counter clean and dry. “Take a dinner roll though, love, they’re still warm.” She walks up behind me, as she always does, hands on my hips, kisses my neck.
“Thanks darling, I’ll take two.” Softly. Then she pulls those hands off my hips, and I bet she’s turned, her voice is louder but further away. “Three even – I’m starving!”
I picture myself turning, whipping this towel with it’s drenched corner at her hips. Hear words like : Don’t. Stay.
Is it a command? Dont, pause, stay. Or: Don’t Stay. Full stop.
When she returns, she has no scent at all. None, as if she’d been scrubbed clean. I tuck away the journal, slide it away from the light she’s flipped on, underneath my pillow to warm darkness. I turn, watch the bones of her spine bend, furl, uncurl as she undresses. Clean and empty again. IT’s almost a leap I make from this bed to her, and, I begin kissing her back so quickly with such force it’s all but violent. That air that flies from her lungs. I slow. Kiss the now still vertebrae. Love her anyway.
Silence. I wait.
"Em?"
"Ok. Thanks." Not turning her head, not even her eyes move towards me. Something's tightened in her.
"So...are you going to call her back?" I feel like I've missed a step in the dance, and she's turned without me.
"No." Said very quietly.
More silence, and her body language murmurs anger.
"Did I do something wrong?" Only I'm confused.
Neither of us move.
"I just don't understand how, after everything we've talked about, you'd think I'd want to talk to Danielle." She responds quietly, but not hesitantly.
"Ok." After everything we've talked about.' But you haven't really ever told me anything." Again, silence. "Jesus, Em. How am I supposed to know?"
Now she turns to me.
"Remember the time you forgot the sheet music for the social I was supposed to play at, and you felt so bad you were so careless, and I said 'forget it', but I still couldn't play?"
"Em." She's so used to side stepping me, because in the beginning it was her side stepping that charmed me the most. She's never forgotten that.
"No, this is important here. You do things, or don't, and say things, or don't, and you feel bad when you realize that you fucked things up, but things are still fucked up in the end."
I just look at her. She's told me "It didn't end well.", "Dani and I didn't work because I could never be what she wanted." or "I'll never date another poet again".
But never what it was that ended this tiny, vibrating part of her.
Dani was Emily's last girlfriend. As the new girl I can't talk much. At least not there.
When I first met Emily she was wearing this flowing black skirt and an orange-yellow-orange scarf around her chest and that's it. Her hair was long- like her, and curled, those loose curls, and dark.
Generally, I like my ladies short; short hair, short fuse, short list of interests. Me foremost among them. Em has no short fuse, isn't feisty. Doesn't like feisty. Perhaps I've not been honest about what most appeals to me.
She was swaying her hips and twirling, wrists, arms, neck, sort of loose and slightly out of control. Neither the fact that she was out of rhythm or out of partners seemed to affect her. My partner and she used to dance at these hippie gatherings, so she introduced us.
"Cassi this is Emily. Em, this is Cassi."
She didn't offer a hand, or smile even, but I'm not accustomed to being rude, so I stuck out my hand to her head nod. I think I was slightly wide-eyed in that appeasing sort of way.
"Nice to meet you."
"Yeah, you too."
That's it. Not much of a first encounter, really.
After I left the room that night Danielle called, she sat at the piano and played Chopin's Nocturne in F #, Op. 15, no. 2.
That was the first song I ever heard her play, and I laid my head down on cool down pillow and wept.
That was 8 months ago, I could tell you the days, but that would silly and rather dramatic.
I should tell you a bit about Emily now. Her hair's short, and not a cute moff either. About two weeks into our tango she gave herself a haircut; a choppy slop job that left about 2 inches of hair to cover her scalp.
She was changing then, I see now.
So her hair's short, still dark, and she wears these baggy jeans; 'pantalons' she calls them.
Whatever, not much to hide there anyway, all bony legs she has.
I miss her skirts though. Those flowy, hippie skirts, half see-through and bordering indecent.
God I loved those skirts.
Their all gone now, donated generously to the Sally Anne by none other than me. My first 'how high?' to her 'Jump.'
I don't ask 'how high?' anymore, just jump.
Like when she tells me Danielle can go to hell, so I know to stop telling her when she calls. Em thinks Danielle will stop calling soon, if we don't respond.
I'd never stop calling. Danielle might not either.
You see, there's not 'something' about Em. Never just 'something about her'. With Em, it's everything.
The way her head falls back against dirty stone walls, or cushioned leather, or your very shoulder, when she's tired (I'm just fucking tired, Cass.), allowing a quiet osmosis of her grace, and the way she reads your lips when you talk, her extended sigh upon your questioning fingers, and how she walks up behind you so she can breathe on your neck and smell all of you. The way she won't talk to you when she plays the piano, and she closes her eyes and how she blinks. How she won't let you shower alone, and won't ever let you feed her, and will never feed you. How she's so wiry, this long, wiry, hard body with sharp corners and secret places and you want to find all her secret places.
That's Em, and that's why you don't ask 'how high' anymore, or maybe why you started asking.
I asked her why she cut her hair. She opened the door, and walked two steps in, put down her bag and I said: 'Em. Your hair.'
'Cassi.' As she looks at the mail.
'Wow.' Pause. 'It looks good.' Looks up at me, just her eyes. 'It does. Why'd you cut it?' Drops the mail, looks fully at me.
'Why did I cut my hair.' She crosses the room to me, and frames the edges of my head with her tight, cold hands, presses slightly. 'Why did I cut my hair.' She so close, and she has coffee breath.
'Yeah.'
Then she kisses me.
Exit stage left, with me hitting my heels on door edges and table legs because she's not going to stop kissing me.
Tonight I will cook dinner before she comes home. She won´t eat if she has to take time to make food.
First I browse her vegan cookbook. Ridiculously I have to smell it to see if her scent lingers there like it lingers all over our place. Even her garden gloves on the windowsill smell of her, the bookshelves, the dish clothes, our sagging couches and the throw pillows around-all of it with her lingering smell. We eat the vegan dinner of spicy carrot coriander soup and focaccia bread with humus. Does she like it? She eats whatever I put before her these days, mostly because its less work, I think, than when I have to roll over her protests that she doesn´t want to eat anything
-just make some coffee Cass, please
-fuck coffee Em, you have eat.
Days can go by now where this is the most occurring and stimulating conversation between us.
I’m cooking her another meal. I think about how she’d like it to look. Realize she won’t care. May not. Care. May not. Care. Small rolls of hot soft dough, not even hard on the thinnest outer layer. Just soft, warm dough. When did she tell me she likes buns like this? I must have been 8 months ago, or something – it must have been days before I started making buns like these.
“Cass?” That tinkle of metal keys on hardwood table. Our wooden table. “Cass, I’m going out tonight.” Did she smell my cooking? Wood does not ring, it does not echo. She looks so thin, just a pearly white scarf and black tights, a bracelet from Thailand. I think she looks fragile, but no, her face is set in lines, one line of her brown eyes over the line of her nose above the lines of her mouth, unsmiling. Even, unconcerned lines.
“Yeah.” I turn and watch the steady color of the dish cloth in my hands, “Yeah, that’s fine.” Place it on the counter. Water spots have been left. I wipe the counter clean and dry. “Take a dinner roll though, love, they’re still warm.” She walks up behind me, as she always does, hands on my hips, kisses my neck.
“Thanks darling, I’ll take two.” Softly. Then she pulls those hands off my hips, and I bet she’s turned, her voice is louder but further away. “Three even – I’m starving!”
I picture myself turning, whipping this towel with it’s drenched corner at her hips. Hear words like : Don’t. Stay.
Is it a command? Dont, pause, stay. Or: Don’t Stay. Full stop.
When she returns, she has no scent at all. None, as if she’d been scrubbed clean. I tuck away the journal, slide it away from the light she’s flipped on, underneath my pillow to warm darkness. I turn, watch the bones of her spine bend, furl, uncurl as she undresses. Clean and empty again. IT’s almost a leap I make from this bed to her, and, I begin kissing her back so quickly with such force it’s all but violent. That air that flies from her lungs. I slow. Kiss the now still vertebrae. Love her anyway.
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