I’m Just Looking, Thank You

Published in The Southampton Review, Volume VIII No. 1, Spring 2014

There’s the first one.

The first real one. The one who keeps you up at night. Imagining, wilted. You tremble. Staring at the pale moon in August. Adrenalin courses through your veins. It finally happens. You’re on the living room couch. Your parents asleep—three doors down in their bedroom—your father snoring like a Mack truck. You are dressed from the top up. His shorts are around his ankles. It’s over.

It is love.

You get better at it. He gets better at it. You find rhythms. You find places. Become secretive. Tell lies. Happy lies. Lies that make people happy. Lies that make you happy. So you can take all your clothes off. And he can take all his clothes off. You can lie down. You can stretch out.

Time passes.

Your mind becomes a brightly lit grocery store. You wander down the aisles. You pick up items and put them back on the shelf. The package is open. The can is dented. It smells funny. It’s expired. You have no appetite. Your cart is empty. You get in line.

The next one.

You’re older. You are hungry all the time. There is mystery. There is truth. There is newness, rawness. You close your eyes and the world is midnight blue, scarlet, violet, magenta, amber. The world is suede and cold rivers rushing over rocks. It is the smell of the ocean. It is hot tears.

The world is a slap in the face.

Now you are careful. Particular and critical. You like the color, but not the fit. That was last year’s style. A heel is scuffed, a strap is broken, there’s a spot on the toe. You had one just like it and it didn’t wear well. You get anxious. You get angry. You get sad. You stay inside for a long time. It was winter. Now it is spring.

You decide to go to the park.

The park: pigeons, trees, grass, benches, sunshine, statues, shrieking, ducks, flowers, chirping, dogs, children, squirrels, kites, barking, laughter, tourists, artists, a pebble in your shoe, the hot dog man, the pretzel man.

You go home.

It is late. The light coming through the shutters makes lines on your living room floor. There is the hiss of the radiator. The drip of the kitchen faucet. The sound of the couple in the apartment above you. Voices muffled. Words lilting. They wrap you in cotton. You sit on the couch and listen until they fade away.

There are distractions: work, friends, books, death, family, music, taxes, travel, lovers, births, celebrations.

You put on your coat and go out.

The wind is cold. You turn your collar up. You walk.

It’s not as bad as you thought. You can do this. You repeat these words in your head. People ask how you are. You don’t want to think about it for too long. Great. Fine. Good. The words roll off your tongue.