Thoughts

It was a beautiful morning to stand in the bread line. Low 60s, filtered sunlight. I stood between two white men. One was a man my age with a five-year-old daughter playing Barbie dress-up on a battered previous-gen iPhone. He declined the cabbage but said thank you for everything, wished all the helpers happy new year, and talked about how he uses the day-old bread to make homemade croutons and bread crumbs. He was good-looking, almost professional-looking, but I didn’t like him. He sounded too much like me. The other man was older, mid-fifties. He talked to me the whole time in line while we filled out forms for our new year’s registration. He told me about solar flares and sunspots and how President Obama has warned people to be ready for a drastic solar storm. He told me that he’s interested in a group that thinks they can predict earthquakes based on solar winds. He tried to steer the conversation into talking about our corrupt government but I asked him questions about the sun instead, prying away at the edges of what he knew, dancing away from the parts where I could tell he was starting to make things up.

This afternoon we took the kids hiking. We got a little lost in town trying to find the right place so we stopped at the tourist center and got lots of maps and brochures. They got us pointed in the right direction and we took a little hike through Texas woods. Compared to Pennsylvania, Connecticut woods were denser and darker and felt a little taller. But Texas woods are short and scrubby. Still dense and pretty dark but the trees are weirdly short, almost like tall bushes. And there are cacti here. Are they just succulents? What is the difference between a cactus and a succulent? Is one a subset of the other? I’ll have to ask Google.

We didn’t hike for long but my legs were very grateful for finally getting to walk. I miss Bristol badly and I hate living too far from anywhere practical to walk to. There I said it. But hiking now and then will really help.

My little sister is the primary reason I wanted to move down here. Instead of 24 hours drive from her, we’re now a three hour drive. We’ve lived here for what… three months now? And have visited her four times. This pleases me. The past visit was highlighted by something we’ve all been waiting a long time for – the Bostwicks got to ply our first table top RPG. Not pictured – my gorgeous amazing sister breastfeeding her baby while GM’ing for us. I want to remember that she did voices for all of the NPCs and they were excellent. She made the story herself but it was in the Mouseguard setting. A sort of Redwall-meets-D&D which is perfect for her. Pictured, though, are my daughter along with her step-cousin – they finally had the sense to recognize each other as kindred spirits. Also my brother-in-law holding my amazingly gorgeous nephew, and yes, my sister GM’ing. Just not while nursing. We also had my thirteen year old gaming with us but he declines pictures.

Only the keenest of observers would have noticed the slight hitch in her voice, the subtle buckling of her knees. Her speech was an impassioned one: she wove her shock into the words as though it were a part of the drama. The show must go on.

But in the rear of the packed playhouse, a barn owl perched among the rafters, his star-filled eyes trained on her. All the bodies packed into the refurbished playhouse were observers, all were there to see her perform, but this was the keenest of them all. He noticed.

He’d hidden in the theatre every night for the past week, watching. Her face was lovely as it had ever been, gently marked now by the furrows of time. Each performance had been a little different as she tested the nuances of her words against the rapt attention of her true love. Not him, of course. The audience. She played a great queen, unswayed by the advances, both martial and amorous, of an opposing Lord. The drama ended each night with the Lord on his knees before her, begging to be granted her original terms. She stood above him, haughty and grand, her face unmoved.

Tonight she seemed to look up to the rafters, her chin lifted, eyes blazing.

“You have no power over me.”

A flicker of annoyance crossed the Lord’s face. The Observer read much in the actor’s steely eyes. Oh, two names graced the front of the playbill, but the tired man who played across from his love had had to fight for his. Hers, after all, was the name that drew the crowds. At forty-five, her star still shone brilliantly across the world of little theatre. Yes, it was a small sky, for certain, but hers was the brightest star in it and that was all the joy she needed. The poor Lord was on his way down. He’d been in movies once. She outshone him in every way and he knew it. Here she was again, his eyes seemed to say, trying to upstage him. His scowl broke through character of the fallen Lord, showing the sad, angry man underneath.

The Observer understood. He had been that man once, trying to upstage her.

She didn’t notice. She wasn’t even looking at him, but out, out at her adoring audience, out at the glowing stained glass on the theatre windows, out at the balcony where sticky-cheeked children were beginning to wiggle in their parents’ laps or doze against their parents’ shoulders.

Out at him?

She ended the night with a graceful bow to her love, The People, and with a kiss on her co-star’s cheek. He was undone by her sweetness. Well of course he was. He fumbled awkwardly and offered to drive her home, or perhaps out for coffee? She declined in the sweetest possible way. The man felt glad to have asked her and fell asleep later that night with his nightly bottle only half-drunk and a smile on his face.

But the Observer cared only for her. On this, his last night, he would spare only a moment’s glance for the people that she had been entrusted with. The people she surrounded herself with. Were they enough for her? Was she as happy as she had hoped?

Home at last, she stripped off her working clothes, down to her skin and spun around in her warm bedroom. Surrounded by things that she loved. A clock that went to thirteen. Books about far-away places, each with a taste of the kingdom of her childhood. A stuffed bear. A stuffed owl. A stack of records, proper vinyl. She put on a music, words on wings. No bottle for the queen, why would she need it? She was full of the night’s glory and never drank after a show. Sank into her bed.

The feeling surfaced again. A combination of grief and fear. What was it? She stuffed it down, that cold-water shock that had hit her on stage, that shaking certainty that something was Wrong. Was it something she had read or seen or perhaps just known? She conjured up warmth for herself. The magnificence of the final speech, the way the crowd had been glued to her, the eruption of their applause.

She slept.

A fluttering against the window. She sank deeper into her covers. No. Let him fly off into the rain. He couldn’t come in against her will. She was too strong for him.

Her stomach twisted. She sat up. Threw on a dressing gown; threw open the windows. He flew in, wings fluttering with her silk sheers, to the beating of a thousand wings, to the turning of a hundred years, to the soft pulsing of the music.

He stood before her. Tried to be imposing. He knew she liked it when he was imposing.

She dropped into her vanity chair.

“Why have you come?” she asked. Pretending not to know. “I told you not to come again.” She tossed her hair, then peeked over to see if he was suitably chastened.

“I came to say goodbye.”

Her stomach turned. There it was again. Something she’d seen in the newspaper. “Goodbye?”

“Please. I am dying. I just wanted to say…”

She stood up. Worse than she feared. “Is this a trick? You weren’t to come back here until St. Valentine’s. We agreed on-”

“I don’t have the strength for a battle. Please. I’m sorry. The magic is almost run dry.” He held out his hand.

She took it and drew close. Peeled off the black glove to find long, gnarled fingers. Cold and dry. Her fingers wrapped his in warmth and he shuddered.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Her voice was tiny in the dark. “We could have had more time.”

“There’s never enough time.”

“We could have – I could have come to you.”

“I didn’t want you to see me weak. Old.”

“And now I won’t see you at all. When… when did you get old?”

He chuckled. “I’ve been old as long as you’ve known me.”

“You never were.”

“I was! But it didn’t matter. In the songs, in the stories, in the adventures, it never matters.”

“So now there won’t be anymore?”

“Not new ones, no. But you can keep everything I’ve given you. You can visit me in all the old places. I’ll see you. And I’ll be there. And… I’ll come back for you. Just once. One more time, when your time is ended.”

“You don’t mean it. That’s just something people say.”

“I mean it. I always mean what I say.” He enfolded her in his arms and kissed her head. “I’ll be back, darling. One more time.”

And then he was gone, in another flutter of wings.

She walked over to the windows; pulled them closed. She swiped at her face, pressed her hand to the glass, tears mingling with the rain. She swallowed. “I wish… I wish…”

She stepped back. Not yet. Not today. Now she had her own magic to make.

 

R.I.P. David Bowie

 

Her skin knows. It knows the things she doesn’t want to admit, not even to herself.

Imagine a girl. Imagine you meet her. And you share a meal, and you make her laugh.

Imagine her laugh warms your heart and you reach out and touch her cheek with the back of your hand. Her eyes flutter softly closed.

The next time you meet, if you reach your hand to her, her skin will prickle lightly and she will not pull away. Her body’s largest organ knows what your hand is for, anticipates it, calms her. If you touch her again, the memory will strengthen. If you step in to her, so close to her body that the waves of warmth off your skin dance out to mingle with hers in thermosynthesis, if you graze the pads of your fingers up the side of her arm until gooseflesh raises, then with no fear she will step closer to you and tuck her head into the safety of your neck. You stroke her jawline and press your lips to the top of her hair. Her skin sends out a thousand notes of symphony, telegraphs a million tiny messages: this is good, this is right, stay here.

“Do you love me?” you whisper.

“I don’t know,” she answers. “Do I?” Blood swims to the surface of her cheeks. You reach down to cup her face and she leans into it, hot happiness against the palm of your hands. When you go to touch her arm, the goosebumps are already there.

Her skin knows.

Now imagine someone else.

When she stands alone he comes up behind her and yanks her head back by the ponytail. She asks him to stop, but he laughs and pulls harder. “You like it,” he says. “And anyway, I’m only teasing.” He lets go and she laughs. They both laugh. Later, she gets in his way in the kitchen and he twists her nipple ’til she cries out in anger. He laughs again, then hugs her.

“Please don’t do that anymore.”

“That’s not how the game works. You’re mine.” He laughs, like it’s a shared joke, smiles at her with affection.

Her friends ask her about him and she smiles. “He’s a good man; he really loves me.” She crosses her arms over her chest.

Another day, he walks by her to get something out of the fridge. She quickly ducks out of the way.

He laughs. “You flinched. That’s funny.”

Her skin knows.