No, I don’t think so.
You look so familiar. You didn’t go to Pearson
High School?
I am shaking my head, No.
Well, here’s a drink anyway.
I don’t drink.
Shit.
Right?
I’m holding the beer out to you anyway.
I am lifting my hands in the air, my palms towards
you as if to say, What do you expect me to do with that? Then I bring my lower
lip up into my upper lip hard, which I just recently read means I’m pursing my
lips, or some people would say that. I mean, I think this is different because
I know that the skin between my nose and mouth is bulging out and, by the way,
I am actually blinking back tears right now because the reason I do not drink
is that my grandmother and my father and my little sister all have heavy
drinking problems and that brand of beer you are waving at me happens to be
consumed by the case by my family. Not that I am sad about their alcoholism, I
am sort of over it, okay, so I cannot really explain the tears. Maybe you
should just get away from me?
I’m lifting my arms up like, Hey, Whoa, Sorry,
Sorry, in each hand a beer dangling from its neck and here comes some guy
looking towards the bar and the crazy mob trying to order and I’m taken with,
like, Christian good will, or maybe it’s despair, or maybe it’s one to fight
the other, and I hand out the beer to him and he’s like, What the fuck? Thanks,
Boss, and he grabs my shoulder and actually he must work out or something
because, Holy fuck, his hand is seriously strong and Ow, Ow, Ow, he’s drunk too
so he’s all off balance and I think he’s trying to hold himself up on me, Shit,
so I’m patting his hand and saying, No problem, and he says, What? because of
the music and maybe his gratitude or surprise, so I say, No problem, again and
then it’s, Ow, Fuck, like he’s trying to climb up on my shoulder so he can put
his ear to my mouth and I twist because, Jesus, the pain, man, and I say, I
said, No problem. He kisses me, then lets me go.
You look so surprised that I laugh despite my
alcoholic family. The left half of your face smiles followed shortly by the
right half. Did he go to Pearson? I ask.
Now that’s funny.
Did I hurt your feelings?
No. No. That’s Brian. I dated his younger sister,
Julia, for three weeks. We were in love.
Best three weeks of your life.
It was hard when it ended. Actually.
Was Julia your first?
First breast. First girl I felt up. She had an
inverted nipple on the right side. Every set of nipples I’ve encountered since
have been a disappointment.
I have never been felt up.
You’re joking.
I am.
Why would you do that to me?
What? Joke?
Lie.
You lied about Brian.
But not about Julia.
I know how much men like to be a woman’s first.
I don’t know what to say for a second and I want
to look at your breasts.
You’d find these disappointing, though, I say, my
hand tracing and back-tracing a line between right nipple and left.
Both normal, then?
Sadly.
But your breasts are on the table.
I lean forward and rest my breasts on the table.
Look at that.
You’re a joker.
Yes. I will laugh after the first time we have
sex, too, which will be in—I check my watch—less than thirty-six hours. You
will orgasm prematurely.
Damn it. I’m sorry.
I will not laugh at the orgasm, though, and the
sex will be pretty good—not great, though, never great the first time, not for
me anyway. What will make me laugh is how badly you feel and it will make me
feel, well, grateful that you are considerate, but a little worried that you
may never have the kind of swagger in the bedroom that really turns me on, at
this stage in my life anyway.
You were going to tell me about the first person
who felt you up.
Was I?
If not now, sometime soon. It was traumatic for
you, wasn’t it?
Happened at a party in Diane Offson’s basement.
Alex Mansfield did it. Got chip grease all over my shirt and bra. He did not
stop when Diane’s mom turned on the lights and asked, What’s going on down
here? and stood with her hands on her hips looking straight at us. Straight at
me and Alex, who had one hand down the collar of my shirt and the other right
on top of it, his hands working like he was playing with Play-Doh or a stress
ball.
That doesn’t sound so traumatic.
You won’t think so when I tell you, either, and
we’ll fight about it. It’ll be the hottest day of summer and all the city’s
lights will be out, its power down.
Hunh. Still, what was traumatic?
I liked Alex, but I didn’t want him feeling me up
at a party in front of my friends and one of my friends’ mothers.
Okay.
Then I will tell you about when I was in high
school and my friend and I went to a punk show, then crashed at this guy’s
apartment where he forced us to give him blow jobs.
And I’ll get that it was rape?
No.
I won’t?
No. It’ll take us having a daughter before you
understand that.
I’m sorry.
I wish.
But then you will ask me—tell me—to straddle your
face.
Here it comes.
And pretend that I’m forcing you to suck my dick.
Yep.
And you’ll expect me to understand that even
though some guy raped you, raped in quotation marks, that now you want me to
pretend that I’m doing the same thing that he did because in a different context
it turns you on.
Fuck you, quotation marks.
I don’t understand that and I’m not sure I will.
You will, but it will be, like, fifteen years from
now.
Right, when we have a daughter.
That’s right.
Could I get you a soft drink?
Right now, I would just like you to go away.
But I won’t go away.
No.
I’m being annoying, aren’t I?
You’re cute, though.
Am I?
And that thing with that guy hanging off you, you
handled that well.
What should we talk about?
It is super-loud in here.
True. The music’s okay, though.
Is it?
I love the Pixies. Where else could you dance to
the Pixies?
The Smashing Pumpkins?
Okay, sure. They’ve got some decent songs, though.
And wouldn’t you rather listen to them than, I don’t know, Usher?
Oh, the DJ’s playing that song by the Roots.
I don’t recognize it.
You don’t know this song? With Erykah Badu?
I shake my head.
Don’t you listen to music?
I listen to music nearly constantly.
How have you not heard this?
I don’t really listen to the radio? Just albums.
Well, get this one.
I will. I’ll be listening to it on the way home
from my grandmother’s funeral, late at night and a little drunk, driving alone
in the dark to my mom’s place.
That will be when we are broken up?
The first time, yes. And when this song comes on,
I’ll think about how now you interrupt me, whatever I am talking about, and in
a second will walk me to the dance floor, your classic-looking, bold red dress
swaying.
I stand up and grab the beer bottle out of your
hand and hand it to someone nearby.
I won’t remember this part.
He hasn’t touched it, I tell them.
Is that true?
You haven’t touched it.
I’m too focused on the fact that you are holding
my hand to notice that the person you gave my beer to holds it in front of
their chest for a few seconds before they lift it to the light to see where the
beer comes up to—how much beer is in the bottle, you know? Am I saying that
right? They’ll check to see that no one has taken a drink then shrug to their
friend who will make an I-don’t-know face. They’ll smell the mouth of the beer
bottle as if it would smell like my mouth or like anything other than—
Here’s the chorus. I love the chorus. I put myself
in front of you and place your hand on that soft, concave stretch between my
hip and my rib cage.
And hold my other hand.
I sing along with Erykah.
I am close enough to hear that you have a
beautiful voice, or to think that I hear that you have a beautiful voice.
My voice is not beautiful.
Come on. Hey, don’t stop singing. I like the
feeling of your breath through my shirt.
Even though it’s so hot in here?
And the sound of your voice.
I put my head against your chest. Is that better
than my breath?
My heart is beating too hard and too fast. I. It’s
like. I’m embarrassed like a teenager dancing with a boner.
Don’t ruin this by being crass. The force of your
heart is like a miracle. I worry that you maybe have a problem, but the rhythm
is regular and strong. There is nothing wrong with your heart the organ.
But my figurative heart?
Over the next few years you will have trouble committing
to me.
That’s true.
And the story you will tell about it—
Story? You think I’m lying?
No. But in a few years, I will read Thomas King’s The
Truth About Stories and his
phrase, The truth about stories is that that’s all we are, will really influence
how I talk about—how I think about—truth in quotation marks or the way we tell
truths about ourselves to other people. Your story, your truth about why you
have trouble is related to your parents and their divorce.
It was hard on me.
I know. And it will explain and be used to excuse
your coldness.
I don’t know if—
Shh, here’s the chorus again.
You sing against my chest and the vibrations are
gorgeous. It reminds me of being a child, before my parents were divorced and
they would have people over and I would hear my father’s and mother’s voices as
vibrations, their words unclear, but their feelings and their identity somehow
clearer without the confusion of words.
Like they were singing.
When we have children and we start visiting with
friends after our children have gone to bed, I will wonder if they hear us
talking and singing the same way.
Baby don’t worry, you know that you’ve got
me-ee.
When she’s a teenager, our oldest daughter will
tell me she hates my voice.
And you will not speak to her for a week.
Which will make a point.
But be deeply irritating.
Why for you? I won’t understand that.
Because what kind of example will that set?
Can’t my feelings be hurt?
Obviously.
Let’s talk about something else. Like, when do we
start dreaming all the false dreams? All the lovely fantasies?
Well, the song ends.
With that fantastic fast drumming by Questlove.
You will make some comment about “Stairway to
Heaven” and school dances.
And you’ll laugh.
I will introduce you to the friends I came with
and you will introduce me to the guys you came with, but mostly we will sit on
two stools we will be lucky enough to find free and we will talk over the music
until our throats are sore. I will tell you what I do—work in a library, study
book history and religion.
But not theology. Like, you aren’t becoming a
minister or priest or whatever.
No. And you will tell me what you do—work in an
art supply store. Play in a band. We will go get falafel across the street with
the friends I came with so they can make sure that you are okay.
I’m fine.
An okay person.
Oh, right.
And not too drunk to be sensible and kind. We will
fool around at my apartment until sunrise.
But we won’t have sex—I’m not complaining.
No we will not have sex, not until the second time
we see each other, which is soon anyway, and then a few times every day for a
week or more.
And you will come.
Plenty of times. But tomorrow morning, when our
lips are sore and we are tired but exhilarated, you will tell me that you want
to move to the country and raise peafowl and many children.
We’ll have four kids.
But no house in the country. And no peafowl.
Those are lovely fantasies.
They could be lovely realities.
What about what happens long term? Like the end.
Death?
So the end of us is when one of us dies?
Do we have to talk about this?
I guess not. But that’s pretty cool. Impressive, I
mean. Like, that’s commitment.
Yes, it is.
We should be grateful.
I am grateful.
I am too.
I will be sad when it happens.
Wait, sad to leave or sad that I’m leaving?
We said we weren’t going to talk about it.
Not now. Let’s just enjoy the song. Here’s the
chorus again.
I love you. I will love you.
And I will love you.
What if none of this happens?
That’s possible, too.
Toronto, June-July 2016
Emoji sequence: Erin Tee of Kappamaki Design
Story: Lee Sheppard
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