There has to be some corner of the city, some cardboard box or other into which I can crawl and hide when I’m done with the world. I already know that it’s up to me to create this box. I just wish I knew where to find some fucking cardboard…
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What’s a girl supposed to be looking for anyway? Love? Hardly. Not even “hardly.” Absolutely not… at least not now. It occurred to me that I know myself by my… generous (for lack of a better word) capacity to fall in love, but I might just be tapped out at the moment. I feel like a soldier (or a supersoldier, rather) who realizes that the fact that he’s not dead after the latest grueling defeat means that he must be strong and getting stronger, but still opts to spend a little time in the infirmary rather than proudly displaying his broken bones and bruised flesh in the next battle.
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I ended up staying in the bathroom for over an hour. My nose and cheeks had swollen up to twice their normal size. My fingertips were swollen as well, and bright red. My stomach would not allow my legs to keep me perpendicular enough to cool my face down with wet paper towels, and eventually I crumbled into a corner, keeping my face near the cold tile floor and trying not to be conspicuous, even as several ladies came in and out of the bathroom wondering whose pants those were in the corner of the far stall.
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I think I didn’t want to see him. I think if I knew he was coming I might not have gone. And that would have been a shame because it was a great fucking jam session. Better than last time. Much better.
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While I was singing, a gentleman (most probably more drunk than I) approached the stage and stood inches from my face to call-and-response the lyrics: “How sweet is he, baby? How sweet is he? Talk about your sugar!” So I looked him in his eyes and sang it to him as though he were my ex-husband… as though he were my husband. I got just a little bit dirty. I growled just a little bit. “Like sugar and spice and everything nice, he’s sugar to me…”
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That notwithstanding… I do hide. I was hiding. I don’t take up space… although maybe I want to. I’m told that I leave pieces of myself everywhere, as though in some way I am still in every place where I’ve left my scent. Like a dog marking his territory. Classic was here. That’s what I’m told. As I understand it, I just lose pieces of myself every time I move…
...read more hereHe closed his eyes and sang with his whole body; he took hold of the mic stand and pressed into it, gyrating his hips rhythmically and bending his head forward such that his hair fell just slightly over his eyes. I stared into his eyes… into his eyelids… wondering what would happen if I buried my fingers in those nappy dreadlocks…
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