It was a small gathering in his apartment above the florist. Liz Jones whipped out her violin and played some Gaelic melodies in honor of St. Patrick’s Day. I was wearing a green undershirt, and it would only be a matter of time before my jacket would fall to the floor, better to dance without it. By that time, only four of us dancing; the violin packed away, the beers brought across the street to be cracked open cross legged on the floor of another furniture-less apartment. Here, in the whirring light of the monitor, David would play another song, and Jo would call out, “Four-way kiss!” We’d lean in, bump faces. After another round of lime Jell-o shots, another green beer for Jo, Dave, and Thompson, the Fortress would call to us. Pushing together the two faded blue couches, the Fortress took up the whole living room; we sank into the lumpy seats, the far corner sagging heavily from the time when Thompson stood on it. “Thompy! Trade with me!” Jo would exclaim, and make Thompson sit in the sunken corner. After our eyes began to droop, after Jo lit a bowl in her rainbow pipe, Bo, the air and smoke would mix with the acoustics and we’d confess our thoughts; how Thompson missed a girl named Christine; how David was still in love with his ex for ten months, ten months, he said it unbelieving. Late that night, squished together in the living room, drafty from the high rattling windows, I felt an ant crawl on my back—no—someone running a finger gently, gently along my skin. I froze. I couldn’t help but admire his persistence, however; his fingers beginning to press more firmly against my back, but without delay. Breath held, he absorbed my skin for over an hour; slowly tracing my spine, my hip, over my stomach.
*
It was a small gathering in the apartment above the wood shop. Eric Carter whipped out his own personal shot glass and a near-empty bottle of rum in honor of Halloween. I was wearing an antique over shirt, the only costume-like clothing in my heaping closet, and it would only be a matter of time before my jacket would fall to the floor, better to move that way. By that time, only a few of us sitting on the couches and chairs in the living room; Liza perched on the ledge above the stairs, Kylie and Kim leaning towards each other on the couch, Rodney had his feet up on the lobster trap. Taking another sip of wine or rum or tequila, or glancing at the whirring monitor where the Shining played quietly, we confessed our thoughts; how Rodney was crazy in his freshmen year, how he regretted dropping out of college; how Kylie had been so religious she did not make time for friends—now she just wanted a boyfriend, she wanted her first kiss; how Liza claimed she used to be a hermit in college, and Kim was just plain angry, dating a boy who was bad for her. I lingered on the edge of my chair by the kitchen, listening, my mind drifting to my own first year at college, when I didn’t know this apartment, these people, when I was still roommates with Jo and we still talked. When I was dating David and the group of us would float down the Sandy River in a thunderstorm, or dance in his moldy kitchen, or when just the two of us would lie in his six-hundred-dollar bed and listen to the courthouse chime and talk about music, literature, philosophy, college. David broke up with me before leaving for France, and he had already been gone ten months. Ten months. I thought about it unbelieving. The high windows whistled softly, breaking my thoughts, and I remembered how the spiders came pouring in that summer, babies spreading over the couches and lamps; every so often you’d feel something prickle up your arm—you’d slap the spider on instinct or give out a little shriek—or sometimes, breath held, you’d lay your arm on the window sill and wait for the baby spider to trace its way back to the screen.
No comments:
Post a Comment