"He seemed taller before," was the thought that struck me upon first seeing him, "taller and younger." Perhaps my infatuation, occurring long before I'd decided to date my ex, had stretched his legs and smoothed his face. There is no other explanation for these dramatic changes in his appearance. His hair had grown long, creating a thick, jet-black fringe over his eyes.
At any other time I would have embraced him, just so I could breathe in his scent, just to force him to wrap his arms around me, and well, to feel him up. But, no. His presence was much too purposeful to play catch-up. He was at my apartment with strict orders: to pick up the rest of my ex's belongings.
Sensing the potential awkwardness of the situation and not wanting to prolong it, I'd piled all of my ex's things into an armchair near the door. But, strategically betraying myself, I'd 'forgotten' some things in my bedroom just so he'd have to watch my hips sway as I walked away from him to retrieve them.
The living room was warm and smelled like vanilla and Earl Grey. In my anticipation of this moment, I'd found it difficult to keep a still mind and, because of this, forced myself to make a pot of tea that went untouched. Drinking, however, was beside the point. The comfort was found in the filling of the kettle, the scooping of dried leaves and flowers, and the fragrance inhaled as he stepped through the door.
He looked down at the chair and the heap of items calling for his attention, "Wow."
"Yeah," I said, reading his thoughts. "He left a lot of things here."
My ex is an Italian chef so I was surprised to find he'd forgotten all of his pots, pans, and cooking utensils when he moved out. It made me wonder if he was in that big of a hurry to leave or did he only partially move out because he expected himself to be returning soon?
Standing there, my ex's friend made a few feeble attempts at conversation. I tried to help him, "So do you have exams next week?"
"Yeah, haven't started studying yet, though."
"Yeah, well, I'm sure it will all go fine."
"I hope so," he gave a thin chuckle. And then there was silence broken only by the faint music streaming from my stereo, something acoustic and background-ish.
Thinking on it now, I believe we were so ill at ease because it wasn't just the two of us in the room. With my ex's belongings occupying a chair, it felt as if there were three of us present and the third person wasn't contributing anything to the conversation but discomfort.
After a few moments, he shrugged his shoulders, "Well, I guess I'll just grab these things and head out."
"Wait!" I said with more urgency than the situation required. "Before I forget, I think I left a few things in the bedroom. Be right back." I turned and walked away from him, swaying my hips almost aggressively.
When I reentered the room carrying a few items of clothing, he looked a lot calmer, and was leaning against the wall. I'm guessing it was the word 'bedroom' that put him at ease, or the fact that the way I walked whilst leaving the room looked intentional, because it was.
"Okay," I said, adding the clothing to the pile, "I think that's it."
"Alright," he sighed, looking down at the load he was to carry to his car. He looked up at me, smiled, and leaned in to kiss me goodbye, "See ya."
"See you," I said, allowing him to drop a kiss on the ambiguous place that lies on the corner of my mouth.
We both pulled back, smiling politely. Then, out of mutual curiosity, leaned in again and quickly kissed each other on the mouth, like two children kissing someone other than their parents for the first time. We parted, looking intently at one another and waiting for a signal. The song on the stereo changed and that was signal enough.
At the sound of the first chord, we hastily pressed our bodies and mouths together, needing to memorise each other’s taste and touch while we, for the moment, forgot the presence of the third person in the room. I let the prickly shadow on his cheeks scratch my face and lips and lifted my chin, allowing him access to my neck. He returned his lips to mine, his mouth smelling of my perfume and tasting of the salt on my skin.
Tongues, teeth, lips and breath, minutes passed.
He stepped forward and I clumsily moved my left foot back. The heel of my foot hit the leg of a chair, a pot fell to the floor with a clamour. We both jumped and looked down at the source of the noise. The third person had cleared his throat. We released each other.
"I'm sorry," he said with guilt.
"Me too." I wondered if we were apologising to each other or the pile of stuff on the chair.
He ran a hand through his hair, composing himself, reached down and picked up the pot. I went to the kitchen and brought him a large bag to make carrying the things easier.
He filled the bag, kissed my cheek and left, still murmuring an apology.
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Monday, June 25, 2007
Better Than Before
Eternal Recurrence
The music featured on this video is Blame it on Me by Alana Davis.
I remember a conversation he and I had after he told me the story of his ex-girlfriend. "Do you trust me?" I asked, turing my upper torso toward him on the uncomfortable futon. It was a little after 4 a.m. and the movie we were watching had just finished. Sometimes I wonder if we give our past relationships too much credit. We attribute our present behavior to something awful that was done to us. So as soon as someone treats us badly, we lose all authority over ourselves? It makes us free to treat other people the exact same way that damaged us in the first place and remain very nearly blameless while we leave the tab with the invisible culprit who initiated the cycle.
"Uh..." he paused and was silent while an angel passed overhead. "Sort of."
"Okay," I whispered patiently and turned back the way I was, allowing him to spoon me, his stomach pressed into my back.
"The only reason I say 'sort of' is because all that's happened with my ex." He inhaled deeply and held his lungs tight for a few moments. I could feel the swell of his chest against my shoulder blades, then the deflation as he slowly released the him-scented CO2 into the atmosphere.
I turned back toward him and said, "I understand. I want you to know I would never purposefully hurt you," then I repeated myself with more conviction, "I would never hurt you with intention."
He sighed, "I know" and pressed his dry lips against my cheek.
I turned onto my back, straightening my legs and crossing my ankles. He adjusted his body so his arm still served as comforter to the nape of my neck and he could share my view of the dark ceiling. We lay that way breathing for a little while before I spoke, "I just wish it were possible for us to love with complete abandon, you know?"
"Yeah," he whispered, waiting for me to complete my thought.
"I mean, we give our hearts away, hoping that who we give them to will be gentle but something always happens and they drop them. So then what?"
He was silent, his breath quiet.
"We pick up the pieces and put it back together. But you can still see the cracks. It's never going to be exactly the same as it was. It's dented and scathed. But maybe..." I paused.
"What?" he reached.
I closed my eyes. "Maybe you're better than you were before your heart was damaged. Because at least you know that your heart does what it's supposed to do. At least you know that it works. It breaks, it hurts, it loves again. It works properly."
I waited for my words to bounce off the ceiling into his ear. He shuffled a little into a more thoughtful position, his arms still around me but his musings to himself. I opened my eyes at his movement and glanced over at his face. His eyes were wide and his lips freshly licked.
Finally he said breathily, "I've never thought of it that way." We fell asleep.
The music featured on this video is Blame it on Me by Alana Davis.
I remember a conversation he and I had after he told me the story of his ex-girlfriend. "Do you trust me?" I asked, turing my upper torso toward him on the uncomfortable futon. It was a little after 4 a.m. and the movie we were watching had just finished. Sometimes I wonder if we give our past relationships too much credit. We attribute our present behavior to something awful that was done to us. So as soon as someone treats us badly, we lose all authority over ourselves? It makes us free to treat other people the exact same way that damaged us in the first place and remain very nearly blameless while we leave the tab with the invisible culprit who initiated the cycle.
"Uh..." he paused and was silent while an angel passed overhead. "Sort of."
"Okay," I whispered patiently and turned back the way I was, allowing him to spoon me, his stomach pressed into my back.
"The only reason I say 'sort of' is because all that's happened with my ex." He inhaled deeply and held his lungs tight for a few moments. I could feel the swell of his chest against my shoulder blades, then the deflation as he slowly released the him-scented CO2 into the atmosphere.
I turned back toward him and said, "I understand. I want you to know I would never purposefully hurt you," then I repeated myself with more conviction, "I would never hurt you with intention."
He sighed, "I know" and pressed his dry lips against my cheek.
I turned onto my back, straightening my legs and crossing my ankles. He adjusted his body so his arm still served as comforter to the nape of my neck and he could share my view of the dark ceiling. We lay that way breathing for a little while before I spoke, "I just wish it were possible for us to love with complete abandon, you know?"
"Yeah," he whispered, waiting for me to complete my thought.
"I mean, we give our hearts away, hoping that who we give them to will be gentle but something always happens and they drop them. So then what?"
He was silent, his breath quiet.
"We pick up the pieces and put it back together. But you can still see the cracks. It's never going to be exactly the same as it was. It's dented and scathed. But maybe..." I paused.
"What?" he reached.
I closed my eyes. "Maybe you're better than you were before your heart was damaged. Because at least you know that your heart does what it's supposed to do. At least you know that it works. It breaks, it hurts, it loves again. It works properly."
I waited for my words to bounce off the ceiling into his ear. He shuffled a little into a more thoughtful position, his arms still around me but his musings to himself. I opened my eyes at his movement and glanced over at his face. His eyes were wide and his lips freshly licked.
Finally he said breathily, "I've never thought of it that way." We fell asleep.
Simple love feels like being excited about dessert
So I was going through my old journal entries and found some pretty interesting stuff.
This entry was written June 7th, 2006. Enjoy.
When it comes to relationships, is it possible to just be great? Does there always have to be something hidden, some kind of weird characteristic that explains why you're single in the first place? Alright, well if that's true, then what is my characteristic? Can't it be that some people just haven't been discovered yet? Like talented writers, musicians and painters who can't seem to find the right mode of expression.
A writer tries painting, tries learning the guitar, tries- i don't know- bird watching. Finally, a story makes it's way through and he decides to record the ideas. Beauty is neither created or destroyed, it just takes on different forms. The story is an answer to some deep hidden call. This is all very cliche but I think I'm on the right track. What I'm saying is, perhaps the right person is like the right mode of expression. Where you feel like you can actually love right. Love like you're supposed to. That's kind of amazing.
I think my weird characteristic that explains why I'm still single might be my ability to completely talk myself out of something until it feels as if it never really existed at all. I can do that. I can pull people and situations apart until they're just particles in the air. Nothing touchable or relatively substantial. And that degree of my analytical nature is negative.
You are to me as the story is to the writer, lost and then found and full of hope, conclusion still unknown.
Image originally posted at my myspace page.
This entry was written June 7th, 2006. Enjoy.
When it comes to relationships, is it possible to just be great? Does there always have to be something hidden, some kind of weird characteristic that explains why you're single in the first place? Alright, well if that's true, then what is my characteristic? Can't it be that some people just haven't been discovered yet? Like talented writers, musicians and painters who can't seem to find the right mode of expression.
A writer tries painting, tries learning the guitar, tries- i don't know- bird watching. Finally, a story makes it's way through and he decides to record the ideas. Beauty is neither created or destroyed, it just takes on different forms. The story is an answer to some deep hidden call. This is all very cliche but I think I'm on the right track. What I'm saying is, perhaps the right person is like the right mode of expression. Where you feel like you can actually love right. Love like you're supposed to. That's kind of amazing.
I think my weird characteristic that explains why I'm still single might be my ability to completely talk myself out of something until it feels as if it never really existed at all. I can do that. I can pull people and situations apart until they're just particles in the air. Nothing touchable or relatively substantial. And that degree of my analytical nature is negative.
You are to me as the story is to the writer, lost and then found and full of hope, conclusion still unknown.
Image originally posted at my myspace page.
The usual 20-Something
Recenty- oh wait, that's a lie- since I've graduated with my bachelor's (there ya go) I've been feeling like I should be, I dunno, doing something. Before I graduated, I wasn't sure of what I wanted so traveling seemed like a good enough option and since I was going somewhere, I might as well get a second degree while I'm there.
So I'm in Australia, with a BA in Journalism and a minor in Marketing whilst completing a MA in Professional Communications/ Public Relations. I've bought a camara and have started writing a lot more about my life but what I've noticed is that there isn't much to be said. Being a "professional communicator" means that I should be able to talk to anyone about anything and that I should be a wonderful conversationalist and people-person. I think I'm starting to see that... I am.
Nothing to Write Home About
The song featured on this video is Pretty Little Thing by Fink.
Last night at work (I'm a waitress) a guy at one of my tables invited me to a wedding as his date. The staff at the restaurant I work at all wear nametags, it creates a sense of affinity with the customers.
"So Porscha, wait, can I call you Porsch?" he started.
"Sure," I smiled, pouring glasses of their fourth bottle of Alkoomi Shiraz, (an absolutely gorgeous West Australian wine).
"Well, Porsch, I just got invited to a wedding and I need a date."
"Mmm hmmm," I looked up calmly. The thing is, I'm almost kind of used to these types of conversations. Being a waitress prepares you for life's awkward moments.
"Well, I was wondering if you'd like to come with me," he said this so casually that I'm pretty sure he didn't much care one way or the other. I mean, you can't care all that much if you're inviting your waitress to your friend's wedding.
"It's just that" he continued, "I have to have a date, and you seem like a pretty cool girl. Do you wanna come?"
"Uuuuhhh... Sure. Why not?" Wait, what?! What did I just say? I totally surprised myself and everyone at the table. I shrugged my shoulders, wrote down my phone number and asked about the wedding colours.
The friend whose wedding I would be attending had just joined the guys for drinks and was absolutely ecstatic to have me as a wedding guest.
"I want there to be no black at my wedding. Everyone must wear light, bright colours. The wedding colours are yellow and gold."
"Ummm, okay," I said, mentally scanning my wardrobe. Nope, nuthin' there. Well, at least I have two months to come up with something.
So I'm going to a wedding of some people I don't know with a guy I don't know as my date. It should be pretty interesting. That guy is going to call me soon, which is fine. We should have a few chats before we get all shined up together. I'm excited. Expect an update.
Perhaps traveling and talking to strangers and everything has been about stretching my comfort zone. For two years of my Bachelor degree, I had an amazingly artistic roommate who could visualise beauty and art in everything. I remember being so in love with her and her insights, just pure admiration, ya know? Anyway, when things like this happen, I kinda give her a little credit.
Now... what am I gonna wear?
So I'm in Australia, with a BA in Journalism and a minor in Marketing whilst completing a MA in Professional Communications/ Public Relations. I've bought a camara and have started writing a lot more about my life but what I've noticed is that there isn't much to be said. Being a "professional communicator" means that I should be able to talk to anyone about anything and that I should be a wonderful conversationalist and people-person. I think I'm starting to see that... I am.
Nothing to Write Home About
The song featured on this video is Pretty Little Thing by Fink.
Last night at work (I'm a waitress) a guy at one of my tables invited me to a wedding as his date. The staff at the restaurant I work at all wear nametags, it creates a sense of affinity with the customers.
"So Porscha, wait, can I call you Porsch?" he started.
"Sure," I smiled, pouring glasses of their fourth bottle of Alkoomi Shiraz, (an absolutely gorgeous West Australian wine).
"Well, Porsch, I just got invited to a wedding and I need a date."
"Mmm hmmm," I looked up calmly. The thing is, I'm almost kind of used to these types of conversations. Being a waitress prepares you for life's awkward moments.
"Well, I was wondering if you'd like to come with me," he said this so casually that I'm pretty sure he didn't much care one way or the other. I mean, you can't care all that much if you're inviting your waitress to your friend's wedding.
"It's just that" he continued, "I have to have a date, and you seem like a pretty cool girl. Do you wanna come?"
"Uuuuhhh... Sure. Why not?" Wait, what?! What did I just say? I totally surprised myself and everyone at the table. I shrugged my shoulders, wrote down my phone number and asked about the wedding colours.
The friend whose wedding I would be attending had just joined the guys for drinks and was absolutely ecstatic to have me as a wedding guest.
"I want there to be no black at my wedding. Everyone must wear light, bright colours. The wedding colours are yellow and gold."
"Ummm, okay," I said, mentally scanning my wardrobe. Nope, nuthin' there. Well, at least I have two months to come up with something.
So I'm going to a wedding of some people I don't know with a guy I don't know as my date. It should be pretty interesting. That guy is going to call me soon, which is fine. We should have a few chats before we get all shined up together. I'm excited. Expect an update.
Perhaps traveling and talking to strangers and everything has been about stretching my comfort zone. For two years of my Bachelor degree, I had an amazingly artistic roommate who could visualise beauty and art in everything. I remember being so in love with her and her insights, just pure admiration, ya know? Anyway, when things like this happen, I kinda give her a little credit.
Now... what am I gonna wear?
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