Sunburnt

I was 16, he was 18. We took a walk in the cherry orchard on the hill above my house; it was in bloom and the scent of the pink blossoms was as thick as frosting in the air. He waited until we were deep in the trees, for as far as we could see the cotton-candy puffs were arranged in neat rows, with soft long grass between; the air was sweet and carried an ambient twitter and buzz. "I love you, I love you, I love you," he crowed, as though he couldn't contain the words any longer. As if it was the most urgent message, the warning of a fire, the imminent attack of a tiger, the goodbye before drowning. "I love you." I caught the words and twisted them around in my mouth, like the stem of a maraschino cherry. I can tie a knot in this stem with my tongue, and I did, and then parted my lips and said it back, "I love you, too."

From then on, and through my early 20's, I shared "I love you's" with abandon. Relationships were lustful - I'd plow into new ones recklessly and within weeks proclaim my deepest feelings. Love was a giant reservoir! A reservoir that was so deep you couldn't see the bottom. It was so deep that I sucked up barrels of it and dumped them on unsuspecting, and mostly, unworthy, men. Love was easy and I was confident. I was naïve. 

And then love waned, and, at some point, it died. The men I was with didn't say it anymore. And neither did I. Love was fraught. It came in concert with other complicated feelings, many of them weird and problematic. Love was a weapon. It was dangerous in the wrong hands. Even, possibly, fatal in others. Best not to feel it, share it, anymore. 

It's been at least 8 years since I've said "I love you" to a partner.* And as much as it was a part of a decade of my life, I can't really remember what it's like. To feel love, to be loved. Each time I get involved with a new relationship, I'm confused: is this it? Is this love? I don't recognize it anymore. As a result, I've misidentified it - I thought those broad shoulders and that tone of voice and that gut flutter were it. But they weren't. Is that smile, that kiss, that chemical fire of chemistry it? No? Then where is it? What is it? How can I know, so if it comes again, I will take care of it? I've been trying to decipher, to dissect, the pieces parts. Perhaps if I can tell what they are, individually, when the person, the time, presents itself, again, I can reassemble love, reverse engineer it. I can make love out of what I do know, instead of what I don't. 

Here is what I have so far: 

Mutual Insurance (Kipling)

After two months he sends you a text, "I didn't know if you wanted to catch up this week?" You are curious. You say sure. You meet for coffee.

He is the same - a conundrum, an enigma. His features are classically, carefully drawn, beautiful instead of handsome - dark hair contrasting with a light complexion - he has strong shoulders, narrow hips and long, elegant fingers. His skin is taut over his cheekbones, jaw line, and aquiline nose, the ivory color only slightly, barely more pink on his cheeks. His full lips rest equidistant between a smile and a frown. But his eyes, the color of smoke haze in a blue sky, are not windows into his soul; instead they dart around, rest on the middle distance - he avoids your seeking gaze. His movements belie the refinement of his physical being, he slouches, he is bumbling – he accidentally knocks the spoon against his coffee cup with a clang and drops his napkin on the floor. When he speaks it is in starts and fits with long pauses between. He doesn't explain what happened. What changed. Just that he's missed you. That he thought about you every day. As you leave the coffee shop, both of you bundled in a heavy wool coat, knit cap, scarf, he nervously rubs your arm and then wraps you in a long sigh of a hug. He kisses the side of your head, your hair. Can he feel your heart beat through the layers?

That is all it takes.

Back to the Future (Kipling)

One of the difficult parts, perhaps even the most difficult for me, is the losing of the future you, as much as the losing of the person you are now. It's the knowing that the future you will not be coming for dinner this Sunday, or the next, or any other Sunday ever. The future you will not be setting up the game after, and reading out loud, with chuckles, the rules. The future you will not be cradling my head under your arm while the future me falls predictably asleep, during the movie. The future you will then not ensure the future me wakes back up to brush my future teeth. 

I will not know the smell of your future hair and the feel of your future breath on my neck while the future us sleep. There will be no future us sleeping. Only the future me, and the future you, in separate places. Apart. 

I will not know the topics of conversation that the future you will patter on about, as the future me drives through traffic, in a spring rain, or a cool fall day. The future me will not know the address where to take the future you or where to pick you up or have a key that fits the lock there. 

I will not be privy to the politics, opinions and humor of the future you. 

A Post Break-Up Meal Plan (Kipling)

Day one: Get out of bed. Go into the kitchen. Make coffee. Open the fridge. Open the freezer. Check each of the cupboards and review the contents of the bowl on the counter. Skip breakfast. Scald your tongue with coffee. Have an extra cup. Drink lots and lots of water. Room temperature water. No ice. Skip lunch. Drink more water; rinse out all your insides. Take a shower and let the water catch you directly in the face with your eyes closed. Open your mouth and feel the water hit your teeth, take it into your mouth, blow it out in an arc. Do it again. Don't let the water go up your nose. After the shower, sit on the couch in your robe. Have a cup of tea with your hair still wet. Consider a piece of toast. Reconsider. Go to back to bed. Feel your stomach pull up tight to your rib cage - let it be as empty as your heart.

Day two: Pour a few Cheerios in a bowl. Not that bowl. A different bowl. Pour just a little milk in. Is the milk still good? Smell the milk. Take a small bite. Chew slowly. Swallow. Put the bowl on the floor for the dog. Go to work. Have more tea. More water. At lunch contemplate the Trader Joe's Trek Mix in your desk drawer. Separate out all the sweetened dried cranberries, the chocolate dipped fruit bits, the cashews. Throw them away. Eat only the unsalted, unroasted whole almonds. Eat 8 of them. Eat 4 more. After work take a long walk. Force yourself to glug a glass of water. Start in on the wine. Start with white. For dinner have a bowl of Corn Chex. Yes, the milk is fine. Switch to red wine. Take four X-tra Strength Tums and 3 Advil. Glug another glass of water. Try to be, have X-tra strength. 

Brunette Bouffant (Kipling)

There was an after work reception in your building last night. This morning, left as a "gift" or an afterthought, the remnants of the veggie tray are tucked in the fridge. Through the plastic clamshell tray lid are the dried-out pieces of too-large-to-eat-in-one-bite broccoli, the perfectly-round-never-to-be-ripe mini-tomatoes sure to squirt down your blouse, the tasteless nubs of fluorescent carrot and the stringy stick-in-your-teeth-anemic celery. It's all arranged, artlessly, around a pot of white glop. Is it ranch? Blue cheese? It is highly caloric. The whole tray is nearly untouched. 

You'd had a conversation prior to the reception. Food would be served. What would it be? Sarah guessed shrimp. Served on the same clamshell tray the pinky prawns, harvested by slave labor in Thailand, would be cooked to rubbery blandness. You'd guessed cheese cubes - perfectly uniform 1/2 inch squares in various warm shades arranged in a pile, the orange ones revealing a flavor profile no different from the light white ones and the light yellow ones. Is it mozzarella? Is it cheddar? Is it food? It is simply cheese-ish. Perhaps there would be some meat slices - pink meat, white meat, brown meat - rolled and tucked between the cubes. A bowl of guacamole, over-pureed, under-seasoned, the color - the off-green of an old refrigerator, would tempt a few dippers. 

There would be white wine of unknown origin and varietal, perhaps a pinot grigio, a sauvignon blanc, served in brittle clear plastic tumblers. There would be "cookies" - dried out disks of white flour, white sugar scented with palm oil. For dessert. 

You found yourself wondering - does anybody like this? Do they find it delicious? Are they happy to see these plastic trays and plates of cookies? To you, it is a joyless spread. There are so many better options. Aren't there? So why are you still here?   

It's been better for some, you know, but relationships your late-30s have been like that reception, that veggie platter, that shrimp. During the relationship, the food resembles food; technically you can eat it, though it provides little nourishment, sustenance or satisfaction. You eat it but you don't crave it, you don't savor it. You try a different bite of something, maybe this will taste like something, maybe you'll have just enough of that pinot grigio to think something on this table is delicious. But it's not. And when it ends what remains is just unappetizing, inedible leftovers: in 9 months you've accumulated nothing but an old t-shirt, a couple of unflattering Instagrams and more bagels in your freezer than any single girl should consider eating in a lifetime. And the emotional leftovers: more mistrust, worry, insecurity to add to your already substantial piles. You feel proud of yourself for never getting drunk enough to say "I love you." You feel relief that you saved the receipt from his purchased-too-early- birthday gift. You feel disgusted with your pride and relief. You know there is better but where is it? The fridge? A different building? A different town? 

Prime Rib (Kipling)

My younger (and married) sister texted me the other day: "You and K want to go bowling tonight?" I responded back, "We weren't planning on hanging out, but I'll ask." K's answer? "I have a project to work on." 

His response wasn't unexpected. Nor was it disappointing to me. We have a relationship schedule. We hang out on Sunday, Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday. There is rarely any deviation, unless there's a holiday or special event, and we plan for it in advance, along with adjustments made further along in the calendar to compensate. We don't do spontaneous. 

You see Kipling and I are in our late 30's. And dating in your late 30's is boring. 

I want to clarify something up front: I adore Kipling and he is not boring. He's interesting, handsome, kind, funny, smart, caring and I really enjoy spending time with him. Plus, bonus British accent! I think he'd probably say the same things about me, minus the accent thing. We share similar interests, we like the same movies and books, we're both silly and funny. We have stimulating conversations and are curious self-educators. We are not boring people. We just have a boring relationship.

The Day of the Dead (Jason)

You love Halloween. Mostly you love the opportunity to design and execute an elaborate costume that will transform the wearer into a storybook character, a spirit animal, a beautiful (or grotesque) version of their self. And you love the parties – dressing up and mingling with friends and strangers – scrutinizing and appreciating the artistry, the creativity, the silliness. Deciphering the who and the why behind the parrot, the lumberjack, the “insert the timely celebrity,” the witch, the monster.

This year you are invited to Lena’s annual Halloween bash and as soon as you get the invitation you start plotting your costume. You have a beautiful silk party dress – crimson red with long tendrils of ruffles that drape from the hem. You order a light blue umbrella hat from Amazon and make the trek to the dollar store – yards of silver Christmas tree garland, Christmas balls, blue polka-dotted ribbon and a strand of tiny LCD lights, battery operated. You dig out your glue gun. You wrap and glue and hang and tie and twist – you make yourself a jellyfish costume.

Halloween evening your sister comes over – hauling trunks and laundry baskets of costume fixin’s. She frosts s’mores cupcakes with coconut rum buttercream while you curl your hair. Cody comes over and you devise a dapper monkey costume – your black and white pajama set, an embroidered vest, a vintage cap, a tattoo moustache – and of course, a long fur tail with a dramatic curl. Layla arrives and your sister assists her with false eyelashes and pigtails; you steam the wrinkles out of an orange satin cowgirl shirt and dig out the best Western belt you can find. She tucks her jeans into her boots. Cody hands out candy to the trick-or-treaters while you assemble various fur pieces and feather masks for not one, but two fox costumes. You apply long glitter lashes, powder your face a light sparkly blue and wrap a necklace made of clear glass bubbles around your neck. Layla asks if you have an extra toothbrush: “My goal is to make out with someone tonight.” You feel slightly melancholy as you grab her one from the hall closet – so many extra toothbrushes just waiting for an unexpected overnight guest. You aren’t going to set a kissing goal tonight – in a sea of sexy nurse costumes, sexy Girl Scouts, sexy zombies, your decidedly unsexy jellyfish costume is unlikely to encourage suitors.

Talk is cheap but not as cheap as you (Francesco)

TUESDAY

J How are you this morning? 

F Ciao gorgeousness :) I'm good although sleepy. 

...

F Tomorrow. I must cook for you. Really. I have to cook you something nice. I want to see you really enjoying something I make. Dinner at 8? 

J Perfect. Can't wait!

F Me too bella

J Thanks, babe, I've been missin' you

F Me too fiore 

WEDNESDAY

F Hi, I thought a lot about our situation and I think that’s better if we don’t pursue a romantic relationship. I wish you the best of luck, and I’m sure you’ll find someone who will make you happy.

J What? Really?

F I met someone else to who I feel deep attraction and that made me think and place what I felt for you on another level. I’m sorry. I didn’t plan it, it just happened. Good luck, Joce. 

 

Lady in Waiting (Francesco)

“Cara mia.” It takes two days. Twenty-four hours. Two days of your heart in your throat, biting your lip, catching yourself smiling at nothing. Two days of happiness, the chew and swallow kind: edible, tasty, satisfying. Two days of imagining an imaginary future together. Your hand, his hand. His breath, your ear. Two days and then the doubt sets in. “Ciao splendida, I had a really great time with you last night. Hope your day started well.”

Can he see the wrinkles around your eyes? Does he find them charming or do they just make you look old? Does he like long hair, curly or straight, or does he prefer a girl with short hair? Blondes? Brunettes? Redheads? Does he like your dress? It’s a bright color. Maybe something neutral is better. Maybe he prefers a girl in jeans. Flats, no heels. Your lip gloss is sticky. Your perfume is cheap.

“Buongiorno bellina.” Your first date is supposed to be just coffee. But the coffee shop closes at 6. “Shall we go somewhere for a glass of wine?” Wine turns in to dinner. Dinner turns in to knees touching under the table. You move on to a third place, for an after dinner drink. A lovely Scotch, neat, your faces get closer. You kiss. You close the place down and now it is very late on a Monday night and you are kissing on a bench in the park. Is that a full moon? Neat. “Sogni d'oro belissima ;-)”

Does he like the way you kiss? Maybe you are too forceful, but maybe you are not forceful enough. You’ve had coffee and wine, can he taste it on your tongue? Maybe it turns him on, you are delicious. Does he wish he had a breath mint to offer? When he wraps his arms around you does he find you too thick around the middle? Maybe he likes a girl with big boobs. Or maybe he’s a leg man. He’s an ass man. Is yours too big? Or just right? You guffaw. Your laugh seems forced. You are smart. You always say the dumbest things.

“Ciao mia gorgeous.” Tomorrow he will cook you dinner. A bottle of Bordeaux. Risotto with wild mushrooms. A perfect tiramisu. He is practiced. You are impressed. He is a pro. You are flattered, then disappointed. You should stay over. This will be your toothbrush when you are here. Let’s spend Christmas in Belgium. Does he say that to all the girls? Seeds of doubt are sown.

You are too confident. You are too insecure. Do you work too much? Or does he think you are not ambitious enough? Do you want kids? Is your answer the wrong answer? You talk about your family too much. He admires a girl that is close to her family. Maybe he doesn’t like pets. Why do you keep talking about your dogs?

“Buongiorno splendida. Tanti baci for you.” Date three. He is in a hurry. Dinner. Drinks. Are you ready to get out of here? Less than an hour and you don’t have to pay for parking at the garage. One more drink at his place. You don’t stay over. He doesn’t ask. “Sleep tight.”

You are playing hard to get. Maybe not hard enough. He wants you to throw yourself at his feet. Or maybe leave him alone. Why are you calling? Why didn’t you call? He thinks you're funny. He thinks you are bitter and hard. He thinks you are cute. Beautiful and sweet. Graceful. Kind. Clunky. Loud. Pushy. Bitchy. Ugly.

His communiqués are less frequent. His flattery less overt. You ask him to come for dinner at your house. “Tomorrow I don’t know yet, bella. I think I have plans. But I will let you know.” He has plans. Friday. Saturday. Sunday.

You try again. You ask him point blank. “Of course, I want to see you bella, I am just very distracted and busy right now.” So you wait for the other shoe to drop. “Grazie cara mia.”

Will he text you today? Will you ever hear from him again? Will you respond? Is he seeing someone else? Does he wish he never met you? Is he glad you met? Will you be friends when it ends? Or will you scan the crowd and hope you never catch his eye? Will the end hurt like a white hot poker in your heart? Or will it all just fade away and weeks from now you won’t remember his last name or the shape of his fingers or the smell of his cologne?

“Ciao.”

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Postcard from Italy (Cooper)

Hey,

I'm in Florence. Had lunch at a place called Zsa-Zsa's today and was
reminded of you and your sisters.

Wish you were here to explain all of this art stuff.

C

Pork belly seasoned with sage (Malik)

Dear Joce,

I wanted to share a recent journal entry with you...

"One day you are going to wake up to find yourself old and lonely." Ten years on, Joce's words still haunt me. The power of words…they hurt more than punches to the gut and resonate more than a kick in the balls.

I have an English wife and a French girlfriend. One for love and one for fun, I guess. One knows of the other, the other has no idea…my little secret. Yet I am so lonely and at times finding myself thinking back to dark and thundering summer Friday evening barbeques at the Walnut St. house. Having no furniture and calling it bohemian…my little secret. It wasn't bohemian; I simply didn't want to collect things I would have to get rid of when I left.

I find myself always wanting to leave. I go to parties, say hello, make small talk, sneak out the back without saying goodbye. Out-of-sync, I fondly remember the past but never fully enjoying the present.

I turn 40 in six months. This morning, I woke up and found myself old and lonely.

Malik

My response

*Sigh* OH, Malik. You never got it then, and you haven't got it now. I wasn't a prophet, a twenty year old sage, but merely observant. 10 years ago you were already old and lonely. You were old and lonely way before you ever met me. Which is why you ended up on Walnut St. in a house empty of more than just furniture. Old and lonely is why you left the country, why you've been married three times, why you do drugs and sometimes, when you're even more desperate, look for God.

And unless you get a hobby (other than yourself), volunteer, do something truly NOT self-serving, do something genuinely kind and not feel the need to point it out to everybody, you will die old and lonely. And for your sake, I hope I'm not clairvoyant. I hope that someday you'll learn your lesson, and die old and fulfilled. I doubt it.

His response

You make me laugh...and smile...but you are still a "stupid girl."

I love your wit and your writing style. You are a sage, in your own way.

Thanks for the punch to the belly.

Malik

30 years at the discotheque (Jaromir)

He’s from an eastern European country where, according to your father, “they don’t have a tradition of bathing.” You wonder about the truth of this statement; as he hugs you in greeting you are struck by his overwhelming body odor. You wonder if his shirt, a fitted polyester button down in a dizzying pattern of orange and brown paisley, has ever been washed; it carries the stench of 30 years of frenzied dancing at the discotheque.

You’re glad you agreed to meet at the bar so you didn’t have to spend time trapped in his car. You sit on the patio, down wind.

His English isn’t that great so you break the ice by asking about his family, his country, the town where he comes from, where he went to school and what he studied. You ask him about his job, his hobbies, movies he likes, music he likes, books he likes, food he likes, whether he follows any teams or plays any sports. Does he enjoy cooking? What is his favorite beer? Does he drink wine? Does he like to ski or would he rather be seaside? If he could choose any occupation other than his own, what would he like to do? If he joined the circus, would he be a lion tamer, ring leader, calliope player, or elephant trainer?

In two hours, he never asks you a single question about yourself. If he finishes the answer to his question, you just sit there in silence, awkwardly waiting for him to reciprocate some interest. He doesn’t, so you ask him what his dream car is, what is his favorite color, does he prefer a pencil or a pen?

It’s getting late and you’re bored and offended by his lack of social skills. Inadvertently, you yawn. “You think I’m boring don’t you?” he says, “I am a idiot and you dislike me.”
You shake your head and smile half heartedly. “I should kill myself I am so boring. I have no friends. No one will ever go on a second date with me.” You wish you could honestly disagree.