I'm staring hard at the quilt spread on my bed. There's a light hair curled up by my leg. The tips are light, then it gets darker, like a dirty blond. I know it's not my hair, but it's not unfamiliar. And because not a single person ever touches my bed besides me, I know whose it belongs to.
I'm being kept in this tourist town.
- - -
"There's electricity running through the rails down there. You're so stupid if you jump down."
I sneaked a peek at the kid at the Powell station. Where's your sense of adventure? Huy was probably on the same train of thought. "I did it all the time Freshmen year. You hop and hop." He glances down the tunnel where a train was approaching. "There is a camera though."
I anticipated the train roaring by, the force of its speed and bulk whipping a gust for the waiting passengers. I closed my eyes as it approached, and instead imagined being on the tracks, standing on the rails just as it ran by my body. Instead of hitting me, it sucked through me, and my visceral self ran with the train, swallowing the tracks, sliding on my belly. I opened my eyes and the train had left the station.
We took the L train to 15th Ave. and Taraval. After finding my car parked on the street, we drove to Safeway on Noriega. "He's disgruntled," I said of the man wrenching his shopping car from the space I was trying to maneuver my car into. "Then again, he is grocery shopping at midnight." We roamed the empty aisles and picked up chicken and potatoes. I teetered on a parking curb as Huy picked up newspapers from the bins on the sidewalks.
An hour later, we were flipping tri-tip on a raging grill, which retched fumes and smoke into a cool and clear San Franciscan night. A perfect half moon dangled right above the horizon. We danced and hooted. We were roasting our food, and it was going to be a hell of a feast.
- - - - -
I eagerly swung my leg around the bike, and stuffed my hands into Charlotte's pockets, one hand in either side. Thighs wrapped tight and helmets secured, we huffed and cracked through the intersections, making wide turns and hard brakes. "Sorry, sorry! Not used to having an extra person on this thing," Charlotte apologized. "I don't mind," I smiled breathlessly. I started giggling senselessly when Charlotte throttled the bike to a great speed as we circled downtown. The wind whipping us and flying scenery made me feel exhilarated, as if I was falling down horizontally. When we drove by the crackheads and the tourists and other currently nondescript city life, I pictured riding my uncle's motorbike in Viet Nam. I was ecstatic.
We drove along the Embarcadero waterfront. Pier 23. 29. 33. Park. We followed a trail of people in red t-shirts and waited with Jake and his cinema major friend along with a haggle of tourists in line for the Alcatraz tour. Once on the boat, I straddled my helmet, put my face against the breeze, and became conversational with Jake's friend. He was shy, but responded well. A curiosity. The city got smaller, and the island loomed. We circled Alcatraz, like a bird spiraling down to land. "What does it mean to have sea legs?," Charlotte wanted to know. We offered two meanings. Both of them are probably true.
Iphigenia and Other Daughters was conceptually beautiful. The chorus of sacrificed virgins created beautiful montages. The actors' playing space were huge steps, overshadowed by the Alcatraz prison building, with the ocean's crashing waves and an electric cello offering a constant soundtrack. As the night continued, a pit of fire was the "stage's" lighting. The actors embraced the semi-amphitheater environment. Projection and elongated movement. For this style, I appreciated the acknowledgment of a return to classical Greek staging. Unfortunately, the entirety of the show and its surroundings was not a perfect marriage. But I commend the concept, the powerful images, the push for aesthetics. Although the performances were strong, the acting was not, though I can't see how much could be brought out considering the lack of acoustics and furthermore, the playing space, except for strong commitment. I walked away with a strong image of each individual character. Teri Whipple, of course, is always beautiful.
- - - - - - -
Grilled cheese animal style. Both raw and grilled onions. Spread on the side.
Vegetarians at In 'n Out were happy tonight.
On the moto ride home, Charlotte confided in me about her heart burn.
It's okay. Earlier that night, I confided in her about my lack of interest in my own life.
The fear and worry and heart-wrenching relationships I have with some men recently has stretched me. The summer of anti-romance has ended. The love that I thought I could tuck away has risen again. How childish. The seeds we planted are still in the soil. A beauty that refuses to escape.
Perhaps it's time for me to escape. I will have two degrees in three months. I need to hop on my own motorcycle and leave. Take this baby and go. Forgetting will come later.
- - - - -
As I write this, I know I am lonely and yearning. That I had made my bed several times, had fevers, and cried in my sheets for numerous nights, I am bewildered that on top of my made bed, on my quilt, is a strand of his hair. I had thrown my purses, clothes, my computer, phone, paperwork, headphones, camera on my bed. Kicked my comforter off, twisted the duvet, switched out my pillows, wrapped the throws around my legs. All seven layers on my bed evolving and migrating each night. And there it is. A strand of curly blond hair, unmistakably his, sitting right on top of my quilt.
It's the same blond hair that is straight when short, and grows out curly. The same hair that offers a soft nestle on his thin broad chest. The bristle on his chin as we kiss, his soft bottom lip tasting irony as I bite down on it, even though he'll tell me it's metaphor. This boy who at any given point in time, has the power to make me laugh at my awkward obscenities and then wonderfully strong and prideful as he carries me onto a pedestal, loving loving loving me. One person who I had nightmares about earlier in the summer, who knifed me hard, and I still forgave him, there was nothing to forgive, because all of them - all of them hurt, all of them are assholes, all of them are boys, oblivious of our hurt. The man who I still picture holding me in ten years when we are older, and finally ready. It's less than ten years now, isn't it? I wish the countdown was faster. We grew up a little bit this past year. I grew older during my summer of anti-romance, when he was away. Is that enough yet? I can't tell. I can't even really tell how he regards me anymore. The only thing he lets me read is when we're physical, but I've misread physical relationships before, and this is why I'm where I am right now. Anxious and scared.
- - -
I'm still lonely. I still love. Not "in love." Not when neither of us are "in" anything. I like to think that I love myself too, because I get up in the morning, and I work really hard to be strong and independent and motivated. But I'm so alone, it's awful. I don't want that kind of need. I've been told it's okay to need, but I'm so human, I just want him. I'm starting to lose interest in everything. I'm not even doing anything about this maybe-pregnancy. I get spurts of moments, like riding a motorcycle or staring down at the water in the bay on a ship that makes me happy. But... I thought there should be more than that. I am a girl who is love with being in love, goddammit. I like watching Disney princess films, and I lie awake at night pining to be cold at this place in my body that matters the most.
He's a dancer in the dark. I think I'm in love with Joni Mitchell. She can't stop singing about my heart.
Maybe I'll just get a little bit bigger and not even notice anything until the baby comes out. I mean, where's my sense of adventure?
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