Remember
December. Your birthday and the sound that rain made as
it slapped so hard in fat, dusty drops across the windscreen
on our way up the coast. And on the freeway as it came
down harder and the wipers, on full blast, failed to keep
up. Thwap, thwap, thwap. And you with your window down
and your arm soaked, smoking a cigarette ' the watery
ash trailing across your window in dotted horizontal lines.
Remember
the smell of that summer rain, filling the car and washing
us with a feeling of happiness and comfort. There were
no cars on the road that day. Just you and I in that vessel.
Remember
the taste of the air in our nostrils and on our tongues
when, after driving for an hour, the clouds parted without
warning and shards of blue sky cut through, the sun making
mirrors of the puddles on the side of the road. You said
how amazing the world was in the first minute of sunshine
after rain.
And
we drove with the sun sinking over our noses and the sky
slowly processing the shades of pink and yellow. Remember
how it almost looked green in parts that night.
And
we spent most of that weekend, you and I, side by side
on beach towels laid out on the back lawn of your Aunt's
house, that grass so fluorescent green and scratchy on
our naked torsos, staring upwards at the sky, shielding
ourselves from that hot sun with an arm bent across our
foreheads. Those trees tall around us bent; buckled like
old wounded soldiers. It was so hot then and all above
us, the birds beeped like telephones.
We
could have been anywhere then, you and me. We could've
been on an island staring up at that same sun so ferocious
on our pasty city flesh, hot orange sand burning into
our feet.
Nothing
mattered to us on that day and the days after as we watched
the clouds move like lethargic traffic across that blue
canvas and again at night after dinner, spotting falling
stars and satellites in that sky of shining, silver dots.
And as the night pulled us in, you got cold ' tiny goosebumps
breaking out on those arms that I loved so much and I
pulled you in, our bodies warmer together and we stayed
like that until it was nearly midnight, the wind blowing
so softly through the trees and that Owl, you remember
that Owl, its hoots filled with lust and longing that
neither you nor I could begin to understand.
And
you asked me to tell you a story and I told you one about
a fisherman. About a man teaching his Grandson the skills
of his craft. About two men, split by generations but
bound by blood standing on the banks of a muddy river
relocating fat and smelly carp into a blue bucket by their
feet until the bucket was full, each fish flapping madly
and lost, gasping for breaths of air, and the boy, smiling
broadly, threw his arms around his Grandfather's neck
and kissed him on his whiskered cheek. I told you how
the boy grabbed the bucket by its wire handle and started
for the car and how the old man stopped him, placed his
arm on the little boys shoulder and said 'No son, these
fish aren't for eating. It's not our place to change the
ways of the world, just to observe it, to enjoy it, but
to always respect it. And besides, these fish taste like
shit"
And
how the man took the bucket from the boy's hand and, walking
to the water, poured the fish back into the river, each
of them scrambling blindly for that cool liquid on their
gills.
You
listened so intently and I never told you that the little
boy was me because it didn't seem important.
And
later that night after tiredness had settled in, forcing
your eyes periodically to creep shut, we moved inside
the house with its 70s décor and sticky linoleum
ocean smell and had sex across the back of the couch,
your sarong shifted up your back and the palms of my hands
sweaty and hot on your skin. You were so tired you could
barely stay awake.
I
bet if you tried you could remember the next morning
and the way how that sliver of warm light shot a triangle
across both our faces, caressing us gently out of sleep
and into the new day and how you moaned so contentedly,
rolling onto your side and pushing your back into my
stomach like a spoon. And how you stood by the window
in your underwear and drew the curtain and said 'I wish
all days could be as beautifully perfect as this' and
I sighed 'Yes'.
I
boiled the kettle and made us each a cup of coffee and
we sat in our underwear on the edge of that bed, sipping
it and staring straight ahead until I said something
simple like 'Ok, we should go' and you got defensive
and snapped back 'Don't be so fucking bossy. You're
always bossing me around'.
I
wasn't Fiona.
And
I said nothing but stared at you wondering at first
if you were joking and then, realizing you weren't,
thinking how I hardly knew you at all. I said 'I'm not
bossing you babe, I just think we probably should get
going' and you waved me away with your hand and said
something like 'Well go and pack the fucking car or
something' and I wondered what demons had settled in
while I was away in the kitchen making the coffee. What
bad memory had reappeared and looped in that moment
to make your mood change so quickly ' to put that great
distance between us like strangers. It can't have been
something I said as I said nothing. But something. Something
in those short minutes when you had been left alone
with your head full of thoughts.
And
for an hour and a half we drove in complete silence
' you, staring forward out the passenger window with
your hand on your chin. Me, behind my sunglasses staring
straight ahead and chain smoking.
