Aftermath of Dreaming(4)

“Yeah, they’re me. I mean, mine. Uh, my design.”

The rest of the brunch swept by in a blur of sensations: Michael’s deep liquid eyes bathed my face as we talked about my new jewelry line, a soft breeze that seemed to be orchestrated by him as he stroked my arms, and the sun drowsed my body, making it softly enthralled from within.

The patio was nearly empty when Michael and I finally left. The red brick floor had become an old friend now, an easy passage to float out on with Michael just behind me. We walked down Robertson Boulevard and around the corner to where my truck was parked on a side street lined with large jacaranda trees. The late spring day was awash in soft gold light diffused by the trees’ open umbrellas of tiny purple flowers and newborn leaves. I stood in front of Michael as he leaned his upper back against the passenger window of my late-model brown Chevy truck, his lower body jutted out toward me as small blossoms rained down on us whenever a small breeze blew.

“So, do you wanna make out for a while and have it not mean anything?”

I looked into his brown eyes as I said it, looked into his eyes so lit by the sun that my reflection was clear, a small me staring back, but me made lit from his inside.

Michael choked, then tried to cover it by laughing, then I guess he realized I was serious because I was just standing there waiting to see if he wanted to or not.

Finally he said, “Everything means something.”

“Yeah, well, how about not something serious?”

He looked at me for a moment like a diver eyeing a pool, then pulled my hips forward to meet his, as our lips touched and we kissed.

It was like a dream, but not the kind I wake up screaming from. Time did that minutes-swoosh-by-while-seconds-spread-out-slow thing. And then it all stopped. Because I stopped. But there wasn’t a void, there wasn’t a hollow, there was only Michael’s face telling me that he had to see me again this week and the next, and asking why did we stop?

Frankly, I was shocked. I hadn’t expected that. Maybe I had gotten so used to the “no discernible effect” with my screaming that I figured every area of my life was like that. Or at least Michael, who is casual about everything, so casual that he practically sets a new standard for casual, and this in L.A. no less. But as I stood next to my truck, being held by him, watching tiny purple flowers float and twirl and land on our shoulders and hair while he kissed my neck and mouth and lips and hand, every reason I had not to see him again floated away and disappeared on the wind.

“Okay,” I said. “This week.”

“And the next.”

And time swooshed by as we pressed together, until I roused myself to pull away.

Michael waited on the sidewalk and watched me through the passenger window while I turned the engine over a couple of times before it caught and started up. As I was driving off, I glanced in the rearview mirror and saw Michael wave at me as he walked backward away, a slow backward stride, waving and walking facing me, until I turned the corner and couldn’t see him anymore, but I knew that soon I would.





2




“Wait a minute,” Reggie says. It sounds as if he’s practically in my kitchen with me now, as if his large frame is hovering protectively near while I lean against my fridge, the perfect vertical bed. “What’s with this ‘nothing serious’ stuff? That’s why you broke up with Michael, am I right? The whole mushroom incident was just an example, if I recall, of how completely nonserious this guy is and has been ever since you met. What happened to that?”

“I found out that mushrooms are not—”

“What, serious?”

“Yeah. They’re like making your own wine kind of thing—natural.”

“Honey, a man who finally gets away for a weekend with his girlfriend, then spends the whole time eating mushrooms alone is not natural. He’s a freak. And dated.”

“Okay, so Michael’s a little groovy.”

“Next to who? Jerry Garcia?”

“Reggie.” I blow air out my nose to stifle a laugh. I don’t want him to know that I think something that stupid about Michael is funny, but I’m sure he can tell I’m laughing anyway. “Look, maybe that ‘serious’ stuff was the whole problem in the first place the last time. Maybe I just need to see what happens and not be so concerned with some preconceived idea about where I think this should go and by when. Maybe this time I can just take it as it comes and, you know, have fun. I mean, he’s incredibly—”

“Okay, honey, you know what? You’re nuts.”

“And you’re not?” I leave the kitchen to pace my living room floor. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to sound all New Age-y about this, but Michael keeps coming back into my life—”

“So does your period; that’s necessary, he’s not.”

“Reggie.”

“Of course, he’s also unpredictable and puts you in a bad mood.”

“Are you done?”

“I just think you deserve better.”

“Well, obviously, I don’t. I mean, he is better. I mean…You know what I mean.”

I wait for Reggie’s response, but there is just silence on the phone. We listen to each other breathe for a while, as if waiting for our intakes of air and emotions to get in sync before we speak again. I imagine Reggie’s face hanging in the black nonspace that telephone communication creates. His features appear smaller when he is upset, his kind blue eyes and Kansas attractiveness pull in, as if the energy required for that emotion takes so much effort that his physicality must go without.