Aftermath of Dreaming(64)
“Ashley Wilkes is a perfect Southern gentleman,” she said without looking up from the violet petal she was sewing and knowing exactly whom I was talking about.
“Then I don’t like Southern gentlemen.”
She pulled the needle taut from the cloth, stopped her embroidery, and looked at me with her gray eyes over her glasses, as if acknowledging my age and deciding that there was still time for this view of mine to be saved. Then she handed me a tea towel, and suggested I help with that, thereby ending the subject.
The Phantom of the Opera video had ended, the credits were rolling by, I was lying on my couch with one of Michael’s arms around me, happy, but the movie had made me think of Andrew in a sideways sort of way, and I didn’t want to. I had already missed part of what Michael was saying to me, small and low in my ear.
“I mean, we hang out and stuff, isn’t that enough? I know there’s a label for that, but I’m not into semantics.”
By “stuff” I guessed he meant that we have sex. And I didn’t exactly want labels, either—though, okay, maybe a little—what I really wanted was the security of “I love you.” And to actually feel it for him. Which I think I really will—fully, completely, and truly—once I finally forget about Andrew which surely will happen any day because how long can one interaction, if I can even call it that, which, okay, I am calling it that, an interaction and so much more because he talked to Sydney about me for Christ’s sake, and what’s that if not the result of an interaction we had, but even so, how much longer can that fuel these constant thoughts of him? He is married, after all, with children, like Suzanne will be soon, but at least Michael will be at her wedding with me, and maybe their love spell will move onto us, so next year we’ll be up there. But is that what I want?
It is obvious that I’m not going to fall back asleep, so I get out of bed, put away the clothes I wore to Suzanne’s shower, and go to the kitchen for a glass of water and that forces me to pass Suzanne’s veil on the iron stand in my living room. I keep moving the damn thing back and forth from my studio to this room, half to force myself to finish it, half to get it out of my sight. I wish it would take flight and my responsibility for it would end. Why in God’s name did I ever agree to do this for her? Could there be any bigger emotionally loaded commitment to make? Sure, I’ll be completely responsible for what everyone sees around your blushing bridal face on your wedding day. No, that’s not too much pressure—okay! I figure I have another week of putting Suzanne off before she tears down my door to see it, but surely I can finish it by then. In fact, I know I can. It’s a veil, for Christ’s sake, not the David I’m meant to create—just get it done. If only I didn’t get such ennui whenever I try.
19
I get lost driving in Venice. The streets near this part of the beach angle and cut into one another unlike anywhere else in Los Angeles, so it always surprises me when I am able to find Lizzie’s store. She named it Tizzie’s, which I thought was charming when I walked in that first time and she bought my jewelry before anyone else. But now as I park my truck, I wonder if the T of her sign was less expensive than an L. Knowing Lizzie, she got a deal on it somehow, but I guess it’s better than a D.
The store is the usual customer-challenged turmoil when I walk in, but it’s Monday, so I try to pretend to myself it’s because of that. The shop is completely rearranged; new items next to retro, any decade fair game.
“Merchandising, that’s what they call it.” Forgoing a hello, Lizzie has launched into an explanation of her retail method madness. She is sitting on a high stool behind the counter, Santa-suit red hair above pale skin, sipping a diet soda in a to-go cup that looks as though she could dunk her entire head in it. Lizzie is inexplicably attractive in an against-your-will kind of way. I have never seen her in the same pair of glasses twice. Today’s are cat eye. For the first time, I wonder if the lenses are fake.
“Suddenly the customer wants to buy, but they have no idea why.” She taps her purple-painted fingernail against the jumbled-bright innards of a display case for emphasis. I realize she is directing me to the new location of my jewelry.
Reassuring her what a big change it is (this is true, I just let her interpret it how she likes), I see my earrings and pins in a chaotic clump intermingled with outdated high school rings, forgotten feather earrings, and molded plastic bracelets. My creations look enslaved.
“I need to get that check from you, Lizzie.” I smile as I say it, trying to make it pleasant somehow.
“Uh! You never come to visit—just business, business, business with you. Besides, I specifically recall saying—”
“That was three months ago, I can’t wait any longer.”
“Well, if your stuff sold better in here, hon, maybe I’d have the money for you.” She is holding her Goliath-sized beverage cup ominously, as if it were always intended as the weapon it seems. “You know, I’ve believed in you a real long time. Hell, I’ve had your trinkets in here since when was it?”
“For a good while, Lizzie, yes, and now I just need to get paid.”
“That is not gonna happen today.”
I want to grab her drink and throw it in her face, but I am silent for a moment, though wish I weren’t. Wish a stream of invectives were pouring forth, covering her with righteousness. For a second, I consider taking the rest of my jewelry back, but that would piss her off so much that I’d never get a check for all the other pieces she sold.