Aftermath of Dreaming(65)

“Okay, three more weeks, can you have it for me then?”

“Of course, Yvette, haven’t I always been right as rain with you?” Lizzie’s sunny smile is as reassuring as a cloudy day.

Yeah, I think as the bell on the door clangs my departure from the store, right as a thunderstorm on my economic parade.



When I get home from Lizzie’s, the only messages on my answering machine, besides yet another hang-up, are ones concerning work. One is from an actress who just got back in town and is wondering if the pieces she ordered are ready. They are, so I’ll call her to set a time to take them, and I make a mental note to remind myself to somehow work it into our conversation how great they’d be on her when she attends the premiere. Another message is a possible new commission; a woman saw my jewelry on a friend of hers and wants to see what I’ve got for herself. Why couldn’t Michael have called? Just once, I wish he would call to say hey, how are you, I was thinking about you. I haven’t seen him since Friday night, and he did call on Saturday, though it wasn’t much of a conversation what with radio people talking to him in the background as if the phone to his ear was merely some odd contraption to be ignored. I’ve been having a small little feeling that I disappear for him if I’m not right in front of him. Like he does for me when I think about Andrew, actually. Stop already. Andrew is out of my life and Michael is here now. Though not enough really somehow. Though maybe he would be more if I could stop thinking about someone I haven’t been with in over four years.

But I am relieved that there isn’t a phone message from Suzanne asking when she can see her veil. I need to sit down and finish the damn thing. Dipen doesn’t have the jewelry ready yet, though there is some invoicing I can do on commissions, but I really should just work on the veil. Talking to Reggie will help me begin even though our conversations have been kind of stilted since Michael’s been in the picture again, but work anguish Reggie understands. I know he is at the editing room, so I leave a message on his home number, while wishing for the millionth time that he had a cell phone like everyone else. That and his refusal to watch the Oscars are his two acts of defiance as an Angeleno, which I respect, though it would be a lot easier if Reggie weren’t so difficult to reach anytime other than our morning calls. He is usually always out.

One night last year, he came to my apartment, and we ate the Mexican food he’d brought, then pored over a photography book he’d found on turn-of-the-century New Orleans, talking until late about the future filming of his script. Before he left, he used my phone to check his messages, which I found odd since he was heading home, but then realized that there are times when I want to know before I drive home if messages are waiting for me. He pressed some buttons, listened for a bit, hung up, and hugged me goodbye, his body cousin-comfortable with mine, then was out my door.

I went into the kitchen for a glass of water to take to bed. Noticing that I was out of milk for my morning coffee, I headed out to the gas station/convenience store two blocks away. About to cross the street to reach the store, I noticed Reggie’s car in the parking lot, but far away from the gas pumps. Then I saw Reggie with his broad back to me, talking on the pay phone. I was just about to shout to him, but a voice in my head stopped me. Why hadn’t he used my phone for the call he was making? Traffic was scarce, so I easily could have crossed the street and asked him or just said hello, but I stayed on the corner, letting the situation unfold.

Reggie hung up, got in his car, and took off in the direction opposite his home. It was clear he never saw me. I waited until he was a good distance up the street and out of view, then walked to the store, wondering what it was that was waiting for him? And who? And when, if ever, would he tell me?

Though maybe Reggie’s silence about whatever and whoever that was—or is possibly—in his life is no different than the silence I’ve kept about seeing Andrew a couple of weeks ago. Okay, it will be two weeks ago exactly tomorrow night since I saw Andrew. Like I didn’t know. Like he hasn’t been in and under and around every thought I’ve had since then, damn him. And damn you, Michael, for not distracting me enough from him. But I just need to focus more on that relationship, on Michael, because it definitely is moving forward, I can tell, and soon, eventually, the name Andrew will just be one big “Who?” and Michael is the only man I will want to be with.

I hope.

I do?



I cannot figure out how to dress. I am going to a baby shower with Michael. I could tell he really doesn’t want to go, mostly because he said, “A baby shower? I’m a guy. I’m not even supposed to go, much less have to.” Not that I completely disagree with him. Where I grew up, you’d never catch men at a baby shower. No woman in her right mind wants them around for that. “But,” I explained to Michael. “This baby shower is for two men.” The music producer I worked for when I first moved here, Bill, and his partner, Tom, adopted a baby, and they aren’t women so I guess that throws the whole females-only baby-shower code straight out the window.

As I stand in front of my closet staring into its depths, the only item that keeps popping into my head for me to wear is a pair of breasts. I keep trying to bring my mind back to a pretty skirt versus a dress, but for some reason, all I can think is, What I really need is a different pair of breasts. I tell myself that this party is not that thematic—okay, it is about a baby but not how we dress. Bill and Tom definitely don’t have breasts. Or need them even for the baby. I suddenly wonder if this body part has finally evolved into scenery—pretty but useless, like the palm trees everywhere. Anyway. I put on a pale pink top that I love with some gray pants, go to the safe in my studio for a necklace, earrings, and bracelets of citrine, amethysts, and gold, grab the baby gift, and go.