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A loosely woven fabric for my thief-of-hearts, who in a moment of sadness, had described a thing that she had read. During a separation from her company, this past summer, I mulled it over and felt such loss of her.
Ertrinkend had been a friend, long ago, in my life who I lost in the roar of life, and my hurried ways, and our parting had been quite hard.
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“… was the bitterness of her name on my lips after she split. I … I have this strange metallic taste that nothin’ takes away.” She turns her head to the side, her right side I realize. Her chin’s tilted low and her eyes are almost closed. A few more centimeters and her chin would be on her shoulder, the bare shoulder where the top she’s got on rides down to her upper-arm. Colder weather has set in and she’s worn jeans with low brown boots, a wide brown woven belt and this top that makes me remember Paris; stereotypically, horizontal stripes are meme Paris to me.
“Names always meant so much to me … I'd look them up. Hers was perfection, so perfect … perfect.” Her elbows, wrapped by the stretch of the black and white stripes of the jersey top, are planted on the edge of the linen covered tabletop. The white of the napkin drapes from her hands obscuring her bodice, her mouth and chin. There’s a slight blemish on the drapery of the white where she’d touched some of the coffee from her lower lip; a tiny crushed rose blush to the fibers in just one spot.
“’Never fallen for another woman’, I told her that.” Is it in avoidance that she’s letting her eyes drift from one empty table to another? “I told her on some impulse … she’d made no moves on me, I was the first to say anything. I was living with Rico at that time; it was okay.” Her coffee cup, some mid-priced restaurant white glazed casting, sits cooled and untouched now. The foam of the Cappuccino had fallen; the spoon she’d used to stir it was neatly embracing the cup, lying beside it on the saucer. In Paris we’d both have been smoking and I wouldn’t be so nicotine impatient. Her left hand waves slightly, dismissing some imaginary element away into the air of the quiet bistro. “Rico’d always said girl on girl didn’t matter.” She has such long, well kept, hands.
“I’d had girl crushes when I was a teenager. You remember? Nothing like this though; I’m so used to feeling in control. Doing what I want and the hell with anyone who doesn’t like it.” Her eyes pass over my face, registering me, and then continue on, settling somewhere behind me, over my right shoulder, where there’s a large expanse of glass and the street out front. “I couldn’t …” her hands surround the cup then retract at the coolness of its neglect “… I wasn’t in control from the start. She said her name and that was that.”
“Rico … that poor bastard. He didn’t know what hit him.” Her right index finger pressing a small lift-line in the tablecloth where her presence has raised the skirt. The pale ends of her nails elegantly drift back and forth along the linen edge of the table. “Work was a disaster, I couldn’t keep my mind on task, it was noticed. Rico had the little bit of himself out of my flat that day slamming the door behind him.” Her brown hair is loose; hanging forward, and now hides her from my view. “Threw the key at me.” A waiter appears and clears her cup, spoon, and saucer. I nod for a refill but she doesn’t acknowledge his presence.
“I showed up everywhere I knew she’d be; wait on corners in the evening after work along the route she’d travel to her place.” She tilts her head enough that I see the small smile on her face and can picture those streets with their trees shedding leaves. “I’ve never been bi, you know that. Well, I guess I was but hadn’t …” She doesn’t jump, but only turns slightly to look, when a tray of dishes is collapsed into shards in the kitchen.
“We met for lunch, and we texted some … me quite a bit I guess.” Her chin is wide, just slightly wide, and I study it for a moment, careless of her reactions to my scrutiny of her. “We went out together, twice. She likes jazz.” Her eyes are reptilian with the film of visual memories taking her away. “It was her name, and then all that I was learning about her. Always her name in my mouth; so expressive of my response to her.” Her eyes are focused and sharp in study of my reaction. To say they are brown would be dismissive.
“I cannot get it out of my mouth, this taste of iron and things that went so very wrong. I guess I’m queer, or obsessed, or …” “Lost” is my only reply. She nods. “Work’s okay now and I’m sleeping again.” She nods slightly without any sign of pleasure, the corners of her mouth un-tensed and slightly curving downward. She’s wearing little makeup today; just enough to appear street cruel, and the bruise-purple sleepless look has retreated. “I won’t call her. I still have her number in my contacts and she’s texted me a couple of times since, apologies. Rico’s brother called and said he’d gotten in a few fights. I know he’s been fucking himself through half of my old friends.”
The traffic outside is picking up; more horns, more reflected flashes of afternoon light. The restaurant is empty of customers and our bill sits with my credit card flat on top on a dessert plate. “I know how I feel about her, but I don’t know what to think of myself.” I sense her eagerness to end this. Her back is straight and her legs now uncrossed; she’s turned slightly in her chair.
“Did this help you?” she asks quietly. I nod and smile sadly. “Yeah and … thank you for telling me.” She rises and lifts her purse and light brown leather jacket from the empty chair to my left. “What am I going to do now?” Her long narrow legs carry her toward the entrance doors. The hostess pushes against the windowed wood and the left-side door opens for her.
I became a loom ... a work of wood and oils and flesh and pain ... I became words, woven together to impart myself, an offering of memory and love ... I became a crowd of voices longing for that final color that might complete ... I am Amanda here to open, here to pound loud and set you upon a journey ...
Favorite visual artistNatalie Shau. (long list of DA photographers and manipulation freaks)(Leana*kiss)Favorite moviesHigh Art, La Femme NikitaFavorite TV showsCarnivale, Walking Dead, Two Broke Girls, NOVA, Discovery Channel (anything)Favorite bands / musical artistsCollide, Apocalyptica, Blonde Redhead, DIE ANTWOORD!Favorite booksKissing Dead Girls, Look at Me, The Keep, Ghost WalkFavorite writersJennifer Eagen, Daphne Gottlieb, Marina Tsvetqeva, Sofia Parnok, S.PlathFavorite gamesspin the bottle, whack a trollFavorite gaming platformpool table, bar topTools of the TradeMac Book Air, Windoze 7 crate of crap, Nikon D200, Epson Perfection V750 ProOther Interestsphotography, modeling, kleptomania, screaming at strangers and then stun gunning them
For the ensconced demented deviants among us!
Yes, I AM a gay American woman; and damn proud of that. I flirt shamelessly with females, males, and photos of kittens. Anyone who let’s that go to their heads (eyes.the.homophobic.female.artist) is not only stupid but arrogant.