Sunday, February 05, 2006

Angels With Silver Wings

John invited me over for Super Bowl. There were about 40 people milling about. Friends, neighbors, some people from work. It was noisy but inviting. Normally I don’t pay much attention to football but I always get caught up in Super Bowl. The squares, the pre-game show, the ads, the halftime, the cheering, the jeering, even the game itself. Suddenly I find myself paying attention.

During the game my cell rings. My uncle calling to see if I am watching the game. He always does that. Every Super Bowl. Except the year his son, my cousin, went missing.

Sometimes I think my mom’s family is cursed. My other uncle lost his son in a 3 day fever. My aunt, my mom’s sister - she’s the one I wrote about earlier - loves kids but can’t have any of her own. My mother lost a son too. My older brother. We never talk about him just like we never talk about what happened to me when I was 4. He was only months old when he died. He would be 35 now.

After some time I start getting a little bored with the game so I get up and wander onto the deck. John has the most amazing view. The view from my apartment is cute. Tall city buildings to one side, a small strip mall in front and a slice of water flanked by the mountains in the background. But it’s nothing compared to the view from his deck. Here the mountains are majestic, the snow glistening on the peaks, descending into the dark raggedy green below. Jagged seams of light and dark plunging at each other.

I get a little lost in the view until he comes out. He asks if I am having fun and starts to apologize about the crowd. I say, "Oh no. No, no, no. It’s great. I lost track of time. Your view is amazing." He still looks worried so I go inside.

Towards the end. Everybody is yelling. It’s Seahawks 10 to Steelers 21 now. Pretty much a given game. The biggest margin recovery record is 10 points. They mentioned that during the game when it was 10 to 14 I think. John leans over and whispers in my ear. Pasta marinara. I am impressed. A guy who can cook pasta marinara. He says he plans to boot everyone out after the game. And then he goes into the kitchen. A short time later I follow to see if he needs help.

I find him standing in front of the stove. Tara, his ex - he’d introduced us earlier - standing next to him. Close. Her hand in his back pocket, leaning into him either whispering or about to whisper something. She must have seen me out of the corner of her eye. She turns and looks at me. We look at each other for a half second. Then she turns back towards him and I go back into the living room.

Later, after the game when people are leaving I get up and get my coat and scarf. He starts to ask what I am doing. I intercept the question and say I just remembered I have to finish a presentation for tomorrow. He looks like he’s trying to decide how to react. I give him a peck on the cheek and leave before he has time to make up his mind.

I am back in my apartment. Sitting in the balcony on a chair, my feet propped up on the cold metal railing. I am wearing my green cargo capris and a cropped pink tee that says "1st Place Bikini Contest - Daytona Beach." It has a picture of palm trees and a cartoon beach. I didn’t win it in any contest. Saw it on Target and thought it was cute. The sleeves are short, cap sleeves. My arms are bare and freezing. So are my feet. The laptop is on my lap, the only warmth, the screen casting an eerie soft white glow in the night. Next to me on a small table is a tub of Edy’s slow churned coffee ice cream and a large stainless steel spoon.

John’s not my ex. One has nothing to do with the other, I tell myself. But how can I be sure? If A led to B led C once can’t A lead to B lead to C again? And then what? Rinse and repeat? Rinse and repeat? How many times?

I am irrational. Wound up and wounded. I think, I can’t do this again. I used to be stronger. Resilient. Bent but not broken. Not anymore. Every little hurt, real or imagined, brings tears to my eyes now.

I look at one man and see another. It’s not fair to anyone. And I don’t see the good, only the bad. Only the bad? This is not how I want to remember.

I know I am blowing things out of proportion. I barely know John. I don’t even know if I like him. But can I afford to wait until I find out?

I keep thinking back to a Post Secret postcard. It said, "I would much rather have peace of mind..."

I think about people whose lives revolve around sex and shoes. That’s got to be easier. But then, everbody thinks that about other people's lives.

From the open door on my right I can hear Depeche Mode singing Precious on the music system ... Angels with silver wings shouldn’t know suffering ...

Not singing about me.

On nights like these I feel the most like writing. On nights like these I am also the most afraid to write for fear of what I might reveal. Thoughts and feelings that weren’t meant to be committed to words. Daylight chases away doubts and worries. Darkness ushers them back.

Or maybe daylight creates an illusion and darkness reveals the truth.

It’s not in my nature to confide that much in people. Happiness I can share. Troubles I keep to myself. Maybe that’s why this breakup is so much harder. Now I think, I don’t want to tell my stories to anyone who is not going to stick around.

Or maybe there is some truth to the 6 months healing time for each year of relationship myth. By that calculation I only have 13 more months to go. Almost there.

I don’t know how I will feel about this post tomorrow. Probably silly, embarrassed, uncomfortable. Thank God for anonymity. But for right now. Well, there it is. Me. Raw. Exposed. Without my wings.


Anonymous Anonymous said...

Hi. This is Mr. anonymous2 from last week. I hear you, although I don't really have anything useful to say.

2/06/2006 12:04 PM  
Blogger beefdrop said...

"Exposed, without and wings", and still beautiful.

2/07/2006 12:10 PM  

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