phoenix {rising} |
| new - older - profile - rings - cast - notes - guestbook - host |
Remember Fosca? Friday evening I stood outside Ana's kind warmlit apartment in the ungentle rain, waved to Ana's charming boyfriend's ex-girlfriend's little son through the window, and, chin jutting, insisted to Ken that whether I fall in love with him or not is essentially my business. We are not even close to there yet, so whence the Don't love me phone call? (Whence: meeting up with an old girlfriend after four years, shot right in the Issues and suddenly feeling romantically toxic. Have I ever been the go-to girl on this sort of thing before? No. It makes me feel strange and small, gathering my skirt around my ankles, looking up at the trailer topping over the fence. History. This is what we call baggage, and this is what—I don't know what we call this. Why do you call me when you are sad?) And somehow what I gain from this is wet rat rainweighted curls hanging down my back; is returning into Ana's apartment: disarranged sheets, Phemo creations on the stovetop, strawberry-rhubarb smells and a six-year-old dutifully ignoring the argument about what to do about his mother's yes-again lateness; is a ride home in the car that Ana wrenches with effort out of reverse and through the cherryblossom mud, close and intimate in the rainy darkness and we are laughing and telling dreams and I thank her for the letter she sent me at Renfrew, which was perfect and sustaining; is the realization that what I have is a boy to whom I am a creature capable of loving, entitled to love. |
| linsay designs |