How Fitting that a Perfect Cupid's Bow* Would Be Found Upon the Mouth of an Archer

 

When something good happens to you, or when you cultivate something good, what can happen is a reflection on everything up until that point in time. It is as if you have been sitting in the dark with a headlamp on shuffling around and getting the day to day things taken care of when, all of a sudden, someone floods the room with a spotlight. That latter light causes you to rethink what you thought "illumination" meant in the first place. And, soon enough, you start to realize that you may have been living by the light of matches in a wind storm. (Yes, you were happy. Yes, you love the smell. Yes, there was excitement. But what if you might ask. What if you had been living in an ocean of golden light all along?)

Today has been been kind and odd and connected. Sometimes, when something accesses the depths of my heart, all sorts of emotions rush in. As if my emotions are stored behind a dam and something (someone?) removed a stone from it and a decent-sized stream of emotion was allowed to pour out: Strong and consistent; powerful and tamed.

My eyes hurt from studying faces and books. Or, perhaps, it is simply my eyes adjusting to the light.

 

 

be well; be loved,

k.  

*=I've come to realize that not everyone knows that a "Cupid's Bow" refers to the part of your lips that is at the top center of your mouth and is typically in a slight M shape 

 (Image credit: Bernardo Lorena Ponte)

Cobalt Blue and the Fusion of Dreams

 

New time zone. New location. New food. 

Old friends. Old buildings. Old ability to plop into any context (more or less).

Last night I tried my hand at doing the nails of someone else. The end product wasn't too shabby. 

I haven't entirely woken up from two nights ago when a janky knight showed up in her Challenger, illegal level of tinted windows, and Detroit sweatshirt.  

I also keep trying to figure out why Leather Who Smells of Vanilla feels so familiar. Perhaps it is the unfamiliar accent. Perhaps it is something akin to magnets of unknown origin knowing that our paths must cross for a reason that will be slipped to me deeper down the road.

 

be well; be loved,

 

k.  

Currently reading: Dearborn by Ghassan Zeineddine 

[image: Wyron A via Unsplash]

Sticky Floors; Concrete Thinking

That night we were in a boy bar the size of a dentist's waiting room. The smell of leather, black paint, vodka tonics. Somehow even the two disco balls with small light beams aimed at them seemed to emanate a scent: Old glue and mirrors. 

You were eager and nervous wearing a thin black sweater. You wore a plaid pencil skirt (greens/yellows/tans) made of stretchy fabric. You wore expensive eyeglasses made to look cheap. 

It seemed like you had never been in a gay bar before, which seemed at odds with the amount of time you spent describing the intricacies of your queerness. 

You were smart. Over-educated in that way that has so much knowledge and no point to it. 

Don't get me wrong: You seemed kind- even endearing when you were yourself.  It's just that you only seemed comfortable being yourself for the same amount of time a flame stands still.

That night you drank. 

I didn't. 

You talked. 

I listened.  

The thumping music that surrounded us got louder as it got later in hour. 

You stood up and took my hand. 

"Come with me to the bathroom!" you yelled, as if it made sense to do so. As if, even in a gay bar, a pencil-skirted woman needed someone to go with her to the bathroom. 

I stood up, brushed my black jeans off of whatever the fuck was on them that day, and followed you.

The bathroom was huge, dark in the way that most gay-bar bathrooms are, and single stall. Somehow, even with a bar packed full of people, we found the bathroom to be empty.  

We stepped inside. I went in first. You locked the door, turned around to face me, and walked past the sink toward me. You stumbled into me, grabbed the front of my black button-down shirt with both of your hands and pulled me toward you. You continued pulling as you walked backward until your back hit the painted cement of the bathroom wall. You kissed me: Hard and drunk and committed to the bit. 

As you pressed your lips into mine, I put my hand gently on the side of your face and slid my hand between our mouths, replacing my lips with my index finger across your mouth. A "reverse librarian shush", if you will, in order to end the moment without embarrassing you.  

Instead, you looked up at me with playful eyes and lowered your chin in what I think was an attempt at a seductive look. While maintaining eye contact, your arms darted down to the hem of your skirt and in one, swift movement, you lifted your skirt up to your waist. I glanced down, then back up at you before you saw that I had looked. You had absolutely no panties on. Of course you didn't. How do I end up in these situations? 

What would a gentleman do? I remember wondering. I wanted to act quickly and with certainty.

I kept my eyes on yours as I put my hands on both sides of the skirt that was bunched up around your waist. Slowly, I pulled the skirt back down into place- my fisted hands running down the sides of your thighs until your skirt reached your knees again. I straightened up, put my hands firmly on your shoulders and turned you around to face the wall. I pushed you up against the concrete, and saw you smile and press the side of your nose into the wall. I slid my hand from the back of your neck down to the middle of your back, paused, then turned and walked out of the bathroom.

 

I stood outside the bathroom door. 

I figured it might take you a minute to know that I had left.  

 

[If this was a poetic piece, perhaps I would end the story there.  

It is not, so I will continue.]

A few minutes later, you came out of the bathroom, your face flushed and almost looking wet. I greeted you and let you know that I was going to take off to go study. You walked with me to the door of the bar. Things seemed smooth and fine and uneventful until we walked outside and the stuttering streetlights and outside air hit you. 

You, drunk, started demanding to know why I had left the bathroom. 

I didn't answer you and, instead, asked how you were getting home and can you text your partner to come get you? Once I knew he was on his way, I stood with you while you waited. 

You started getting louder demanding an answer. Wanting to know why I wouldn't make out with you. Those weren't the actual words. The actual words you were yelling were "WHY WON'T YOU FUCK ME?!" repeatedly while I did not answer and while a small crowd gathered to stare. 

Your partner's dark green wagon pulled up. 

I looked at you and, as my reply, said, "I have to go - I have verbs to conjugate." and crossed the street into darkness heading toward my place.

 

 

I never saw you again after that night. 

We had just become friends a few months prior. 

I don't have anything profound or profane to say about this situation. 

Just that it existed

that it was odd

and that, as a gentleman, it was mortifying to navigate. 

 

 

I did go home that night and conjugate irregular verbs of the language I was studying

and I found it to be 

quite soothing.   

 

 

be well; be loved,

 

k.  

(photo credit: Jagoda Wisniewska
via Untrustyou Tumblr)