Strangely enough, tonight, under a swampy moon the color of week-old grits-and-milk, I thought of Los Angeles.
The water was the color of Andrew's eyes: intent, content, green, calm, damp and craggy... Bright, sunlit green. His apartment smelled like the beaches in New Jersey, but that's another story. His eyes were California, framed in black lashes instead of white clouds.
I wished you were there. I wished PARTS of you were there. I didn't wish to be stood up, to wait for you for hours. I didn't wish to be lied about, right in front of my face. I didn't wish for the excuses and the yelling and the quiet anger that wells up in me when you pretend to hit me. I didn't wish for the confusion or the way you showed my private letter to you to some stupid dorky friend of yours who decided to use it against me... I wished for other parts of you...
I wished for your eyes: plainer and darker than Andrew's, but so much more real. It was cold out, that day in L.A.; March is always the cold spot in the lake, and no exception is made for Los Angeles. So I wished for your arms to wrap around my arms which were wrapped around my body. I wished for the part of you that would kiss my neck and whisper inarticulate sweet nothings into my ears when we added ourselves together. I wished for the part of you that loves me more than anything; the part of you that honestly doesn't see the sickening adorable-ness of you nestled up on a pillow in your underwear; the part of you that makes me smile without even DREAMING of trying to make me smile... I wished you could have been there, seen the sun shining from somewhere underneath the vast invincible waves...
I don't know why I thought of that tonight: that cold day in March when my bare feet sort of haphazardly twirled around in the sand, and I snuggled into my thin wispy summer-clothes wishing for you despite the strange Andrew-presence of the Pacific...
I felt beautiful tonight. Tall and thin and just willowy enough to appear graceful. Just graceful enough to walk a few blocks before falling on my face. Just a pretty enough face to accent my hair, and just the right length of hair to accent my face and make me look sweet and innocent and sophisticated and maybe just a little older than I am and a little thin for my age. Tall and dark and pretty. If my eyes weren't eyes, they'd be a brown leather jacket: a new one, with new-leather smell. If my hair wasn't hair, it would be dark red flowers: nasturtiums or something. If my skin wasn't skin, it would be sand, like the cover of the Alice in Chains album cover for "Dirt" (and it would want to melt into yours like dunes.) Tall and dark and thin and pretty. Sometimes you just know you're pretty. Tonight was one of those nights.
People ask me sometimes, "WHY are you with him, Helena?" as if they're about to continue it with, "you could do so much better," although they never say it and would never dare to say it even if they wanted to, because they know I'm fierce behind smooth leather eyes. Maybe they're not even thinking that I could do better -- maybe I just imagine it. It doesn't really matter, I suppose. "Better"? How could I do better? You're a part of me. I don't understand you sometimes -- many times -- but you're a part of me, and I honor that; I respect the lint in your naval; I am loyal to the morning breath that wakes me up to recycled onion-and-garlic potato chips; I bow down before the words you speak to me as though each one wears a crown; I glorify your accomplishments -- even the stupid ones; I love you and so whatever, that's all, and that's it. "Better"? Maybe. You suck and you irritate me and you upset me and you're probably out doing something right now that I'd want to hate you for, but I love you and so whatever. So I say, "No, we're not together," and it's easier than anything else I could say. I don't understand you; I don't understand us; I don't even have the option of explaining...
"Why are you WITH him, Helena?"
(Sometimes, I don't think they believe me when you tease me in public about last night being, ahem, really, wink wink, great... I never know what I'm supposed to say and to whom, so I don't say anything if I don't have to. Sometimes I'd like the world to see itself light up when we kiss, and other times I'd like to just go out and have a drink or two and dance like a whore without a second thought in your direction. I speak in non-committal words about you, so I can keep my options open; not to mention your options and wishes. I honor your wishes as I understand them, although I really don't understand them at all, and at this point, I think you may tease me in public because you've always got room for insecurity. No, they don't take "nothing" for an answer, just as parents don't take "nothing" for an answer when their kid comes into the house with a black eye. And so whatever. Their problem. I don't say anything if I don't have to. It keeps things easier. Although I suspect the world knows -- and I know, even though sometimes I wish I didn't -- that we'll always be "together," even if we don't think we are, even if we don't try to be, even if we never see each other again starting now. Oh well, who cares, so whatever... Besides, being a self-admitted jealous bitch, I can tell you two things I know for certain: there is always room for Jell-o, and there is always room for insecurity. Sometimes it even makes me smile.)
I'm pretty tonight. Hot and kind of sweaty and sticky, but pretty. I'm pretty sure somebody came onto me tonight; somebody with beautiful eyes and lips that I'd love to test-drive... Maybe I will and maybe I won't. Maybe I'll just wait and see.
I've decided a few things tonight. First of all, I do not understand you and I think I'm going to give up pretending that I do, because I don't and I don't think I ever will. Second, I do not understand us, and have given up any and all hope of us ever having any kind of normal, stable relationship that ANYONE can understand, and it's probably just better not to talk about it. Third, I decided that maybe I could love other people, not close them off just because my love for you is so intense... Maybe... maybe I could even go out with people, and maybe I could stop being terrified of losing you every time your head turns to follow somebody... Maybe even if I shot both of us through the head, we'd end up together somehow: probably sharing bunk-beds in hell and sometimes crawling in with each other... I really believe that we'll never be irreparably broken: we're not a Ming vase or anything for gahd's sake.
I decided tonight that if I want, I can sleep with the lights off in my room for the first time since April.
I decided tonight that I'm beautiful and intelligent and funny and, gah-dammit, desirable, and that heads turn for a reason... And if EVER you fail to notice that or believe it, I think I'll still have enough self-confidence to believe it anyway.
I decided tonight that I have no fucking clue what it is about you that I love. But that's okay, because I love you anyway. And I suppose I don't need an answer further than that, so whatever.
I decided tonight that someday, I want to show you that ocean in L.A. When it's warm outside and we can stand knee-deep in the water together.
I decided that I could NEVER do any better than what I've got right here and right now...
~Helena*
"You've been straining so desperately for Paradise, you have forgotten that Paradise has always been your address." --Tom Robbins.