Whatever You Do Just Don’t Let Them See You Cry
Antoinette is home, she is at the end of their bed, a chest is exposed, she has revealed the contents of Bobbie’s letters, her curiosity prying into her lovers existence, even as her lover had never pried them open, instead Antoinette had her fingers in them, her mind not sure what to make of them, part of her curiously trying to find Lauren in them so as to deprive herself of the difficult assumption that Bobbie and Lauren had never been lovers, or and that Lauren had never read them, never read them.
Antoinette couldn’t understand why Lauren had never been curious enough, it seemed implausible. But Lauren was just like that, the letters contained that element of childish romanticism, which wasn’t Lauren, Bobbie giving her the letters seemed a bit odd, and writing letters to an unknown lover, Lauren didn’t have that concept within her inner being. Lauren was of course superstitious, how else to explain her friendship with the prophet Habakkuk. Even Lauren could admit it to herself, sitting on the toilet waiting for a resistant urge to manifest itself, she would circumscribe herself to being superstitious because it was inane enough to be so; and it would require unnecessary effort to ditch her bit of doubt over it. So it was that Bobbie’s letter seemed a bit futile to her, Bobbie made the wrong choice of confidants, but then again being superstitious Lauren could have conceived that Antoinette would read them, and that they were truly meant for Antoinette a person that would have never had anything enough in common with Bobbie, to meet her. In a sense Lauren was the messenger to communicate to the person that Bobbie wanted to truly feel, but Bobbie, being such an internalized conflict of self, could never embrace.
From letter #6
“I don’t know when I first sought it, young I was, could not have exceeded my eighth year, but I never thought of boys. I thought of the tender warmth of the blankets, more of my pillows softness, sometimes just putting my face against it comforted my being.”
From letter #9
“Later it was thinking of you, by the age of fifteen I knew I would never make love to a man, I was grossed out by sexual education, the male genitalia seemed so impotent, so incapable of feeling me, strictly a thing to bring comfort to a man, and somehow, I don’t know how, I noticed the gentleness of the girls, so distant from the fray, so abstract, so far away from the boys, and yet so permissive of them, still I found much comfort in seeing the girls aloofness, their enchanting grace, and I must say I was not fully evolved, a fifteen year old girl in blue jeans does not make anyone a saint, and less me already a deviant, I had no promissory note to heaven, of course from my angle of sight heaven wasn’t an abstract and neither were the angels.”
When Antoinette heard the front door lock being unleashed by Lauren’s key, she immediately went into a frenzy to place the letters back into their security chest. Just as she was done, Lauren enters the bedroom, Antoinette is still sitting on the floor, leaning into the chest, when she realizes that something is very wrong. She jumps to feel Lauren’s aching aura, she touches her silent lover’s cold and pale cheeks, Lauren reaches for the bed, she lays down. Antoinette doesn’t say anything, she knows her lover’s silence is dealing with something that happened at work, something terrible, she limits herself to touching her pain, absorbing aching energies, Lauren, laying on her side, her eyes dry, her mind seemingly blank, silence.
An egg never stops cooking itself. There is something odd in that eggs can not be kept warm, they gradually cook themselves and overcook and burn themselves at any temperature. You have to imagine that that is nature’s way of making sure that birds may reproduce in Antarctica with the slightest bit of warmth. Oddly, Antoinette’s eggs were always kept perfectly warm while retaining moisture and freshness, Lauren was mesmerized by such delicate ability, how could over easy eggs be so damn good, Lauren had never liked eggs, Antoinette had made her eat them and like them. That morning they were particularly tasty. They were both mostly silent, Antoinette accepting every Lauren need. “Your eggs are always wonderful.” She didn’t say, “I accidentally shot my mother last night.” She didn’t say, “I riddled and erased her with bullets.” Lauren knew she didn’t day dream, it was a clear shot to her mother, she didn’t want to say anything, she kept quiet, she ate her eggs, enjoyed them even as her whole being felt the sterile universe.
In Lauren’s silence Antoinette took a moment to ponder one of Bobbie’s letters:
From letter #7
“After becoming fully aware that I would never allow a man within, I became aware of you, I didn’t know you, I don’t know you as I am writing this, I don’t have any idea what you look like, it seems pointless to know those things, perhaps I have involuntarily or voluntarily decided to fall in love with you, I don’t know, I just like thinking of you My Lover.”
The same letter continues…
“It is so menacing to feel a man, so beautiful to feel you.”
The same letter continues…
“I will save myself for you.”
Then there was a knock a the door. To their amazement and surprise it was their friend Habakkuk. “Habakkuk! How precious to see you.” They really both expressed the same sentiment, the friends all hugged, though Lauren maintained her pale face against the happiness that her friend Habakkuk was now present and accounted for.
There was much talk of where Habakkuk had been, he liked New York but only as a place to see no more than once and not for more than two weeks. He used the term “empty human spaces loaded with deadening symbolism.” Neither women tried to make out the precise ramifications of those words, they just liked Habakkuk, they didn’t care that he was a prophet and that much of his commentary didn’t appear to have any immediate practical use.
Antoinette excused herself to warm some tea and wrap some home baked breads, while Habakkuk spoke to Lauren, “You didn’t tell her about your mother last night?” Lauren paused, swallowed her sorrow the length of her neck, “no couldn’t say anything, how can I say anything when I can’t even figure it out myself. What happened last night do you know?” Habakkuk replies, “I felt your angst and dreadful state, I have come to see you, but even I don’t know what is going on, I do know that it is not finished, that something stirs with you, that your heart has taken a golden turn, golden as where your breath weighs and depth is heavy with some child’s history that is obtusely struck within you; but I know no more than that.” “What should I do then?” “Steal some roses, that’s the first thing that comes to mind.”
With that said, Antoinette entered with the tea, her presence instilling life affirming colors, Habakkuk couldn’t resist, “Antoinette I have missed you! Missed you lots.” He got up and touched her shoulder with recalcitrant love.
Antoinette couldn’t understand why Lauren had never been curious enough, it seemed implausible. But Lauren was just like that, the letters contained that element of childish romanticism, which wasn’t Lauren, Bobbie giving her the letters seemed a bit odd, and writing letters to an unknown lover, Lauren didn’t have that concept within her inner being. Lauren was of course superstitious, how else to explain her friendship with the prophet Habakkuk. Even Lauren could admit it to herself, sitting on the toilet waiting for a resistant urge to manifest itself, she would circumscribe herself to being superstitious because it was inane enough to be so; and it would require unnecessary effort to ditch her bit of doubt over it. So it was that Bobbie’s letter seemed a bit futile to her, Bobbie made the wrong choice of confidants, but then again being superstitious Lauren could have conceived that Antoinette would read them, and that they were truly meant for Antoinette a person that would have never had anything enough in common with Bobbie, to meet her. In a sense Lauren was the messenger to communicate to the person that Bobbie wanted to truly feel, but Bobbie, being such an internalized conflict of self, could never embrace.
From letter #6
“I don’t know when I first sought it, young I was, could not have exceeded my eighth year, but I never thought of boys. I thought of the tender warmth of the blankets, more of my pillows softness, sometimes just putting my face against it comforted my being.”
From letter #9
“Later it was thinking of you, by the age of fifteen I knew I would never make love to a man, I was grossed out by sexual education, the male genitalia seemed so impotent, so incapable of feeling me, strictly a thing to bring comfort to a man, and somehow, I don’t know how, I noticed the gentleness of the girls, so distant from the fray, so abstract, so far away from the boys, and yet so permissive of them, still I found much comfort in seeing the girls aloofness, their enchanting grace, and I must say I was not fully evolved, a fifteen year old girl in blue jeans does not make anyone a saint, and less me already a deviant, I had no promissory note to heaven, of course from my angle of sight heaven wasn’t an abstract and neither were the angels.”
When Antoinette heard the front door lock being unleashed by Lauren’s key, she immediately went into a frenzy to place the letters back into their security chest. Just as she was done, Lauren enters the bedroom, Antoinette is still sitting on the floor, leaning into the chest, when she realizes that something is very wrong. She jumps to feel Lauren’s aching aura, she touches her silent lover’s cold and pale cheeks, Lauren reaches for the bed, she lays down. Antoinette doesn’t say anything, she knows her lover’s silence is dealing with something that happened at work, something terrible, she limits herself to touching her pain, absorbing aching energies, Lauren, laying on her side, her eyes dry, her mind seemingly blank, silence.
An egg never stops cooking itself. There is something odd in that eggs can not be kept warm, they gradually cook themselves and overcook and burn themselves at any temperature. You have to imagine that that is nature’s way of making sure that birds may reproduce in Antarctica with the slightest bit of warmth. Oddly, Antoinette’s eggs were always kept perfectly warm while retaining moisture and freshness, Lauren was mesmerized by such delicate ability, how could over easy eggs be so damn good, Lauren had never liked eggs, Antoinette had made her eat them and like them. That morning they were particularly tasty. They were both mostly silent, Antoinette accepting every Lauren need. “Your eggs are always wonderful.” She didn’t say, “I accidentally shot my mother last night.” She didn’t say, “I riddled and erased her with bullets.” Lauren knew she didn’t day dream, it was a clear shot to her mother, she didn’t want to say anything, she kept quiet, she ate her eggs, enjoyed them even as her whole being felt the sterile universe.
In Lauren’s silence Antoinette took a moment to ponder one of Bobbie’s letters:
From letter #7
“After becoming fully aware that I would never allow a man within, I became aware of you, I didn’t know you, I don’t know you as I am writing this, I don’t have any idea what you look like, it seems pointless to know those things, perhaps I have involuntarily or voluntarily decided to fall in love with you, I don’t know, I just like thinking of you My Lover.”
The same letter continues…
“It is so menacing to feel a man, so beautiful to feel you.”
The same letter continues…
“I will save myself for you.”
Then there was a knock a the door. To their amazement and surprise it was their friend Habakkuk. “Habakkuk! How precious to see you.” They really both expressed the same sentiment, the friends all hugged, though Lauren maintained her pale face against the happiness that her friend Habakkuk was now present and accounted for.
There was much talk of where Habakkuk had been, he liked New York but only as a place to see no more than once and not for more than two weeks. He used the term “empty human spaces loaded with deadening symbolism.” Neither women tried to make out the precise ramifications of those words, they just liked Habakkuk, they didn’t care that he was a prophet and that much of his commentary didn’t appear to have any immediate practical use.
Antoinette excused herself to warm some tea and wrap some home baked breads, while Habakkuk spoke to Lauren, “You didn’t tell her about your mother last night?” Lauren paused, swallowed her sorrow the length of her neck, “no couldn’t say anything, how can I say anything when I can’t even figure it out myself. What happened last night do you know?” Habakkuk replies, “I felt your angst and dreadful state, I have come to see you, but even I don’t know what is going on, I do know that it is not finished, that something stirs with you, that your heart has taken a golden turn, golden as where your breath weighs and depth is heavy with some child’s history that is obtusely struck within you; but I know no more than that.” “What should I do then?” “Steal some roses, that’s the first thing that comes to mind.”
With that said, Antoinette entered with the tea, her presence instilling life affirming colors, Habakkuk couldn’t resist, “Antoinette I have missed you! Missed you lots.” He got up and touched her shoulder with recalcitrant love.
posted by Ricardo Correa at
8/31/2006 05:47:00 PM
