F*ck Love
Page 28
K: #Fuckfear
We’re talking in hashtags now. I like it. I don’t answer him. Fuck fear, and fuck Kit, and fuck love. I don’t need any of that muggle shit.
In my dream, Port Townsend was emerald-glossy—a place where nature is given reign to be free and loud. It is so in real life, too, but I didn’t imagine all of the water. Water with the Cascades etched in a jagged shadow behind it. Cold, blue water, where if you watched long enough, you’d see a seal break the surface and then dip back down, its body a glossy black. All so crisp, like a postcard. I arrive on a day when someone is blowing giant bubbles down Main Street. “This isn’t real. Is this real?” I say to myself. It’s okay to talk to yourself here; I saw someone else doing it.
The store windows are decorated for fall. They’re perfectly curated—plump pumpkins piled next to rosy-cheeked scarecrows. The air already smells like nutmeg and crushed leaves. A shop owner is hanging scarves on a rack on the sidewalk. She smiles at me, her long gray hair catching in the breeze. “You look new,” she says.
“I’m visiting,” I tell her. “I love it here.”
“Here loves you,” she tells me. “Mutual love is a magical thing.”
I buy a scarf from her because she’s an excellent salesperson, and for five minutes I wasn’t thinking fuck love. I find out that her name is Phyllis, and she’s a lesbian. I know this because as she bags my scarf, she says, “My partner loves this scarf. She says it looks like wet pavement.”
“Your business partner?” I look around for the partner.
“My life partner.” She points to a picture behind the register of a woman with spirally red hair.
“What’s her name?” I ask. Phyllis laughs.
“Ginger,” she says. She hands me my bag, and I feel like I’ve made a friend. Two friends: Phyllis and Ginger. But, that’s the way of Port Townsend. I step out of the store and find a bench where I can watch.
The people are painted in expression and art. Tattoos, hippies with long hair, punks with no hair, the elderly, and the young, children who say hello to you as you walk by. No one is guarded, or jaded, or tired. It’s all witchcraft. I’ve found it, the place of non-Muggles. Kit’s openness is not so strange when you meet people like Phyllis. I feel light as I walk down the street, marveling, hoping my car doesn’t get towed away from where I parked near an old clam cannery that sits on the water. How could he leave this place for muggy, flat Florida? Greer must have long reach. That scares me. I feel like I understand Kit less after coming here. Perhaps I underestimate Greer. Now, all I want to do is find her. My mental image of her is of a girl with straight brown hair, tied back in a low ponytail. She wears camp T-shirts from her counselor days, and has bright blue eyes. That’s what Kit loved the most about her—her eyes. They were full of open honesty. I imagine that’s why he gravitated to Della, because she is Greer’s polar opposite. This is a hippie town, so she probably wears Birkenstocks and carries a woven backpack. When she’s older she will look like Phyllis and braid flowers into her pubic hair. I wonder if she’s moved on since Kit. Bought a house with someone … had a baby. I need to know, I need to know, I need to know.
I eat lunch at a little place that only serves soup. I listen to the clanking of spoons on porcelain and think it sounds more musical than it would anywhere else. I pay my bill, and I’m looked in the eye when I’m told to have the best day. I am having the best day, thank you very much. I take a long walk along the water, take some photos of a beautiful old boat called The Belle, and upload them to Instagram. Kit likes them right away.
He texts me and says: I know the lady who owns that boat!
There are two hotels in town, and both are said to be haunted. I check into the Palace Hotel and suddenly feel incredibly lonely. It’s all fun and games until you realize you don’t have a home anymore, and Phyllis probably isn’t your real friend. This has to be the dumbest thing I’ve ever done. I fall face down on the bed and pretend cry into the comforter. I don’t have real tears; I’m in survival mode. The comforter smells strangely of peanut butter, and that creeps me out. What am I really doing here? Am I here for Kit? Sort of. I may really be here for Greer. I’ve seen one of the girls Kit chose to be with; I know her so well I can read her mind. There is nothing so terribly deep or fascinating about her gray matter. So, now I need to see the other woman. The one who started it all. I need to make a comparison and know why he chose Della. And all for what? To understand why the man in my dream was so different from the man in real life? Why Dream Kit would choose me over Della and this Greer person?
Wait. Do I have an obsessive personality? I obsess over this for a little while, before changing into something warmer and heading out for dinner. I take pictures because I want to remember this place and all the things it made me feel. What does it feel like? I ask myself. Like cold air in your lungs after too much warm air. Maybe this is how you feel when you find your place in the world.
I go to the library first, and, as I climb the stairs, I assure myself that I am here because of my deep, abiding love of books. I need to smell them, touch them, and be near them. Books, beautiful books! I am really here to look for Greer. Do I have an obsession to see the girl Kit loved? Absolutely not. I am merely curious. Mildly so. It’s always been my nature, and my third grade teacher, Mrs. Habershield, told me that curiosity was a beautiful thing. I ask the librarian where I can find the county yearbooks, and then make my way to a dusty, forgotten corner of the library. Kit is three years older than Della. I find the right yearbook and flip to the index. Kit Isley is listed as being on pages 20, 117, 340, 345, 410. Popular. I was only on one page of my senior yearbook. If they were high school sweethearts, Greer will be in some of the pictures with him. My prediction is right. Greer Warren stands next to Kit Isley at Prom, wearing an amethyst dress. She is full of braces, smiling widely yet still quite pretty. She has a purple streak in her brown hair, and Kit has given her a purple carnation corsage, which juts ornately from her wrist. I presume purple is her favorite color, and when I find additional pictures of her on page 45, 173, and 211, I find that she was on the yearbook staff, played volleyball, and started a program her junior year to donate one weekend a month to big brother Seattle’s inner city kids. She was voted Kindest, Most Likely to Start a Charity, and won Best Looking Couple alongside Kit. I stick out my tongue. Overall, high school Greer Warren was a kind, athletic, humanitarian with a super hot boyfriend. I linger longer on Kit. He smiled more back then, dressed in what would be considered skater boy attire, and for the most part, he kept his hair cut short. I prefer his flannels and ripped jeans, the longer hair and scruffy face. I close the book and slide it back onto the shelf. I want to keep it, but I don’t have a library card, and stealing is wrong.
We’re talking in hashtags now. I like it. I don’t answer him. Fuck fear, and fuck Kit, and fuck love. I don’t need any of that muggle shit.
In my dream, Port Townsend was emerald-glossy—a place where nature is given reign to be free and loud. It is so in real life, too, but I didn’t imagine all of the water. Water with the Cascades etched in a jagged shadow behind it. Cold, blue water, where if you watched long enough, you’d see a seal break the surface and then dip back down, its body a glossy black. All so crisp, like a postcard. I arrive on a day when someone is blowing giant bubbles down Main Street. “This isn’t real. Is this real?” I say to myself. It’s okay to talk to yourself here; I saw someone else doing it.
The store windows are decorated for fall. They’re perfectly curated—plump pumpkins piled next to rosy-cheeked scarecrows. The air already smells like nutmeg and crushed leaves. A shop owner is hanging scarves on a rack on the sidewalk. She smiles at me, her long gray hair catching in the breeze. “You look new,” she says.
“I’m visiting,” I tell her. “I love it here.”
“Here loves you,” she tells me. “Mutual love is a magical thing.”
I buy a scarf from her because she’s an excellent salesperson, and for five minutes I wasn’t thinking fuck love. I find out that her name is Phyllis, and she’s a lesbian. I know this because as she bags my scarf, she says, “My partner loves this scarf. She says it looks like wet pavement.”
“Your business partner?” I look around for the partner.
“My life partner.” She points to a picture behind the register of a woman with spirally red hair.
“What’s her name?” I ask. Phyllis laughs.
“Ginger,” she says. She hands me my bag, and I feel like I’ve made a friend. Two friends: Phyllis and Ginger. But, that’s the way of Port Townsend. I step out of the store and find a bench where I can watch.
The people are painted in expression and art. Tattoos, hippies with long hair, punks with no hair, the elderly, and the young, children who say hello to you as you walk by. No one is guarded, or jaded, or tired. It’s all witchcraft. I’ve found it, the place of non-Muggles. Kit’s openness is not so strange when you meet people like Phyllis. I feel light as I walk down the street, marveling, hoping my car doesn’t get towed away from where I parked near an old clam cannery that sits on the water. How could he leave this place for muggy, flat Florida? Greer must have long reach. That scares me. I feel like I understand Kit less after coming here. Perhaps I underestimate Greer. Now, all I want to do is find her. My mental image of her is of a girl with straight brown hair, tied back in a low ponytail. She wears camp T-shirts from her counselor days, and has bright blue eyes. That’s what Kit loved the most about her—her eyes. They were full of open honesty. I imagine that’s why he gravitated to Della, because she is Greer’s polar opposite. This is a hippie town, so she probably wears Birkenstocks and carries a woven backpack. When she’s older she will look like Phyllis and braid flowers into her pubic hair. I wonder if she’s moved on since Kit. Bought a house with someone … had a baby. I need to know, I need to know, I need to know.
I eat lunch at a little place that only serves soup. I listen to the clanking of spoons on porcelain and think it sounds more musical than it would anywhere else. I pay my bill, and I’m looked in the eye when I’m told to have the best day. I am having the best day, thank you very much. I take a long walk along the water, take some photos of a beautiful old boat called The Belle, and upload them to Instagram. Kit likes them right away.
He texts me and says: I know the lady who owns that boat!
There are two hotels in town, and both are said to be haunted. I check into the Palace Hotel and suddenly feel incredibly lonely. It’s all fun and games until you realize you don’t have a home anymore, and Phyllis probably isn’t your real friend. This has to be the dumbest thing I’ve ever done. I fall face down on the bed and pretend cry into the comforter. I don’t have real tears; I’m in survival mode. The comforter smells strangely of peanut butter, and that creeps me out. What am I really doing here? Am I here for Kit? Sort of. I may really be here for Greer. I’ve seen one of the girls Kit chose to be with; I know her so well I can read her mind. There is nothing so terribly deep or fascinating about her gray matter. So, now I need to see the other woman. The one who started it all. I need to make a comparison and know why he chose Della. And all for what? To understand why the man in my dream was so different from the man in real life? Why Dream Kit would choose me over Della and this Greer person?
Wait. Do I have an obsessive personality? I obsess over this for a little while, before changing into something warmer and heading out for dinner. I take pictures because I want to remember this place and all the things it made me feel. What does it feel like? I ask myself. Like cold air in your lungs after too much warm air. Maybe this is how you feel when you find your place in the world.
I go to the library first, and, as I climb the stairs, I assure myself that I am here because of my deep, abiding love of books. I need to smell them, touch them, and be near them. Books, beautiful books! I am really here to look for Greer. Do I have an obsession to see the girl Kit loved? Absolutely not. I am merely curious. Mildly so. It’s always been my nature, and my third grade teacher, Mrs. Habershield, told me that curiosity was a beautiful thing. I ask the librarian where I can find the county yearbooks, and then make my way to a dusty, forgotten corner of the library. Kit is three years older than Della. I find the right yearbook and flip to the index. Kit Isley is listed as being on pages 20, 117, 340, 345, 410. Popular. I was only on one page of my senior yearbook. If they were high school sweethearts, Greer will be in some of the pictures with him. My prediction is right. Greer Warren stands next to Kit Isley at Prom, wearing an amethyst dress. She is full of braces, smiling widely yet still quite pretty. She has a purple streak in her brown hair, and Kit has given her a purple carnation corsage, which juts ornately from her wrist. I presume purple is her favorite color, and when I find additional pictures of her on page 45, 173, and 211, I find that she was on the yearbook staff, played volleyball, and started a program her junior year to donate one weekend a month to big brother Seattle’s inner city kids. She was voted Kindest, Most Likely to Start a Charity, and won Best Looking Couple alongside Kit. I stick out my tongue. Overall, high school Greer Warren was a kind, athletic, humanitarian with a super hot boyfriend. I linger longer on Kit. He smiled more back then, dressed in what would be considered skater boy attire, and for the most part, he kept his hair cut short. I prefer his flannels and ripped jeans, the longer hair and scruffy face. I close the book and slide it back onto the shelf. I want to keep it, but I don’t have a library card, and stealing is wrong.
