For You
Page 115
At the door, he said, “You got until two thirty, when I come home to change and take you to the funeral, to get over your snit.”
Snit? Did he say snit?
I felt my eyes narrow and my brows furrow and my foot itched to kick him.
He went on, totally ignoring my look. “‘Til then, baby, get your studio sorted, yeah?”
“You do know that I’m letting you boss me around because we have an audience,” I informed him.
He got closer and his voice dipped quiet, only for me to hear. “You’re letting me boss you around because you know what I gave you last night, and the night before, and you probably got a good idea what I’ll give you tonight.”
Okay, so he was right, but I wasn’t going to tell him so I stayed silent.
He got even closer, his face changed, something came over it, something that corresponded with the feeling I felt standing at his bedroom door not so long ago.
He put his hand to my neck and said even quieter, “And because we’re solid.”
I liked that look on his face, a face which had been a constant in my life in one way or another since I could remember. A face I’d seen many expressions glide through over the years. But I liked this one, a lot, better than any other, so much I figured I’d never forget it either.
Even so, I was Feb and he was Colt, and we were now back to the way we were always meant to be so I told him, “We’ll stay solid if you quit bossing me around.”
He grinned, then he kissed me lightly before he said, “Nothin’s gonna shake us, Feb. Not again.” He gave me a squeeze before his grin changed to something else, the intensity slid from his expression and he whispered, “Really like those shorts, baby.”
Then he took his hand from my neck, put it to my belly, pushed me back a foot, opened and walked out the door, shutting it behind him.
“Lock it, February!” he shouted from the outside.
“There’s a million people in here!” I shouted back from the inside.
“Lock!” he shouted back to my shout.
I locked it then I watched through the window as Colt walked to his truck, got in, started it up, backed out of the drive and drove away and something about doing this made my “snit” melt away.
“Seriously?” Josie called from behind me. “Willie Clapton is a shit kisser?”
I turned to see Josie looking at me, Morrie grinning at me, Mom refilling her coffee cup, Dad with his head in the fridge and Jessie with her head tilted toward me, waiting for an answer.
I opened my mouth and the security beeps went off.
* * * * *
That afternoon, somewhere around two thirty, Colt arrived in the doorway of his bathroom while I was standing at the mirror over his sink, finishing up roller drying my hair. His eyes hit me, did a slide from the top of my head, where I was holding a hank of hair pulled straight up, juicing it with heat, down my body, which was in a t-shirt of his I’d confiscated because it was huge, old, the lettering faded, and, most importantly, super soft, to my slouchy sock-clad feet.
Then his eyes came to mine and he said, “Baby, seriously?”
“What?” I asked, releasing my hair which fell mostly in my face.
“You’re not ready?”
“I’m borderline ready,” I replied, pushing the hair out of my eyes.
“You’re doin’ your hair and wearin’ a t-shirt,” he told me like I wasn’t aware of these facts.
“Give me a break. I’ve been busy,” I said then promised, “I’ll be ready in a jiffy.”
His gaze lifted to my hair, where I was wrapping another huge hank around the roller brush, he sighed then disappeared from the doorway.
I looked at myself in the mirror.
I wasn’t lying, I had been busy. After my morning drama, Dad, Mom and I went to my studio and Jessie went to the grocery store to pick up boxes. Dad righted the bed and furniture while Mom tidied and I prioritized my stuff. Jessie showed with the boxes and I packed in my clothes, my CDs and the stoneware for the first wave. One could argue the stoneware was not a priority, since Colt had plates and such. Still, I liked it, it cost a fortune so I should use it as much as I could and it’d go in his kitchen so I decided it took precedence.
While Dad was taking the boxes to my car, a car he and Mom were using while in town since I didn’t seem to be needing it, Mom, Jessie and I packed stuff for the second wave. We closed the boxes and stacked them by the door.
I realized while we were doing this that the third wave would be light and seeing this slightly shifted the feeling of contentment that was settling in my soul and a twitchy feeling slid in its place.
I didn’t have much stuff, never had, and, at that moment, I found it embarrassing that I’d lived as long as I had with so little to show for it. Even when I made my home with Pete for that short while, I hadn’t accumulated much, probably knowing in the back of my mind somewhere that Pete and my arrangement would be temporary.
But all those years I lived light because it was easier to take off when the spirit moved me, which was often.
I hadn’t known then and never thought about it, whether, when I took off, I was running from something or searching for it. I knew now I was hiding from it and “it” was the knowledge that I f**ked up my life. I kept on the move so I couldn’t settle into the understanding that the decisions I made, and kept making, weren’t the right ones.
Now I was forty-two years old and never owned a home. I’d always rented furnished places and bought my first furniture, a bed, armchair and dinette set, two years before. I owned stoneware, some clothes, music, kitchen utensils, a box of journals, a yoga mat and some framed photos. My life didn’t amount to much but a few boxes which could be carted across town in three trips. I had a retirement fund, which I started feeding into five years ago. I also had a bunch of savings bonds and certificates of deposit, which I’d been buying for years and were now worth a fair bit, seeing as I didn’t spend money on much. And I had a cat. Other than that, nothing. I didn’t have a house, a couch, a pool table and definitely not a boat.
As I was wondering how Colt would feel about how little I made of my life, we all carried the boxes into Colt’s house.
This would obviously freak me out, but it should have been in a happy way. Instead, I started to get worried and, therefore, I let my guard down and made a mistake.
While unpacking the stoneware and Mom and Jessie rotated Colt’s old stuff to a box to be taken to Goodwill, I told them that I thought Colt needed new dishtowels.
Snit? Did he say snit?
I felt my eyes narrow and my brows furrow and my foot itched to kick him.
He went on, totally ignoring my look. “‘Til then, baby, get your studio sorted, yeah?”
“You do know that I’m letting you boss me around because we have an audience,” I informed him.
He got closer and his voice dipped quiet, only for me to hear. “You’re letting me boss you around because you know what I gave you last night, and the night before, and you probably got a good idea what I’ll give you tonight.”
Okay, so he was right, but I wasn’t going to tell him so I stayed silent.
He got even closer, his face changed, something came over it, something that corresponded with the feeling I felt standing at his bedroom door not so long ago.
He put his hand to my neck and said even quieter, “And because we’re solid.”
I liked that look on his face, a face which had been a constant in my life in one way or another since I could remember. A face I’d seen many expressions glide through over the years. But I liked this one, a lot, better than any other, so much I figured I’d never forget it either.
Even so, I was Feb and he was Colt, and we were now back to the way we were always meant to be so I told him, “We’ll stay solid if you quit bossing me around.”
He grinned, then he kissed me lightly before he said, “Nothin’s gonna shake us, Feb. Not again.” He gave me a squeeze before his grin changed to something else, the intensity slid from his expression and he whispered, “Really like those shorts, baby.”
Then he took his hand from my neck, put it to my belly, pushed me back a foot, opened and walked out the door, shutting it behind him.
“Lock it, February!” he shouted from the outside.
“There’s a million people in here!” I shouted back from the inside.
“Lock!” he shouted back to my shout.
I locked it then I watched through the window as Colt walked to his truck, got in, started it up, backed out of the drive and drove away and something about doing this made my “snit” melt away.
“Seriously?” Josie called from behind me. “Willie Clapton is a shit kisser?”
I turned to see Josie looking at me, Morrie grinning at me, Mom refilling her coffee cup, Dad with his head in the fridge and Jessie with her head tilted toward me, waiting for an answer.
I opened my mouth and the security beeps went off.
* * * * *
That afternoon, somewhere around two thirty, Colt arrived in the doorway of his bathroom while I was standing at the mirror over his sink, finishing up roller drying my hair. His eyes hit me, did a slide from the top of my head, where I was holding a hank of hair pulled straight up, juicing it with heat, down my body, which was in a t-shirt of his I’d confiscated because it was huge, old, the lettering faded, and, most importantly, super soft, to my slouchy sock-clad feet.
Then his eyes came to mine and he said, “Baby, seriously?”
“What?” I asked, releasing my hair which fell mostly in my face.
“You’re not ready?”
“I’m borderline ready,” I replied, pushing the hair out of my eyes.
“You’re doin’ your hair and wearin’ a t-shirt,” he told me like I wasn’t aware of these facts.
“Give me a break. I’ve been busy,” I said then promised, “I’ll be ready in a jiffy.”
His gaze lifted to my hair, where I was wrapping another huge hank around the roller brush, he sighed then disappeared from the doorway.
I looked at myself in the mirror.
I wasn’t lying, I had been busy. After my morning drama, Dad, Mom and I went to my studio and Jessie went to the grocery store to pick up boxes. Dad righted the bed and furniture while Mom tidied and I prioritized my stuff. Jessie showed with the boxes and I packed in my clothes, my CDs and the stoneware for the first wave. One could argue the stoneware was not a priority, since Colt had plates and such. Still, I liked it, it cost a fortune so I should use it as much as I could and it’d go in his kitchen so I decided it took precedence.
While Dad was taking the boxes to my car, a car he and Mom were using while in town since I didn’t seem to be needing it, Mom, Jessie and I packed stuff for the second wave. We closed the boxes and stacked them by the door.
I realized while we were doing this that the third wave would be light and seeing this slightly shifted the feeling of contentment that was settling in my soul and a twitchy feeling slid in its place.
I didn’t have much stuff, never had, and, at that moment, I found it embarrassing that I’d lived as long as I had with so little to show for it. Even when I made my home with Pete for that short while, I hadn’t accumulated much, probably knowing in the back of my mind somewhere that Pete and my arrangement would be temporary.
But all those years I lived light because it was easier to take off when the spirit moved me, which was often.
I hadn’t known then and never thought about it, whether, when I took off, I was running from something or searching for it. I knew now I was hiding from it and “it” was the knowledge that I f**ked up my life. I kept on the move so I couldn’t settle into the understanding that the decisions I made, and kept making, weren’t the right ones.
Now I was forty-two years old and never owned a home. I’d always rented furnished places and bought my first furniture, a bed, armchair and dinette set, two years before. I owned stoneware, some clothes, music, kitchen utensils, a box of journals, a yoga mat and some framed photos. My life didn’t amount to much but a few boxes which could be carted across town in three trips. I had a retirement fund, which I started feeding into five years ago. I also had a bunch of savings bonds and certificates of deposit, which I’d been buying for years and were now worth a fair bit, seeing as I didn’t spend money on much. And I had a cat. Other than that, nothing. I didn’t have a house, a couch, a pool table and definitely not a boat.
As I was wondering how Colt would feel about how little I made of my life, we all carried the boxes into Colt’s house.
This would obviously freak me out, but it should have been in a happy way. Instead, I started to get worried and, therefore, I let my guard down and made a mistake.
While unpacking the stoneware and Mom and Jessie rotated Colt’s old stuff to a box to be taken to Goodwill, I told them that I thought Colt needed new dishtowels.
