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Hello by J. Blake Gordon She took the train to my neighborhood, and I walked to meet her at the station. As I waited outside, smoking, a girl, apparently blind, emerged and walked a half circle around me. I expected her to keep walking, but she lingered awkwardly, and then asked if it was me. I was startled by the recognition, and it must have shown in my expression (which, in turn, startled her). She moved closer and faced me, though she seemed not to meet my gaze. How was she able to see me? I could not comprehend her features, and I was not sure where to look. Her eyes were of two different shapes, set in opposition, as were her nostrils and cheeks. Her mouth was small, also misshapen. I had never seen such an asymmetrical face. I am ashamed to admit repulsion, but I felt it. What had been corrected? I was not prepared for this, and in an instant, I wanted to run. She'd been so sweet on the phone though, and our plans were already made, so I decided not to protest. I could not just walk away, after all. We shook hands and I asked if she was hungry. I hailed a taxi; we climbed in and sped downtown. As she sat next to and across from me on the seat, her face was obscured by shadows, and I started to feel more comfortable. We talked about cats, and I said I liked her coat. She said she liked mine. There was silence, too. The restaurant was crowded, and I felt people staring while the host led us to a table. Once seated and settled, I tried to make noticeable eye contact with her. Still I could not meet her eyes! Where was she looking? I wanted to talk about it, her face - how had this happened? I could not believe we were having dinner together. She wore thick, rimless glasses while reading the menu, lifting it close to her face. We both ordered chicken. When the plates were served, she cut her food into small bites, which she chewed with her small mouth. Neither of us ate quickly. I struggled for humor and lightness, anything to mask my discomfort, carefully avoiding appearance-related remarks. After we finished our meals, I paid the check and felt relieved to exit the building, to be again in the dark with her. The night was mild as we walked for a mile down the Avenue, exchanging stories. It was easy to be open with her, easiset not having to look at her. We stepped into the old hotel and ascended to its grand lounge, the room's occupancy at a welcoming level . We found a couch in the corner, away from the band, and removed our coats. She sat to my right. Two glasses were served, and we drank slowly. Talk became personal; laments of heartbreak and longing ensued. She told me how mean one boy had been, how indifferent another. Why wouldn't he speak to her? What hadn't she done right? Her fragility charmed me, and I wanted to say complimentary, reassuring things. I wanted to tell her that people are monsters. I wanted to give her hope. The way she spoke, she kept her face turned forward so I could see only the left side. Regarding her from this perspective, I started to realize that all of the deformities occurred on the right side of her countenance. I don't know why I had not noticed this earlier, at the restaurant - perhaps because I did not consider her face divided into halves. Her features appeared to me together as an imperfect whole. But when her face was turned just so, I could see what she looked like without her scars. And I saw that she was beautiful. And her face was beautiful, married naturally to her long physique and gentle voice. How differently she appeared from this angle! I did not want to see her from any other. Nor, I thought, had she wanted anyone else to see her except as I did then. Lovely girl! When she turned to face me again, however, I lost the image; the spell was broken. From a frontal perspective, I could not look past her cosmetic flaws. Were my sight as afflicted as hers, this might not have been an obstacle. But their severity was undeniable, her beauty too dependent on a depth I was lacking. I did not know what to say. I did not return any of her calls. Months later, I spotted her walking in the city. We were approaching one another on a busy sidewalk. I looked down and passed unnoticed. That is, I do not think she saw.
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J. Blake Gordon is a poet and songwriter who lives in Evanston, Illinois with his cat. Blake went to Hobart and William Smith College in Geneva, New York, earning a bachelor's degree in English, and The Charles H. prize for Creative Writing, in 1997. Several of his poems have been featured in literary magazines/journals such as Rockhurst Review, Chase Park, Wavelength, Curbside Review, New Rag Rising, Joey And The Black Boots and The Better Drink. Blake has been creating and recording songs (at home, mostly with his guitar and his voice) for almost ten years. Blake is also an amateur photographer, preferring to shoot on black and white film, utilizing skills taught to him by the late John Almquist.
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Until Next Time by Suzie Sims-Fletcher
then he left me for another woman. I guess I wasn’t so very surprised I should have expected it. But still…. I mean …I FOUND him. I TRAINED him. I…. He and I had been living together for about eight months when he told me. ~~~~~ "Our bodies are temples. You must first take care of it. All else comes from there, starts there." ~~~~~ It was weird at the beginning…we seemed so very different. He was vegetarian, I defrosted pot-roast. He went to the gym daily, I was winded after climbing our five flights. He was a self- proclaimed "lazy bachelor," I was an organized, project juggling ex-wife and mother. He hand-washed the same three dishes every day. I jammed as much as possible into the God-given dishwasher. He earned a small fortune, I was desperately under-employed. But we got along great. Our schedules were off enough that we didn't get in one another's way. We didn't get sick of each other, and we were always happy to see the other come through the door. Or so it seemed. I should have suspected trouble when we got our third notice that our electric bill was grossly overdue and our service was going to be cut off. I should have seen a red flag when he calmly announced he needed to replace my iron that he had broken by dropping it, several times, accidentally, on the floor. I should have known it was going downhill when he started coming home later and later, telling me that he was talking to family on the phone. I should have seen the light when he told me I needed to lose weight. "You know, Suzie, you have a very lovely face, but [patting his hips] you should really try to lose some weight. Why is it you weigh so much? Is it all the milk and cheese you eat?" But then he would sweetly and kindly redeem himself in some way and all would be forgiven. ~~~~~ I got the flu. After a particularly exhausting week of not being ill enough to stay in bed and not being well enough to actually accomplish anything, I wrote him a note. Please clean the kitchen. Mop the floor, wipe stuff down, straighten things up. Take care of the bathroom. Do the floor, the tub, the sink, the toilet. I am too sick to do it. I knew he wouldn't necessarily know where to find the supplies or tools, but it was more the act of support-relief that I was looking for than the spic-n-span. I knew that he would be home all day while I was out attending to various obligations. His scrubbing was the easy fix I needed in my sickly state. With as much excitement and rehearsed praise as my fever wracked mind and body could muster, I burst in the door. Nothing. NOTHING had been done. Not a crumb moved. Not a cloth dampened. Not a hair out of place. And then he came in with take-out. I attacked. "I clean every day. You don’t see it and you sure don't help." My voice cracked. "I clean the toilet, I clean the refrigerator. I vacuum. I wipe windows and mirrors and counter tops and....” The sobbing commenced. "Oh, Suzie, I am so sorry that I have made you feel so bad. Please do not cry. You are right. I am not pulling my weight. I am lazy. Tomorrow I will clean everything. Tomorrow will be cleaning night. Tomorrow it will all be done." And tomorrow it was. He came home about 7:30 and went straight to work. He cleaned on his hands and knees - He cleaned like a man on a mission. He cleaned like someone who didn't know how to clean, but was determined to conquer the task. He cleaned with pride and commitment and a genuine desire to please me. When he finished, he came over to my sniffling, curled up body on the couch. I could just barely discern his cologne of pine sol. "Have I done everything? I will clean every week from now on. I have not been fair. Is there anything else I should do? Is it ok? Really, Is it ok? Please tell me what else I can do?" And he's leaving me. He is leaving me. ~~~~~ Racing out of the house to go ...somewhere...I no longer remember where, I flew down the stairs and opened the door when I practically smacked straight into him! "Hello!" "Suzie. Hi." I was not surprised to see him. I mean, I expected him, but not really. I was going out, he was coming in. Nothing new, really. Coming, going, going, coming. We embraced. “I have a, a surprise for you,” he said as we stood awkwardly half in the stairwell and half out the door. "Really? Great. What!?" "I got married." ~~~~~ I saw a picture of his bride. She was beautiful. He was very lucky. And, I told him so. "Thank you for your kind words, Suzie, but I must tell you, I fell in love with her more for her character and personality than for her physical beauty." ~~~~~~ We spent the last few weeks jointly interviewing replacements. Not really replacements, but people who could occupy his space. People who could pay rent. He would peer at each person, invading the comfort zone, sending his personal message loud and clear: Please be the one. Please take my place so that I can move on. Please let me go to India and get my wife. At times he was actually leaning so far forward that it appeared he would lose his balance and topple to the floor. He was trying to affect them with sheer willpower. "Suzie is direct. If you are doing something wrong, she will tell you. She is perfect. She is wonderful. You won’t find any better roommate." Then why are you leaving me? ~~~~~ So, last night I couldn't sleep. I kept thinking about him leaving. Actually, I had no choice. From about 4am until 8 am I heard banging, and clanging and packing and wrapping. Tonight he will desert me, as he goes to the airport, to fly to India, to get his bride; I will be starting all over, a strange new roommate to be trained and tolerated (toilet seat down, trash to the curb). Months of breaking in Occupant: Bedroom #2. And, as my sadness swells, I recall one of our last conversations. "I can't believe you are leaving me." "Suzie, remember, you were in my life first." And now you’re leaving. ~~~~~~ I found the keys this morning. Four of them, loose on the counter. The mailbox. The front gate. The stairway lock. The apartment door. There was no note. There was nothing but the keys. He was just gone. I understand that in Hindi, there is no word for goodbye. So I guess I am left with phir millenge – until next time.
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Suzie is a consumate communicator, writer, and teacher, and much to many's dismay, speaker! Her enthusiasm for new experiences has taken her (temporarily) to China, where no one has heard of Boonesfarm or Krug. Suzie is a professor, voiceover artist and private consulatant in all things oral. Her clients include actors, asians, and the Air Force! Learn more about her and her work by contacting her at: www.redhed.info
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