Kissing in Taxis

Bright flashes of white and yellow
Pink mini skirts and bejeweled handbags
flung around dance floors
In dark corners and you
feel the music in your bones
in your skin and you can’t help
but move and groove
The drums, the drums
the drums, and a dj.

A red glow, the slow burn
of the tip of his cig
catches your eye
and you stare mesmerized by
the painted scene against a backdrop
of fresh air and black light
in a crowded back alley
and you realize that he sees you
under the tilted brim of his hat
with an unlit cigarette in your hand.
An invitation.

You’re back inside and dancing
and he is there too, dancing
his eyes under his newsboy cap fixated
on the floor and your feet
your legs, your breasts, your mouth
your eyes, your eyes
your eyes and you spin away.
A slow burn.

It’s four o’clock in the morning
and you drunkenly sashay in the parking lot
outside the club and people leave
and scream and laugh and continue to
dance. He grabs you and whispers something
you can’t quite hear but you nod anyway
and he takes your hand
and hails a taxi and
you climb in and he follows and
gives the driver an address.

You wake up in your own bed
in a haze
a fog
of dancing and music
vodka and cigarettes and you wonder
how you got home because you don’t remember
much and you look around
your room at clothes, a pink mini skirt
a newsboy cap, a newsboy cap?
and you hear a toilet flush
and suddenly you remember
kissing in taxis.

an EKG?

An EKG records the electrical activity of the heart.

Why is it easy to say no to some people, but not others? Why is it so easy to let go of some people, but not others? Why is it so hard to say no to somebody you thought you let go of, a long time ago?

The truth is, some people affect your life, dramatically, whether you want them to or not. And others pass by, their presence merely a sporatic blip on the radar in your memory. But the ones whose memory maintain a constant blip, an EKG reading if you will, never leave your heart.

I’m not in love with him. I don’t know that I ever was. And I don’t think I even love him. But his memory is a constant blip. Because he has affected my life so much.

Most of my friends don’t like him. In fact, most hate him. Hate is a really strong word, I know, but that’s the way they feel. I understand too.

He contacted me the other night. Text message. I hadn’t heard from him, or spoken to him in, I don’t even know how long, at least six months. I did run into him at a bar about a month ago, but tried, unsuccessfully, to ignore his presence. When he finally approached, I was cold, and then he left. I felt a twang of guilt as I watched him walk away, like I was being a bitch when he was trying to be nice, but I brushed it off, knowing that we weren’t friends. After all, why would we be?

I ignored this text message, shocked at his gall. How dare he contact me? He sent three more. He knew I’d eventually respond, I knew that, and his prudence pissed me off. The fourth message read, Are you alive? and I responded with, No, I’m not alive. Thus began an hour long stint of texting back and forth, me trying to ignore him, and him persisting. He called three times before I finally answered with “What do you want?” But no matter how hard I try to be a bitch to him, I always end up softening. He’ll say something that will make me laugh aloud, and my bitchiness melts away so slowly I hardly notice. Later on, in retrospect, I get so ticked off that he is able to do that.

What I don’t understand, is how someone can use people, they way he does, and not feel inhuman. He denies that. When I told him I only had three weeks left living here and I’d rather spend time with people who actually care about me, he acted appalled. “You think I don’t care about you? I care about you. You care about me too.” I was glaring, but said nothing. He couldn’t see me glaring over the phone, though, and broke my silence. “Come over.”

I asked him how he thought his current girlfriend would feel, knowing I was with him. “I don’t care, ” he said. I can’t say I was surprised. “You of all people know I’ve never been monogamous.” He grinned as he said that. I should have slapped him, but I didn’t. I laughed. I should have felt ashamed that I was even hanging out with him. I do, a little, but not really. It’s nobody’s business but mine. (Even though I’m blogging about it!)

He asked if I was going to stay the night. “No, I’m going home.” We’d been talking for hours, as if the time apart hadn’t gone by. “Like old times,” he said. “Remember the beach, with a bottle of pinot noir and a candle?” he asked. I smiled. Because every time I remember how we used to do that, I smile. We’d drive to the liquor store in the middle of the night, buy the wine, two plastic cups, and a candle. We’d sit on the dark beach for hours, talking and laughing and kissing, until the wine was gone. And as the candle still flickered, highlighting millions of grains of sand, we’d walk away, back to the car. I’d look back at the little flame until I was no longer able to see it, and wondered what would become of it. If it would sit next to our empty wine bottle for a few days, or if some passer-by would pick it up, and themselves wonder who had sat on the beach in the candlelight.

Before I left he asked if I would go to the movies with him the next night. “Sure, ” I replied, recognizing his empty invitation, and offering an empty acceptance.

I drove home, a little pissed off. I couldn’t help but smile, either.

I know he is going to read this. But I don’t care