Vice Versa

So, the story year in and year out, as it went, blurted out crying like a baby, stampeding drunk out of bars, communicating quietly from beds at night, the walk under the stars when remarking on the physical quality of it all, followed by the kiss on his neck that surprised him and made him look back to me as he walked off, it all ended, but it can clearly be sum up by a night smack in the middle of it – during the evening of a scorching summer’s day – we’d gone to the pool, she and I, and instead of swimming laps, we stood around, floating and standing, in the middle of the general pool area, slowly being deserted by any other participants in summertime frolicking, due to the oncoming light summer rain and occasional clap of thunder – wishing we had some nice flotation devices to stretch our long legs onto, and an ashtray (I didn’t smoke but wanted to in this case) and strong cocktails to sip while gossiping over the neighborhood and its contents. Instead, we floated and swam for seconds at a time, as the rain fell around us, and no one was left – the sky opened and the thunder roared. We eventually got out, and it was pouring as I drove her the few blocks to her place and arranged to meet up at the bar for the show and evening’s festivities come evening time.

I know exactly why I did what I did, dress wise. It was hot. Really hot. Sticky, city hot and the humidity that had clouded our senses before the rain had let up only a little bit for the barely cooled down evening. I had on That dress, which wasn’t like a dress at all. Black, and strapless and short and form fitting. It was the bare minimal of clothing, but it did look damn good. Since there was going to be loud music, I thought it was time to reach back into the time machine and bring out the metal and hemp choker I had, which completed the outfit just fine, along with the boots I knew were his favourite – the brown, old leather ones, which I put on with fishnet stockings. There was no going back now. Heat did strange things to you. So did he. Feels like a different person I am talking about now, the spikes, and folds and depth and darkness and shards of outward bending light he had, they all seemed gone, just like he is. The extra bits were added – the makeup, the earrings, and the thing behind the dress that made it mine.

After most of them I knew best poured in, the place got crowded. He showed up just as the music was starting. Off putting as usual, and a gentle mixture of politeness and disgust, per his usual Saturday night. I bought him a beer, and he seemed to think I didn’t have to. Two dollars wasn’t worth much to even me, so I shrugged it off and turned around. I could feel him standing close behind me, his feet staking claim around one of mine, and every so often, and increasing with each interval of time that passed, he would lean into me, and say something to me, loudly because of the noise, but muffled as he shoved his entire mouth into the outer folds of my ear, speaking to me in desperate kisses, the words I practically heard from the inside centre of my cranium. This went on for a little while, and then I might have said something a bit snarly, as I do, and eventually he disappeared.

Later I was told that it was assumed by many that I was his (again) and he owned me, nothing less (still). That he was on me in every single way, as I stood there, not turning around, that he was fucking me, but in my mind and clearly did stake a claim and then leave it behind. That was his game. When I got home that night, after taking a far too mild amount of hallucinogenic drugs (which wasn’t my regular, but I needed to float up a bit on that night, noise spinning in my ears, his voice in my skull and hands and breath on my neck…..they failed me (the drugs) but after long walks around the hot night of the neighborhood streets I was home. I received a message from him that read ‘your dress is very attractive’. I sighed, put my head in my hand, and said to him ‘why not do something about it’. He did, months later, and again, months behind, and that night of missed opportunities sums he and I up. I could think about the last times, which were more dulled, smooth and drunken, holed up on winter nights and in warm misunderstandings again and again, but I prefer to think of the epicenter of our passions, when my flame was flying clear as day, and his was receiving three seconds too late. And vice versa, back again. The summers we ran races against each other under the thundering hot skies which deemed us their playthings for as long as their havoc could hold out.

M. Lucia