by lotus rose
(4/25/01)
Work was as it always was. Loneliness.
Day after day of adjusting her collar.
Her plight.
Fending off groping tendrils of hands.
And that afternoon, her boss had said...she didn't want to remember
what he'd said...
...he'd said, "you could be prettier."
She pushed out through the doors with a frown, stepping into the cool
air outside.
Every day as Debra left work, there was the little girl sitting against
the other building. The little girl who always sat quiet. Peering out at
the world through auburn bangs. The wind ruffled them as she sat, resting
her arms on her knees.
The little girl said, "It's coming, you know."
Debra didn't know which one she meant.
The little girl said, "The ritual."
She nodded. She'd heard vague murmurings, but knew only that it was
something done in solitude, at night.
The little girl looked down at the broken bottle on the ground next to
her. The wind made her hair flop over her face. She tucked it behind her
ear. "Perhaps we can stop it."
Debra looked at her, questioning.
"The war they have made for us."
She nodded.
There were so many wars. So many wars of different kinds.
The little girl studied her face, said, "My name is Morgan."
"I'm Debra."
"Life is a game of musical chairs, Debra."
Debra looked at her.
The little girl smiled at her with her eyes. "I will speak to you
tomorrow."
The next day.
As she pushed out through the doors, the wind touched at her face like
fingertips.
It threw her into a thoughtful daze. She'd known a dozen different
caresses from dozens of fingertips. At times, she'd licked at them in
sorrow, as her tears trembled and fell. But she could tell that it was all
becoming forgotten.
Morgan said, "Have you ever thought about crushed flowers? To me,
crushed flowers are the symbol. They are the beauty we can't let go,
preserved in afterwards. They are ruins."
"You are a very thoughtful little girl."
The little girl smiled and kissed her with her eyes. "I was before.
The pillowtalk has made me more so. Soon, though, the pillowtalk will make
it all mean nothing."
That night as she lay in bed, she felt something. It was a
tingling -- through her arms, through her legs, in her chest -- she knew that it
would come to be. All she needed was to learn how. But she realized that
what she felt was not a thing, but a "him," and she knew that the pillowtalk
was what brought him.
At work the next day, she asked Tracy about him. With faraway looks,
she said:
"In him, I am art. In him, I am beauty and feeling."
When she asked Robin, she sighed and said:
"He is the warmth of floating caresses."
When she asked everyone else, they said:
"He is swirling tenderness."
"He is the soft whispers of lovers, and fingertip kisses."
"He is the entrails of white lace...and
purple."
There was a way of doing it, and she learned that way.
Morgan said, "The pillowtalk has changed things. Nothing really means
anything anymore, and that is its meaning. Tomorrow, the war they have made
will be forgotten."
That night, she performed the pillowtalk for the first time.
He came to her and wrapped around her.
hello, beautiful. hello, sweety.
so soft, so gentle.
hello, darling.
He was the gentle licking at her earlobe.
He was fingertips, tracing curves.
And too many memories.
In him, they were forgotten.
He saw all her flaws, and it was okay.
She opened herself and he knew everything.
The next day.
She pushed out through the doors again and stepped out.
The wind blew cool against her, held her face like hands and licked at
her lips.
A clattering circle of leaves rose up and swarmed like vultures.
He was in her now. She carried him with her everywhere now.
Morgan was there again. She smiled and had dimples. "Tomorrow, I will
let you buy me ice cream." She giggled and looked up at her.
Debra looked down into her pouty little face. She couldn't help
imitating it. She looked into her eyes. The big, wide eyes of a child.
Saw herself reflected in the iris, green. Saw herself smile, in the green.
She held her arms out and the little girl held out hers. She pulled
the little girl into her body and wrapped her arms around her, feeling her
little body pressed so tight against her.
And that moment became a gift from him. The leaves swirled, then in a
blurred line, cascaded into them -- going into them, spearing them, through
them, then out again.
The little girl felt warm.
He came to her.
Here was someone who would love her and never leave her.
encompassing, engulfing.
devouring her and intermingling.
hello, beautiful --
so soft, so gentle.
He was surrounding her, filling her,
gliding slowly along the edges of her ribs,
licking softly the ridges of her fingertips.
hello, sweety --
and he was arms around her, holding, warm.
forever.
