March
After Diana passed, Adelaide was careful not to watch movies that involved tire irons. Or strikes to bound people's head. This was a surprisingly wide genre, encompassing Woody Allen flicks and Family Guy cartoons. She tried to shut her eyes if there was company present which barred her from changing the station. Sometimes this proved to conspicuous and so she would avert her eyes, shuffle her feet, pick at something on the seat, feel the familiar closing of the chest, the weird frantic shuffle of her neurons from one side of her body to the other. One time, on a date where she felt safe, she burrowed into his shoulder and just shook her head. He was puzzled, but smitten enough to not press her for reasons. Adelaide did not mean to keep secrets, but a lifetime of self-destructive honesty had taught her that the audience is rarely prepared. Although she could tick off her tales and those of other with a cold third party alienation that had puzzled her therapists, she had begun to screen her stories for the sake of those people around her. She knew it contributed to the overall condition, the smug apathy of the crowds of people who thought bad stories were reserved for genre writers and slutty mothers leeching off of welfare. But she also realized that people did not want to think of the world as a place of such potential harm. She understood the need to curtain off the dangers, usher them to the corner, to keep themselves safe and their balancing-the-checkbook concerns rationale- and she knew her and her tales would be shown the same deference. In the corner, the poor rough tale of death, rape, police sirens, suicide threats, Adelaide and her yarns would nestle up to the other poor, unfortunates of the world, which would number approximately three. So Adelaide averted her eyes, burrowed her head, aware that another woman or two in the room would be doing the same.
The day of Diana's funeral, Adelaide's new love interest of a month dumped her over coffee. The shock was that three days prior, when they had first made love, he had been sweeter and more affectionate than ever, and Adelaide has relaxed securely into her enamourment. He made her smile while riding her bus, smug that she had something noone else did, made her be sweet, cheerful, flirtacious to waiters and librarians, made her ask extra questions to people she did not care for, and made her remember the answers. In short, she was alive and happy to participate fully in the world, to give back the happiness and love life had thrown her way. He had crazy hair piled up high and finished her jokes, had a story to match every one of hers, caressed her in a way more affectionate than she had experienced.
That night, she had cursed her shoes, which slowed her down and made her late to their coffee date. She arrived breathless at the cafe. She tried not to weigh him down with the suffocation that had taken her over, the ball of sickness lodged in her stomach after seeing Diana's reconstructed, powdered face. He did not notice. He was detached, his small talk forced, when she interrupted him to ask why, he looked to his shoes and began his pitch.
Her love interest was a musician who was too well loved to appreciate her affections. She realized in retrospection that he liked to be loved, a homecoming king, flinchless at the incredible odds of their connection. He needed to make a cd, he needed to travel, he needed to live. And she needed to not resist.
Adelaide wouldn't. Adelaide would be mad at first, understanding second, available for a monthly quasi date third. Adelaide would spend the summer reading the papers for unusual things, Islamic bazaars, Southern dinners, Visual Music art exhibits, to catch his interest, to make him remember her. She would always be breathless, wearing quirky, well fitting clothes with perfect make up, have a slew of jokes and funny stories ready to tell. She was a cheery Nicola Six, light and effervescent, contradictory and deeply confident-she wanted him to try and catch her. And he would never let her go fully. At the close of a month's time, she could be sure to get the email or phone call asking if she was free. When his grandmother died, he called her first. He sent her odd poems and cds. She helped him paint his room sky blue in August, tried to make him jealous by shifting her eyes and referring to a date with another. She felt a bit sick, honestly. She hoped he would really want her back now. Instead, he forgot her birthday later that week.
Adelaide was a bright girl who read all the magazines between the Martin Amis novels and Murakami tales. She knew what it all was and was not. Still, it took Adelaide a month to screw up the courage to tell him she did not want to continue to "see" him. He made her toes dance! He made her honestly tinkle with laughter, like a proper Southern girl! No, Adelaide no! Late night, in a Marxist cafe, over vinegar fries, she stuck shifted her eyes and let out half sentences while furrowed his brows- he told her he cherished her and she shook her head, determined. It almost stuck. Almost. She nodded accidentally once. Oh well. So he got another month of dates, shows, gifts, and the like, and then, on his terms, when she had brought her a crowd of friends to hear him play his first gig, he dumped her in the alley behind the house. She was drunk on gin, ohhh she knew better, she didn't ask anything, she stormed home, leaving her amazing pink velvet rock star blazer behind, never to be recovered from the wreckage.
He would be the guy she missed seasonally, the question mark, and with him, this is a now officially a romance, in the traditional plaintitive sense. His cd released to great fanfare- I mean, it was amazing music. It was so good she almost thought he had loved her. But deeply, sorely, Adelaide was more protective of her heart than she let on. What she really missed was that pink velvet rock star jacket. That self-adorative cunt.
The day of Diana's funeral, Adelaide's new love interest of a month dumped her over coffee. The shock was that three days prior, when they had first made love, he had been sweeter and more affectionate than ever, and Adelaide has relaxed securely into her enamourment. He made her smile while riding her bus, smug that she had something noone else did, made her be sweet, cheerful, flirtacious to waiters and librarians, made her ask extra questions to people she did not care for, and made her remember the answers. In short, she was alive and happy to participate fully in the world, to give back the happiness and love life had thrown her way. He had crazy hair piled up high and finished her jokes, had a story to match every one of hers, caressed her in a way more affectionate than she had experienced.
That night, she had cursed her shoes, which slowed her down and made her late to their coffee date. She arrived breathless at the cafe. She tried not to weigh him down with the suffocation that had taken her over, the ball of sickness lodged in her stomach after seeing Diana's reconstructed, powdered face. He did not notice. He was detached, his small talk forced, when she interrupted him to ask why, he looked to his shoes and began his pitch.
Her love interest was a musician who was too well loved to appreciate her affections. She realized in retrospection that he liked to be loved, a homecoming king, flinchless at the incredible odds of their connection. He needed to make a cd, he needed to travel, he needed to live. And she needed to not resist.
Adelaide wouldn't. Adelaide would be mad at first, understanding second, available for a monthly quasi date third. Adelaide would spend the summer reading the papers for unusual things, Islamic bazaars, Southern dinners, Visual Music art exhibits, to catch his interest, to make him remember her. She would always be breathless, wearing quirky, well fitting clothes with perfect make up, have a slew of jokes and funny stories ready to tell. She was a cheery Nicola Six, light and effervescent, contradictory and deeply confident-she wanted him to try and catch her. And he would never let her go fully. At the close of a month's time, she could be sure to get the email or phone call asking if she was free. When his grandmother died, he called her first. He sent her odd poems and cds. She helped him paint his room sky blue in August, tried to make him jealous by shifting her eyes and referring to a date with another. She felt a bit sick, honestly. She hoped he would really want her back now. Instead, he forgot her birthday later that week.
Adelaide was a bright girl who read all the magazines between the Martin Amis novels and Murakami tales. She knew what it all was and was not. Still, it took Adelaide a month to screw up the courage to tell him she did not want to continue to "see" him. He made her toes dance! He made her honestly tinkle with laughter, like a proper Southern girl! No, Adelaide no! Late night, in a Marxist cafe, over vinegar fries, she stuck shifted her eyes and let out half sentences while furrowed his brows- he told her he cherished her and she shook her head, determined. It almost stuck. Almost. She nodded accidentally once. Oh well. So he got another month of dates, shows, gifts, and the like, and then, on his terms, when she had brought her a crowd of friends to hear him play his first gig, he dumped her in the alley behind the house. She was drunk on gin, ohhh she knew better, she didn't ask anything, she stormed home, leaving her amazing pink velvet rock star blazer behind, never to be recovered from the wreckage.
He would be the guy she missed seasonally, the question mark, and with him, this is a now officially a romance, in the traditional plaintitive sense. His cd released to great fanfare- I mean, it was amazing music. It was so good she almost thought he had loved her. But deeply, sorely, Adelaide was more protective of her heart than she let on. What she really missed was that pink velvet rock star jacket. That self-adorative cunt.
posted by Adelaide at 5:12 PM
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