Day Six: Small Comforts

Free-associating. Late.

And Power Girl is out dancing at a dive bar (In the car: "Now, what do you do, Third Friend, if someone asks to buy you a drink?" "I giggle and say nothing!" "No, you ask for something nice and give it to me if you don't want it!"), Hairline Boy is asleep in the next room and I am bumping slowly, slowly down dial-up road. That is to say, when I want to video-chat in my schoolgirl skirt with yet another musician, it has to be done in the parking lot of the coffee shop down the road - but that's tomorrow's post.

The first night I spent here, I slept alone. And then the next night Hairline Boy and I talked into the night, both of us a little wounded right now, and I asked him to share his bed given up to me. He said, "All I can do is sleep." I said, "I know."

He is faithful, as faithful to his distant girlfriend as he is to the choices and ideas that have kept him at a lower level of success than makes him happy. He is constant as penury, honest as paper plates, truthful as sloppy guitar playing. He is kind, universally so, even when kindness lays his heart on the table for the cleaver, ends his relationship, breaks up the band. He is exactly the sort of man who believes the woman he left his partner for when she says, "No, we can't openly see each other right away, and I have to see this other guy as a cover..."

He doesn't want anything from me. We flirt - a very little. His eyes sparkle when he looks at me. And each night we hold each other a little less tightly, grading down from drowning outside our depth to now, merely close. I still wake each time I roll over, surprised to find him there. His hands behave, his mouth stays shut, his heart is uncovered, but not in that way.

And that is why I advise when I know it will not be taken, that is why my expertise in his field is unwasted even if unreceived, that is why I pay him with two checks to be certain he will pay himself. Custom for me is payment in kind, base currency, the attitude of prayer, and that custom is unwelcome here.

I ask him, "Do you not have kitchen things due to circumstance or because you don't want them?" I think I will get him some knives, or nice glasses.

He says, "Like what?"

I say, "Like plates."

No, he does not want kitchen things. I can't give him what he wants. My usual band-aids are all wrong, don't cover a burn unless you have to. His wounds are drying out. I use my hands to wipe his face in the night, thumbs gently taking the tears from his eye sockets, asking if I can kiss his cheek with closed lips.

I can't fix it. I can't fix anything. So I change in the bathroom and come to bed in t-shirt and leggings, lie in his arms and wish him more like me, me more like him.

Bits and Pieces

...I have traveled south to the land of God and good manners. I noticed through the night, as we got closer to our destination, the Christian radio stations became much more prevalent, and I was able to tell them faster - it didn't even take a God lyric to catch Christian rock. Then I realized that Christian artists have much better diction and you can make out every word, which is why the music instantly sounds different than "mainstream" music. When you've got a message, get it out...

...also heard on the radio: "Don't miss next Saturday's Pregnant Bikini Contest for all you MILFs-to-be! Win some cash and show off that beautiful bump before it becomes a bouncing ball and chain!" There was more. There was a lot more. I don't know if I'm more amused or appalled - let's celebrate the human body in all its shapes and sizes! By getting drunk and choosing one girl as better than all the others based on audience catcalls and obscenities!...

...this month's Glamour boasts Kate Beckinsale on the cover and a tagline about the new beautiful body, "strong, healthy and real!" and announces in the table of contents that women from 90-230 pounds are in the article and real bodies throughout the magazine. In the article, there's a starlet, another starlet, the Urban Bush Women (thank God), one plus-size fashion model and Steffi Graf. The plus-size model might weigh 170 pounds if she's over 5'10", otherwise she's maybe a dress size 14. Throughout the magazine are the usual crop of lean, toned print models, and the skinny aliens shaped like coat hangers who populate the high-fashion ads. I'm serious about the coat hanger bit - couture is designed to be displayed on a woman who looks like a hanger...

...meanwhile, I continue to lie about my weight - so many women do, that if I claimed my true weight I'd sound like a giant cow, but in everyone's head, I *am* what a 135 pound woman looks like. However, after losing five pounds from being so sick, I then ate badly for two weeks and I'm starting to *feel* like a giant cow. Since several of my jobs involve being paid to be attractive, I'll be actively seeking additional physical activity this weekend...