She could have been a high fashion model when she was young. Tall, narrow shoulders with boyish hips and bottom. The faintest hint of breasts, and long, long, pale cream legs. Her face however would have kept her off the runway. She was homely. Large buckteeth; thin mouth and eyes; a short beak of a nose, and a dusting of acne scars along her jaw. Her short sable hair would have been pretty – if she hadn't chosen a glossy slicked back style – Devon, my adorable stylist, calls it Hollywood butchy-fatale.
Yet, for me, looks count only until I judge someone's laugh. She had a good laugh. But though there were excessively few of us in this town, and I caught the way her eyes reacted to me, I wasn't interested.
Why? Maybe it was the mix of insecurity and arrogance that I sensed. Maybe it was the wildly cute chicana, with incredibly wavy black hair down to her waist, that accompanied her to the coffee house the nights I was playing banjo (yeah, a girl can play banjo – want to argue?). Maybe because my choice in bed is having a woman who's pliant and the signs that her body sent told me she wasn't one. Maybe it was because I didn't want a one-night stand, and I didn't want yet another affair to regret.
Then she came on my Thursday night without the chica ornamenting her like the expensive man's watch she wore. Sipping her latte with a shot (okay, I asked Brenda the head barrista – curiosity doesn't kill this cat), leaning back in her chair, those long, long, legs crossed while wearing a crimson Lacoste shirt and a silvery herringbone tweed skirt that dropped just over her knees. Her eyes closed, really listening to the music. I said that I liked someone who had a good laugh, I like more someone who listens.
At the end of my set, after I bend my head so that my massy hair fell over my face and down onto my hands that cradled Gabriella, my banjo – my little drama signature – and raised my head, Bren brought by a cup of strong green tea, with two very thin slices of lemon, and nodding towards the woman and saying, "She asked what you drank," I had to go over to thank her – didn't I?
I was wearing a short black flounced mini-skirt with a faded blue chambray workshirt tucked into the waistband; sleeves buttoned on my wrists, and a few buttons undone at the top – to show off my turquoise necklace. The short skirt is to get the small crowd to bother to look up, the shirt says that I was here to make music.
Her eyes were blatant as she took me in. Mine were blasé. Aphrodite was my birth goddess – I was gifted a luxuriant body; knew it, and gotten nonchalant about it.
She held her hand out and said, "I'm Claire."
"De Lune?" I quipped as I took her hand in mine. Her lips curled automatically and briefly; that joke was probably very stale for her. Our hands stayed gripped for longer than just a shake; the feel, the strong warmth of her fingers caused my mind to drift...
"Why can't I force myself turn away?
As I warm your bud in my hands carefully, my fingers massaging tenderly
Symmetrical, Earth shattering
Get closer, I need to talk
And make you mine"
Fuck poets – no, don't fuck poets, they'll carve their lines on your heart.
Her voice got me out that wistful, angry, space, "I've never heard Bach played on the banjo."
I shrugged, "If you can transcribe for guitar..."
She let slowly go of my hand and nodded, "I suppose that the curiosity of playing classical on your instrument gets you gigs."
Yeah, I thought to myself, enough gigs to pay for the cost of owning a peachy orange VW Karmann Ghia and not much else. If it weren't for that little trust fund that my Aunt (my sister in heart) left me I would be either pushing coffee, or worse.
I let myself laugh and decided to sit down across from her – hell why not, she knew the difference between Bach and blue-grass, and she did have great, great legs.
Half-hour later, after talking about classical music, trashy novels, experimental film (she shocked me by actually knowing of Maya Deren, had seen "Meshes of the Afternoon");
after I noticed little things, like that the nails on her left hand were bitten down to the quick, like that she kept her eyes on my face and not wandering over my body after that first survey, like that she would chuckle without thinking, that she had a fine neck under that scarred jaw; she asked me if I would like see a student film that she was in, at her place.
No one-night stands, affairs that end badly. Yeah, I had my rules. I said I would like that.
I followed her in my Ghia – she had glanced at the car and at me, saying without saying that it suited me – and we ended about five miles outside of town, in front of one of those old rambling Victorians that had been converted into multiple apartments. Past the entryway, and she silently ushered me through double French doors into her small hexagonal living room. A couple of overstuffed chairs by a marble fireplace, a loveseat with red velvet upholstery and a camel back facing a television. I noticed a couple of law journals on the couch; she made a wry face and admitted to being an attorney and added defensively. "I do mostly family law – which can be a bitch for us."
Us, being dykes and queers, but that was understood – there was a lot, too much, already understood between her and me.
"Wine, or some tea?" She asked me. Great leading question counselor.
I decided to be a little bitchy and raised my arms behind my head while yawning. "How about some coffee?"
That caused a faint blush and a nod. "I'll be right back, make yourself comfortable" Well, there weren't any books on shelves to peer at, so I kicked off my sandals and settled down on corner of the loveseat; tucked one leg underneath me out of habit, doing so exposed a lot of thigh; thought about that, shrugged, and waited.
She came back in a few minutes – enough time for her to make two cups of coffee and a plate with chocolate biscotti, and to restore her power femme manner. She handed me the coffee, put the plate on the couch next to me, and went over to put the video on. She came back to the loveseat, took a place on the other end, stretched those long, long, legs of her out and started the movie.
A young ballet dancer, sitting and undoing her slippers, her toes bandaged, red, a flickering ghosting montage of Degas drawings floating behind and underneath her. Watching her with nervous eyes, an older dancer, puffing away on a cigarette...
A stocky, elderly woman, her long hair striking white, wearing denim overalls, doing tai chi alone in a barren park. A back and forth dissolve to another woman, in a hospital bed, staring up with blank eyes as a wingless angel hovers with both sighs and laughs...
