He’s 41 years old and he is reading the newspaper to me.
Several stories of local politics.
Fighting elsewhere in the world.
The story of a woman who was raped and murdered in San Diego’s Balboa Park.
I am caught by this final story . . .
We were in Balboa Park just the other night . . . we are both struck by the coincidence.
He reads me all the details the paper has to offer.
It is summertime.
1986.
I am lying in bed with this man.
We are both nude. It is hot and we have thrown the sheets aside.
The room is stuffy and smells of sex and seclusion.
The seclusion is his.
This is not an apartment that expects visitors.
He holds the folded newspaper above his head and reads to me of rape and murder. He is extraordinarily taken with the fact that I am intelligent enough to discuss the news of the day with him. He means this surprise to be a compliment, and so I allow him to believe I am complimented. I am smarter than he realizes, but there is no need to point that out.
I run a hand down his soft chest and stomach, trace small circles with my fingertips in the reddish hair below.
I speak to him of politics and violence and lies and sex, and he hardens.
He begins to talk of how I might move into this apartment.
My touch is absentminded.
I listen as he talks. There is no future for me here, but I am more than a little intrigued at how much power I appear to have. So I don’t say no . . . but I don’t say yes.
I allow him to believe that I am overcome at my good fortune . . . I have no words.
I move so that my head rests on the softness of his belly.
My fingers play.
His apartment is small. Cluttered. Filled with paper.
Books, notebooks, newspapers, magazines . . . paper is everywhere.
Photos are everywhere. Taped to the windows and pinned to the wall. Piled in messy stacks on the counters. Hung with small clothespins from wires that crisscross the rooms.
The man is a photographer.
Most of the shots are of buildings and scenery and sky and water and desert.
There are some faces . . . all of them older than I am.
I am not a photographer, but from the photos I can see from my position in this bed?
It is clear this man is more comfortable with inanimate subjects.
But I already knew that.
All three of our dates have been nighttime photo shoots. I have traveled with him through darkened San Diego streets to get the images he wants. I have watched him set up his cameras and equipment. Watched the tenderness in his eyes and in his touch as he lines up his shots. Seen the joy in his face when the lighting is perfect. Heard the enthusiasm and passion in his voice as he speaks of his photography.
The angles, the shadows, the moonlight, the architecture, the clouds, the water, the trees.
Not once does he suggest that he take a photo of me.
I don’t want my photo taken, but I notice that he does not offer.
Two nights before . . .
We spend hours by the bay, watching the moon rise and then slide across the sky.
He has some idea for a photo that captures the movement of the moon.
I don’t listen to the details. It is a warm and gorgeous evening. I dance along the water’s edge as he aims his camera away from the water to capture the moon over the city’s buildings. I splash and dig my toes into the sand as he focuses his attention and his camera happily elsewhere.
I sit in the sand and watch him.
I have no plans to sleep with this man, mostly because on this third night together?
He has yet to touch more than my hand.
He just wants an audience, it seems.
I watch him.
He talks about how perfect this photo will be if he can just get everything right.
His is a weird restrained passion. Filled with privacy and secrets and intensity. I think of photography as an art filled with light and fluidity and emotion. This man’s art is darker and stiller and more withheld.
I watch him and I am touched by how very much he cares about this photograph.
By how he wants to make a smallish dream reality.
I am touched by him.
So I reach to touch him.
He is very surprised.
Delighted and surprised.
That was two nights ago.
Now he speaks to me of moving into his apartment, and I speak to him of my wordlessness.
I kiss his stomach.
I move my kisses lower so that all words are silenced for a bit.
But then he talks again.
Talks of the two of us.
Talks of our future.
He steps naked from the bed and to a table across the room.
He returns with a photo . . . the photo of the moon’s movement . . . and hands it to me.
An offering.
It is perfect.
I look from the photo to his eyes and see that this is going to be trickier than I imagined.
This is going to hurt.
Oooh… I’m thinking this is one of my favorites. LOVE.
Really?
Oh, that makes me very happy.
Thank you.
I have memories like this – it reminded me of them – of how real they feel. I’m in the room. I’m lying on the bed. I’m there.
It’s often a bit too much and I wish I didn’t remember it all as clearly as I do – and I wish my heart could forget as well. It never does.
Isn’t it funny how some moments linger?
How everything about them is sharp and clear in your memory, while other bits of your past are just . . . gone.
And yes . . . the sharpness hurts.
Sigh.
Love you.
Kris,
See. You did get the moon. Already. And you didn’t even know it.
Bill
You are very smart, Bill.
Exactly.
I don’t know how I feel about this post. But I remember that feeling all too well.
Amy?
Sometimes it’s OK to not quite be able to pin down your reaction to something.
Ambivalence is fine.
I love ambivalence.
I have been in a room like that. With a man like that. I found myself tricked by the moonlight for awhile. A longer while than I realized. And it did hurt. The both of us, in the end.
CJ -
I was in this room and in this place for a short time, but he thought I intended to stay.
It was messy.
I hurt him.
That was not my intention, but I hurt him.
I love your slices and snippets of moments – I felt like I was a fly on the wall in that apartment.
Don’t stop…
Madeleine -
Thank you.
More than I can say . . . just thank you.
Powerful two days in a row. I have also been in that place. For me it was something that I let go on longer than I should have trying to protect myself from the outside world and her from the devastation I was going to bring to her life. And it was like that too. Devastating for both us.
Russell -
We have more in common than I imagined, then.
I love when that happens.
Thank you.
Hm. Totally understanding the writer’s muse and having no control whatsoever over where it takes you….
I have been all, serious and contemplatey (yes, I can make up my own words) and now I’m more serious and contemplative. My head is cocked, my brains are leaking all over the bed, mixing in some unfathomable way with my heart juices.
Your writing is beautiful. You are beautiful.
But, I don’t want to be serious today.
Today. Today I am going to go bitch about never being able to see the sun for more than an hour. I am all serious snarky today.
Hugs!
Exactly . . . sometimes, even though there is funny around me?
I am not in the mood to write it.
I am more contemplative.
But that does not mean I do not want to read a snarky post of darkness!
Send me that link!
Oh wow… beautifully described and I too had similar encounters during MY year of slut. The power was scary…because I knew it made men go crazy. Wow.
Ruby -
It was a weird time . . . a time of power that I didn’t know how to use, but which I wielded anyway.
Weird that the power of surrendering makes you strong.
Yeah.
OMG! If I was a joiner, which I am so not. I would beg you two to form a Year of Slut club. Oh, oh….I remember that year. What a beautiful, agonizingly painful, satisfying year. I feel so connected! Truly. I must go write now. Jot notes, share the year of slut. Instead of using my talents to graffiti Kris’s blog.
Starbucks Year of the Slut Club. Oh…so tempting!
SEND ME THOSE LINKS!
I would so join that club.
Yes, I would join that club too! Break the silenece… maybe help our daughters as well, to become empowered in a more satisfying manner.
Maybe.
But doesn’t it seem like each generation of women completely ignores the lessons learned by those who went before?
Especially if those who went before are named Mom?
Pretty sure they have to figure this stuff out for themselves.
Sigh.
Hmm, yes, definitely learn the lessons for themselves. BUT. When I think about that time for me? I had really CRAPPY self esteem. And I did not take care of myself like I should have. So even if my baby wants to learn this lesson, I would really hope to offer her more self esteem and more… knowledge of the power of no and to stand up for herself. Yeah. Not quite sure on how to accomplish that, but there we are ;-)
Yes.
That is my hope as well.
My fierce hope.
I have read this two times now.
Just because.
There must have been something about him for you to have stuck around after the first date.
There was something.
The something that made me reach for him.
He was worthy.
Just not right for me.
I know all about the ‘not right for me’…
That was my first marriage.
It took someone from the outside to open my eyes.
To make me realize my stupid mistake.
It took me a long time to find my voice and find the strength to end that marriage…
But everything happens for a reason.
Even if the sum total of the benefit of that first marriage is the knowledge that you have a voice and strength?
That’s worthwhile.
Oooh. This reminds me of a boyfriend I once had. I finally realized I wasn’t a priority in his life. I was transferred to another city which was the perfect break up excuse.
Kris who is not me -
I love to hear what others think of when they read my words.
I just love that.
Thank you!
Kris who is me
Causing such pain.
It seemed somewhat easy at the time … but looking back now, I know there were many things I could have done differently.
Wisdom with age.
Wiser to be ambivalent?
Hello friend,
I have been a non commenter of late …
Hey, Nicole . . .
Nice to see you here!
Yes, looking back, there are things I would have done differently.
But then I wouldn’t be where I am now.
Wiser.
hmmm, the chasm between would and could …
Huge, that.
I hold on to the moments when I’ve hurt someone way longer then those moments in which I’ve been hurt- this stirred those up. Sharp is the perfect word for them. But I loved this, it was full of power and wistfulness and sighs(but not the happy kind).
Lydia -
Me too. I have hurt people in my life . . . very few intentionally, a few more unintentionally.
And I remember their faces, as I never like to be the cause of pain.
I don’t like to think that others have painful memories of me.
Although I am sure some do.
Sigh.
Wow! Amazing. The moon’s role is cast perfectly. Whoa. Not necessarily comfortable and so well done; I’ll read it more than once.
Robin -
As I said in my tags, I have had the moon on my mind lately.
Thank you, babe.
Somehow, as humans, it seems to be a continuous act that we hurt people without meaning to. We realize we are looking for something that we have yet to find. Then when it is offered to us, it is just a little too late. We have already made that choice to walk away. Sometimes it is just a step that was meant to be taken in our lives.
That is what came to mind when I read your post. I don’t think about what I am going to write, I just write. In my head it makes sense.
Your writing is once again amazing.
Kim -
You are all filled with wisdom!
Your words are perfect.
Thank you.
Well it is your wisdom and perfect words that led to my comment with wisdomous perfect words. Apparently, wisdomous is a word.
Wisdomous!
That is so a word.
So busy lately, but when I am stressed or need grounding, I come here. WOW – intense post. I think that is all I can say, but please keep going!
I will take that as a compliment.
Thank you.
I will.