(no subject)

[phthalombrage]

Saturday afternoon, walking toward campus on Forbes. Just passed Il Valletto, chuckling to myself because it's closed permanently and I had never had the chance to step inside that odd little screen porch that reminded me of rundown salty waterfront fish shacks I'd eaten greasy french fries in in the Keys with my parents and painting a room in a rental house, child labor, when will mom get back, empty stomach, improper ventilation, Phil Collins' "in the air tonight" on the radio taunting me, haunting drumbeats in my ears, a song I had danced to just after Mark gave up on acro for the first time, had never heard the slow creak of the door closing behind me. Somewhat of a missed opportunity, that shop you always pass but never enter, that boy in third grade you wanted to talk to but never did, who died despite bone marrow transplants. Side of the road, construction worker type, definite working-class, dingy worn jeans, sleeves rolled up on some nondescript plaid shirt, grizzled gray beard, stops me, says, "you're smiling; you must be happy", bending near a parking meter, near a dirty tire, crusty mud, chunky rubber tread, near the dusty street, the coarse-looking curb, cars whizzing past, not noticing, his far from perfect teeth smiling under a moustache, gruff voice warm, huddled with other men and a parking meter. I'm trying not to look at them, trying to walk quickly away. I mean, I'm fucking creeped out, this strange, soft man, weathered by years of work, probably has those damn crinkly eyes, telling me I'm happy, he must be drunk or something, I'm just a girl, I scowl, why the fuck, I'm not happy, no, never am, how embarrassing, he's teasing me.

But I gotta admit it. I was smiling.

Even though I was heading back to (not) meet with my CivE group, I was cheered up again, not thinking of all I was leaving, not thinking of where I was going, just being, person on sidewalk, not flat like in a car accident, not disappointed, balloon on two feet.

I think I'm happy again, for now, tonight. These words I hate to use; I think I've found a family here. Parts of my life I won't mind remembering. It feels like the days when Mark still gave a shit about ballet, days before the ignore barre, days of floorbarre and bungees and other conditioning later abandoned by lazy incompetent teachers, hours when he'd scream at me and tell me he'd rip me a new asshole and only then could I make myself do back handsprings, when he still tried to fold my shoulder blades into my back, little duckling, when there was still room for me to grow, when he would challenge us, when I woke up sore in the morning, when he still loved what he did, before he watched that spooky Georgia bathtub melt and went to sleep night after night with sawdust in his eyes. His will died faster than Ginny's. He never finished my solo. I wish I understood them better; I think they understood me.

I need to write more letters. Combinations of twenty-six letters.

I feel like I'm part of things now; I was so nervous when Paul walked over, leaned down a little, I held my breath, intense round circles of his pale eyes in a plane with mine, thought he was going to chide me, tell me I was doing it wrong, they always do, I always am, something is off, it must be; he tells me to keep writing, I practically misheard, I grin, flustered, bit of a delay in signal transmission, he nods and heads off with that little satisfied bounce he sometimes has in his step, point conveyed, what? it's okay? Lots of empty space around my head, seriously there had been dark clouds.

I'm still waiting for the illusion to wear off. Forgive me.

But I'm going to sit up and enjoy it while it lasts.