If the phone rings
”If the phone rings, will you answer it for me?” I get something similar to a response from the dull, almost comatose girl sitting in the couch in front of me, eyes glued to some kind of glossy magazine.
“I said; if the phone rings, will you answer it for me? I’m going to the bathroom.”
“Yeah… Sure.”
I start to walk away towards the bathroom but stop and turn around to once again face her, saying: “It is vital that you answer the phone for me. It is of great importance to me that you answer my cell phone if it should ring while I’m in the bathroom.” She kind of nods in slow-motion and I walk away to the little room at the end of the hall with a door marked “WC”.
In there, I start crying. I do this sometimes; no biggie really. It’s like turning on a faucet. It helps me deal with, um, I don’t know, stuff. Releasing energy and those sorts of things. And when I say ‘cry’ I mean really cry; not just sob silently into the palms of my hands while muttering something like “why god oh please why me oh no oh woe beside me” under my breath. I let tears stream down my cheeks freely until my face and hair is as wet as if I’d just dipped myself head-first in the sink. As I taste the salt pouring out of my eye sockets I start thinking about this subconscious hierarchy of bodily fluids that rules our everyday life. Urine. Bad. So bad indeed that you have to go to a small, sanitary, hospital-like, secluded area to rid yourself of the unpleasant pressure located in your bladder. Tears. Not bad. At least not in the shameful urine way of it. Go ahead, cry on my shoulder. It’s okay. I’m here for you. “Pee on my leg”? I think not.
Blood. Depends on its origin. If you accidentally cut yourself on a steak knife and bleed all over your friend’s new bed, it’s okay (don’t ask me what the hell you were doing in their bedroom with a steak knife, though). It was an accident. They even feel sorry for you. Sheets can be washed. If you were to sleep in that same bed and wake up in a pool of blood; bad. Uterus blood, oh my god, that’s so gross. Never mind your cramps; you bled all over my fucking bed. What’s the matter, aren’t you on the pill? Can’t you women control these things? Jesus.
I suddenly hear my cell phone ring and I rush to the living room to answer it, ripping it from Sheila’s hands before she gets the chance to press the little green button marked “YES”. I often find myself wondering why there aren’t any “MAYBE” buttons on cell phones. I think I’d find it useful.
“Hello.”
“Hey there, gorgeous. Turn to the left, why dont’cha?” I instantly turn around and am now facing a framed picture of Marilyn Monroe that Sheila’s mom bought in some hip vintage store downtown.
“Your other left; duh.”
“Oh.” I make a 180 degree spin and am now facing the window instead. Katie is in her car, motioning for me to get in. I nod, smile and hang up. Sheila is still reading what I now notice is the latest issue of THE FACE and she seems very uninterested in my leaving but still gets up to hug me goodbye. Quickly, I lace my new shoes and button my coat and before I leave I check my makeup. It’s still there; kind of.
Inside the car, Katie kisses me lightly on the lips and turns on some 70’s rock classic radio station. She tells me that she has tickets to a preview of a new David Lynch movie that starts in exactly fifteen minutes.
“Un quart d’heure it is, then,” I add, knowing that Katie has a thing for girls who compulsively mix languages during everyday conversations.
“Biensur, mon chou. Nice coat you’ve got there. New?” She keeps her eyes fixed at the road ahead of us while saying this, not even bothering to inspect the $500, plaid, double-buttoned coat any further in the rear view mirror.
“Yeah. I mean it’s-…yeah. New.”
We get home early, both having known all along how the evening was going to end. And if we didn’t know exactly, it was more because of the thrill of anticipation than anything else. Katie doesn’t even pause to ask me if I want to spend the night; our shamelessly obvious flirting is enough of an answer. When she closes the bedroom door behind us and starts slowly undressing me, I find myself trembling a little at the touch of her warm, soft hands. Not shaking with fear as much as vibrating from the impact Katie has on my body; the power she has to make my skin send chills down my spine and my mouth open in a barely audible sigh.
She tells me to relax, and I do. I fall into her body, our auras blending into eachother perfectly; pleasure steaming from our pores and filling the room like a moist, tropical rain cloud.
“I said; if the phone rings, will you answer it for me? I’m going to the bathroom.”
“Yeah… Sure.”
I start to walk away towards the bathroom but stop and turn around to once again face her, saying: “It is vital that you answer the phone for me. It is of great importance to me that you answer my cell phone if it should ring while I’m in the bathroom.” She kind of nods in slow-motion and I walk away to the little room at the end of the hall with a door marked “WC”.
In there, I start crying. I do this sometimes; no biggie really. It’s like turning on a faucet. It helps me deal with, um, I don’t know, stuff. Releasing energy and those sorts of things. And when I say ‘cry’ I mean really cry; not just sob silently into the palms of my hands while muttering something like “why god oh please why me oh no oh woe beside me” under my breath. I let tears stream down my cheeks freely until my face and hair is as wet as if I’d just dipped myself head-first in the sink. As I taste the salt pouring out of my eye sockets I start thinking about this subconscious hierarchy of bodily fluids that rules our everyday life. Urine. Bad. So bad indeed that you have to go to a small, sanitary, hospital-like, secluded area to rid yourself of the unpleasant pressure located in your bladder. Tears. Not bad. At least not in the shameful urine way of it. Go ahead, cry on my shoulder. It’s okay. I’m here for you. “Pee on my leg”? I think not.
Blood. Depends on its origin. If you accidentally cut yourself on a steak knife and bleed all over your friend’s new bed, it’s okay (don’t ask me what the hell you were doing in their bedroom with a steak knife, though). It was an accident. They even feel sorry for you. Sheets can be washed. If you were to sleep in that same bed and wake up in a pool of blood; bad. Uterus blood, oh my god, that’s so gross. Never mind your cramps; you bled all over my fucking bed. What’s the matter, aren’t you on the pill? Can’t you women control these things? Jesus.
I suddenly hear my cell phone ring and I rush to the living room to answer it, ripping it from Sheila’s hands before she gets the chance to press the little green button marked “YES”. I often find myself wondering why there aren’t any “MAYBE” buttons on cell phones. I think I’d find it useful.
“Hello.”
“Hey there, gorgeous. Turn to the left, why dont’cha?” I instantly turn around and am now facing a framed picture of Marilyn Monroe that Sheila’s mom bought in some hip vintage store downtown.
“Your other left; duh.”
“Oh.” I make a 180 degree spin and am now facing the window instead. Katie is in her car, motioning for me to get in. I nod, smile and hang up. Sheila is still reading what I now notice is the latest issue of THE FACE and she seems very uninterested in my leaving but still gets up to hug me goodbye. Quickly, I lace my new shoes and button my coat and before I leave I check my makeup. It’s still there; kind of.
Inside the car, Katie kisses me lightly on the lips and turns on some 70’s rock classic radio station. She tells me that she has tickets to a preview of a new David Lynch movie that starts in exactly fifteen minutes.
“Un quart d’heure it is, then,” I add, knowing that Katie has a thing for girls who compulsively mix languages during everyday conversations.
“Biensur, mon chou. Nice coat you’ve got there. New?” She keeps her eyes fixed at the road ahead of us while saying this, not even bothering to inspect the $500, plaid, double-buttoned coat any further in the rear view mirror.
“Yeah. I mean it’s-…yeah. New.”
We get home early, both having known all along how the evening was going to end. And if we didn’t know exactly, it was more because of the thrill of anticipation than anything else. Katie doesn’t even pause to ask me if I want to spend the night; our shamelessly obvious flirting is enough of an answer. When she closes the bedroom door behind us and starts slowly undressing me, I find myself trembling a little at the touch of her warm, soft hands. Not shaking with fear as much as vibrating from the impact Katie has on my body; the power she has to make my skin send chills down my spine and my mouth open in a barely audible sigh.
She tells me to relax, and I do. I fall into her body, our auras blending into eachother perfectly; pleasure steaming from our pores and filling the room like a moist, tropical rain cloud.
posted by Meidi at 3:31 em
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