“She has wisdom,
and knows what to do.
She has me,
and she has you.”
She was the quietest one in the room, delicate, one might say fragile, but there was a fire that burned in her eyes that made it quite clear that she was strong. There were stories there, too, buried beneath the long lashes and impossibly long hair. He was drawn to her immediately, I knew it before he did. The itch to capture mystery masquerading in innocence was irresistible.
He had seen the same in me once. Been drawn to it like the proverbial “moth to a flame“, asking me to model for him, to let him write me into stories, capture flash my image into black-and-white Polaroids. I had fallen for it, the call of the muse, and fallen for him along the way. But, muses are fleeting, and his eyes were always wandering to the next inspiration.
I intercepted, though. Wrapping an arm protectively around her, leading her back to our place where I pulled out all the stops I knew. I drug out my albums, told her to pick her poison, and she chose, one at a time. We threw our shoes off and danced around the second floor apartment, singing-a-long, laughing, falling into each other’s arms. I opened a bottle of whiskey that we played relay with, back-and-forth, forth-and-back, our shades of lipstick staining the open end.
She leaned in for a kiss, eyes half-closed, intention subtly hiding behind those long lashes. She was clinging to the innocence that her physicality seemed to portray, but I saw through it, felt the heat screaming from inside her. I grabbed hold of her and kissed her fervently, passionately, with no hidden anything, and the room began to shake. For a moment I thought it was us, the vibration between, the way she felt in my arms. We would later hear the reports of the quake, centered twenty miles away, enough to make the late night rumble.
He came in right before the sun broke the sky. I could hear the clicking of his keys in the lock. I was awake, tiding up, humming the last song I remembered hearing, the feel of her lingering on my skin. He had just missed her, her car passing his on the way in. Well, he had missed her in more ways than that.
Her perfume was everywhere, in the couch cushions, the pillows scattered on the floor, my hair. He grabbed a pen and paper and began to describe the scent, capturing the color of her cheeks flushed pale pink with the delight I had painted them with, and the music, lyrically entwined as our bodies had been, as if he had been there himself. He never asked for a recollection, never asked anything at all, it was just there in the way I moved across the room, evading his eyes.
She was waiting on our porch the next day. He let her in. She had daisy chains weaved into her hair and an unopened bag of whiskey in a bag held between her legs. I found her there in the afternoon, lying across the floor, as he painted long strokes on a outstretched canvas. She looked up at me, blue eyes wide and clear, smiling, holding a shaky hand out to me. I walked past her, turning the record over and dropping the needle onto the song from the night before, sighing, giving in.
She had me, and she had you.