what's between "anything can be sexy" and "an air of ridiculous levity"?
20 non-chronological hours with A
“Once again, she asked me what I meant. And again, my heart was in my words, but the explanation made no sense.”
— Dance Dance Dance, Haruki Murakami
The morning
A always jokes that she makes coffee like it’s a science experiment, which, I’d say is pretty accurate. In the morning, she goes through the meticulous process of transforming a tube of beans into a 2oz pour, and then uses words I don’t fully understand to describe it’s taste.
I would also call her process poetic, but not the kind whose aesthetic might earn you half-a-million subscribers (crisp, white countertops, coasters made of cork…you get it). Rather, it’s a poetry that’s mumbled over the sound of last night’s groggy laughter, taking a seat with a blossoming morning nonsense. Delirious and delicious.
In this type of poetry, the words are there only as a formality; as a sort of gesture to show that something is being said here. The real poem is the way the sound of the salmon-colored espresso machine brings about snippets of my dream: I was to be killed via brick-to-the-skull, but waited for the impact in an unusual state of joy, bathed in the pink warmth of having had so much love in my life.
When I step outside, all my senses tell me that today, unmistakably, belongs to June. The 10am air sits with a humidity that nestles it’s nose into my neck, convincing me to linger in the taste of the pour, which reflects all the steps it journeyed along it’s paradoxically poetic and scientific life.
Noon
On my drive home, I melt instantly into the rhythm of Drive Thru (Edit) and the warm breeze, which slithers playfully into one window and out the other. We become a trio with no protagonist, all matching the essence of freedom so precisely, I can hardly differentiate the rhythm from the breeze from my own hands.
I pull into a 15-minute spot, giving myself just enough time to run into the Cuban bakery in my Saturday morning best: plaid boxers, red sunglasses, no bra. I look into the glass, and the pastries beckon in a way that feels more sensual than delicate. Remembering A’s words from the day before, anything can be sexy, I laugh, and place my order without much thought. Guayaba, quesito, carne mechada con mostaza. They’re warmed up, tossed in a bag, and I’m out the door with 6 minutes to spare, glowing with an air of ridiculous levity.
The night before
Reluctant to turn the lights out, A and I lay with our heads propped up at 2am, going on about how limiting language can be as a medium for expression (please, don’t point out the irony). I told her how I wished that at 10-years-old, I’d been handed a bass guitar and taught simple tabs from my favorite Two Door Cinema Club songs, rather than a flute and Hot Cross Buns. My complaint is, of course, hardly reasonable. But as I currently stand within a metaphorical language box, I’m comforted by the image of a reintroduction to playing music that makes room for agency, connection, emotion.
We talk about movement, too, and dance as a form of communication. Even further, how sex can very well be considered a part of the conversations that happen as you’re repairing a relationship. Movement is rich in dialogue, and I’ve become curious to expand my vocabulary. Jokingly, I begin to lament, I can’t even go to Dr.N’s dance class anymore…that would be the weirdest day of everyone’s life… to which she responds, probably…everyone except for him.
Back in my metaphorical language box, I start to dream about dragging my friends out to an open space in lingerie and sunnies with my silly, new digital camera. A bag of props and One Thing by Lola Young on repeat, fumbling around trying to breathe life into a version of sensuality I can’t explain. Can an image speak more than a thousand words? I think I may need twenty or thirty-thousand, at least, to make tactile this thing which continues to escape language.
In the same bow
With pastries in the passenger seat, I catch a glimpse of the In-N-Out parking lot off the freeway. I’m momentarily transported back to last week, 2am again, sitting in the car with N, devouring animal style fries in a silk dress. Grilled onions to replenish the calories spent, though I’m eating at a pace my stomach will regret in an hour.
Still driving, I fall out of the reverie and think to myself, it’s all tied up in the same bow. The guava pastries and boxers, french fries and silk dress, lingerie and digital camera. Yet, when I try to describe the bow, I can’t quite get there with my repertoire of words. It’s somewhere between anything can be sexy and an air of ridiculous levity... tucked away, just out of reach. And once again, I hope that maybe I’ll find it, in an image or sound, in a hug or a natural scent, or the first bite of guayaba y quesito.
Auditory aperitif (or can we call it, “required reading,” in this case?)