Right at Home

 I have lived alone for many years and there are things I have forgotten. But then something reminds you. The intimacy of seeing a woman in messy hair as she gets ready for bed. You lay in bed and hear her turn off the faucet. She steps out of the bathroom in a shirt and underwear. You watch her walk across the carpet to bed. She sits next to you for a second, pulls the covers aside, and gets in bed. Sometimes you touch her leg as she sits on the bed. Some nights it’s cold and she climbs into bed quickly. You feel her cold skin next to yours. Sometimes she touches the back of your head or kisses your neck. You smell the toothpaste and soap and lotion. She presses next to you, and you feel her get warm. She turns over and goes to sleep. You listen to her breathing. Your breathing lines up with hers for a second. You move a little to be closer but try to not wake her. Some nights it’s hot and you try to stay far away from her in bed.

There are times you wake up in the middle of the night. You reach for her and either she is too close or too far away. You get up to get water. You come back to bed, and you have to move her arm over if it’s in your way. Maybe she has turned into the indentation you left behind, and you have to find a way to nudge her over. In the morning when there is time you lay next to her waiting for her to wake up. You watch the sunlight climb the walls. You get impatient. You fall back asleep even though you wanted to get up.

She wakes up. You kiss each other without opening your lips to spare each other the embarrassment of your breaths. She goes the bathroom, comes out and puts on something to go out into the living room. Then you sit with coffee and chat. You talk about nothing. You look at each other distractedly. You eat something. You make plans.

Eventually she takes a shower, performs her ablutions, puts on her day clothes, and fixes her hair. You walk out into the world and that private, vulnerable version of her is gone. Her hair looks nice.

All of this is the opposite of what Harry Styles describes at the beginning of “American Girls.” He sings “Right at home/ With perfect timing/ A face that knows/ Her perfect lighting.” This is not that. And maybe those women are just like that for part of the day. Or maybe they are like that because they need to be or are expected to be. Who knows. But I am referring to something else altogether different. I am thinking about the quiet face that you look at in the shadows of the bedroom just before you start to dream.

Springtime

One spring in the late 80s, I would walk across Highland Park to see this girl. She lived near the freeway, and it took me a while to get to her place. She would be waiting for me on the porch. I never went inside her house or met her mom or even made it past the gate. When she saw me, she would come to the gate and we would head off. Sometimes we stopped at Thrifty for ice cream or a drink or candy. But whatever route we took we wound up in the park as night began to fall. It was warm but cooled quickly. We would sit close to each other on a picnic table and talk. Then we would kiss. She was amazingly beautiful. She had brown skin, soft hair, and caramel eyes. She had been on tv and was a celebrity at our high school and was voted prom queen. She was a year older than me and knew I had a girlfriend. She would make a big deal about my girlfriend, who she knew well, until we started kissing. We would kiss in the park for a long time, groping at each other like teenagers do. Then I would walk her back home, holding her hand, drunk with the lightness of spring and the smell of this beautiful girl. I felt bad about the other girl but not that much. After prom they both dumped me.

In the spring about ten years later, I would walk into this bar in Eugene and see a girl I knew from class. She was always sitting with her friends in a part of the bar that looked like a slightly raised stage. We would pretend to not see each other for a while, then one of us would make eye contact. Eventually she would walk over to where I was sitting. I seldom walked over to where she was. I figured that her friends didn’t like me or wouldn’t like me and that’s probably true. We would talk for a long time. I would buy her a beer or two. She was short and pretty, with high cheekbones and dark tilting eyes that gave her a catlike appearance. She was a punk and had short hair and wore tight jeans and torn shirts. She carried herself with the air of someone who knew she looked attractive in things that would be unflattering on most people. I would walk her home from the bar in the perfumy nighttime air of spring. Sometimes she would invite me in and sometimes she wouldn’t. Sometimes we would make out and sometimes we wouldn’t. It felt electric to be near her, and I was okay with whatever happened. She knew I had a girlfriend and sometimes she brought that up. Yet she still came to find me every time I was at the bar. I would feel miserable walking back home to the girl who loved me and who I treated so badly, but I kept going to the bar to let that other girl come find me.

And there are more things I could say about spring and illicit desire and my moral failings. Spring so often made something break inside of me. No matter how happy I might have felt before, the lightness of spring, the smell of flowers, the warming sun would set off that thing in me that couldn’t accept happiness and so instead wanted affection no matter how much it cost me or the people around me. Juanes says “mi corazón entero entregarte” and now many years later looking back I know I have never been capable of that. I was never able to change that about myself and so instead I stopped having romantic relationships. But like an addict who stops using but never stops wanting to use, I still want to go out into this spring night and feel the warmth of someone I’m not supposed to be with.