no cream, I think of the words
that come next, the segue to
part three of my essay, the best
part. And, I’m sure, the scariest
to those trying to discern some
subtext I didn’t really intend,
at least, I’m pretty sure I didn’t.
The bridge from Imago Dei to
my little brother, who did not
have to die, is, and I conjure it
strictly from memory, where
it replays several times every day:
The Imago Dei mythology moves straight into the realm of cruel fantasy when you consider my little brother. If any human ever to walk the face of this earth represented love, it was Luke. So if he, in fact, was God’s image, why would the benevolent creator’s faithful have played such a heavy hand in his demise?
Strong and just sweet enough,
the coffee I gulp can barely
shore me up against the crashing
tide of depression. Maybe two cups.
Two Cups
Plus thinking about spending time
with Hayden today. Hope she’s not
still pissed. Girls sure do get irritated
easily. Trying to keep them happy
is a game. My problem is, I’m not
always sure of the overarching rules.
It seems to be okay that:
She went to a game without me.
She chose her friend’s company over mine.
She drank too much soda, ate junk food.
(Just guessing, but it’s a decent guess.)
She watched other guys be athletic.
But it’s probably not okay that:
I went to a party without her.
I put up with a friend’s company instead of hers.
I drank some beer, smoked a little weed.
(She’d just be guessing, an accurate guess.)
I talked to another girl, drove her home.
Okay, it’s weighted a little unevenly.
Still, overall, I did absolutely nothing
wrong except try to enjoy myself
without my girlfriend coming along.
They Say a Solid Offense
Is the best defense, and I’m going
with that. I wait until a decent hour—
eleven o’clock on a Saturday is decent,
right?—and I go ahead and call my lovely.
One ring. Two, and that’s enough. “You up?”
Of course. I was in early last night.
Snippy and inaccurate. “You texted
me at twelve fifty-six. That’s late.
Oh, and just by the way, I was home,
and had been.” Not exactly true either.
But let’s play the game. “Why are you mad?”
Long sigh. I don’t want to fight.
“Good. I don’t either. In fact, I want
to do whatever the exact opposite of
fighting is. I love you, Hayden. Now
what should we do today?” Outside
it’s still cold and drizzly. Go figure.
I don’t care. Mall walk? Movie?
We Settle on Both
I pick her up just after lunch for the drive
into Eugene. I watch her exit her house,
spin to wave at someone inside before
turning back toward me with a sincere
smile. This day is looking up. She floats
along the walk, ethereal in some gauzy
skirt the color of greening spring, plus
a darker, emerald sweater, which hugs
every perfect curve of her body. Was it just
yesterday I last saw her? Why don’t I
remember her looking this way? Nymph
is the word that comes to mind. Not
the dirty kind, but the kind who consorts
with the gods, lowercase g. Stunning,
that’s what she is, and more. Breathtaking.
We will not argue. We will not argue.
It’s a good mantra. Almost as good as:
We will kiss. We will touch. We will
kiss. We will . . . Okay, probably not that.
But the thought makes me grin, and
my smile is the first thing she sees when
she opens the door and ducks her head.
What is it? she asks, voice all maple
syrup sweet and butter smooth.
“Nothing. I was just watching you
and thinking how you remind me
of spring. Come over here, okay?”
She blushes an incredible shade
of rose, but scoots as close as
the arm between the seats allows,
and that’s plenty close enough
for me to cup her face in my hands,
tilt her chin up just so, and realize
my mantra. Actually, both of them.
Because kissing like this, there is no
way we can argue. She closes her eyes,
but I keep mine open, watching the subtle
movements of her body. Yes, she looks
like spring, and tastes of winter mint.
But her scent is summer—toasted
skin. Hint of apricot. A potpourri
of flowers haloing the silk of her hair.
I’m holding Eden in my hands, and
it makes me glad there is no God
to take this garden away from me.
Except . . .
Except
Her cell phone buzzes inside her bag.
She jerks away, breathless, and reaches
down to check for the text. “What is it?”
Let’s go. She waits for me to start
the truck, motor away. It’s from my dad,
who was spying on us out the window.
I try to avoid her father, who does
not approve of his daughter dating
anyone. Especially me. “And . . . ?”
He said he hoped we wouldn’t repeat
that performance in public, and to
consider what Christ would want.
“In my admittedly limited understanding
of the New Testament definition of
Christ, he is the foundation of all love.
Considering how I feel about you, that
would put Christ sitting solidly on the arm-
rest between us. I think you’re safe.”
She reaches over, circles my knee
with gentle fingertips. If I didn’t believe
I was totally safe, I wouldn’t be here.
“Does your dad ask about the . . . uh,
personal stuff we do? I mean, it’s not
like we’re shacking up in motel rooms.”
Her fingers stop their circular orbit.
Well, that isn’t exactly how I put it.
I said you’re a complete gentleman.
I purposely drop my jaw. “But . . . How
could you say such a preposterous thing?
I mean, everyone knows that’s a lie!”
We both crack up, and Hayden’s
left hand relaxes on my leg while her
right turns up the volume on the radio,
which happens to be tuned to Liquid
Metal. A deadly guitar riff screeches
into the space around us. Ugh! How
can you listen to that? Like magic,
we’ve got boy band pop. Good thing
Dad doesn’t know you like that stuff.
“Or what? He’d refuse to let you see me
because I’m obviously in league with Satan?”
I wait for her smile. Instead, she shrugs.
I Should Drop It
Don’t really know why
I feel the need to defend
myself, or my taste
in music. Anyway,
she knows what I listen to.
This is the first time
she’s overtly
associated
it—and so, me—with
something as unsavory
as the King of Lies.
“That would just be
your father’s opinion, right?
You don’t believe metal
is the voice of the Devil?”
Does anyone in their right
mind actually buy into that?
My dad is a hard-core
evangelical, but he does
allow me a mind of my own.
I prefer not to listen to death
metal, but not because I think
it’s satanic. More like a lot
of irritating, random noise.
We’ve Been Going Out
For close to a year, more than long
enough to confess music tastes.
“Why didn’t you say so before?”
I don’t know. Guess I didn’t
want to sound like a nag.
Fair enough. But, “So, why
tell me now?” And also, just
by the way, why change the channel
without asking if it was okay?
I mean, if only to be polite.
Another shrug. Why not?
We should tell each other
what’s bugging us, right?
Uh-oh. Tension grips
my shoulders like giant
hands, squeezes. Quick.
Mantra one. We will not
argue. We will not argue.
“Of course.” I grit my teeth.
“Is there anything else
bugging you besides my music?”
I Half Expect a Tirade
Or at least a short
list of complaints.
I party too much.
I’m kind of a smart-
ass. I drive too fast.
I eat like a hog. I don’t
much like her friends.
But no. She smiles, then
brings those coral gloss
lips against my cheek,
tickling it when she says,
That’s the worst thing
about you, and the rest
doesn’t matter. You’re not
perfect, that’s a fact. But
your imperfections are
part of what makes you
you. And that’s who I fell
in love with. Surprises.
She’s full of them. Like
now, she dials back to Liquid
Metal. For you, I can even
handle this. Once in a while.
Loving This Girl
Is a roller-coaster ride.
Protracted climb.
Serious drop.
Loop until your stomach
threatens to lose it,
jerk to the right, spin
left. Coast to a stop.
Disembark.
Get back in line.
Do it again.
And again.
All in the name
of chasing a thrill.
Is the rush worth the effort?
Most of the time, hell yeah.
But then come those moments
when I’m really not sure.
Guess it’s a good thing
those moments
are few
and far
between.
In Addition
To different tastes in music, we have
a similar wide divide in our ideas
about what constitutes a good movie.
I’m all about action. She likes romance.
Usually one or the other of us has to
compromise. Today, we find one that has
both violent revolt and tender love scenes.
That is providential. What’s less fortunate
is some of those love scenes involve
nakedness and sensual discovery, resulting
in downright hot sex. I can’t speak for Hayden.
Don’t even know if girls react in the same
way to such visual stimulation, but I am
completely turned on and sitting next to a girl
who’s every bit as beautiful as the one
on-screen, and I’ve rarely been quite
this uncomfortable, and all I can think
of at this exact moment is Alexa
asking, Don’t you want to, you know?
My arm is around Hayden’s shoulder,
and I am adrift in the current of her hair,
spilling across my chest. The sudden grip
of desire is so wicked, I can almost believe
there is, in fact, a Satan playing some vile
game. I move my hand to the left, whisper
trace the outward curve of her breast.
She doesn’t protest, but rather sighs
into the heavy fabric of my shirt, and now
I wonder what it would be like to “you
know” with her right here, right now, zero
hesitation, just please, please, let me
love you like that. But now the screen
lights with battle, and in the barrage I hear
my mom, hear my dad, hear Hayden’s father,
all shouting, Be careful! Don’t ruin your life
like I did! And, What would Christ think?
From Satan to Christ
In about twenty seconds, all because
of a flush of passion. And that is made
all the weirder considering neither S
nor C means one damn thing to me.
Consider the poor kid who stumbles
through life in the shadow of both.
The credits roll and as we exit,
I ask, “Did you like the movie?”
It was pretty good, I guess. She slips
her hand into mine, steeples our fingers.
Some parts were better than others.
I wish I could read her, know for sure
she means what I think she does. But
I’m not about to ask her to clarify.
I unlock our hands, tuck her slender
shoulder beneath my arm, kiss the beat
in her temple. “I love you. Know that?”
Her arm circles my waist and she tucks
I know that. And I kind of love you, too.
Kind Of?
Hope she’s not trying to tell me
something. We cruise the mall
like Siamese twins until something
in a window catches her eye, severs
our connection. As she exclaims over
the latest Coach purse, my eyes scan
ahead, and I’m dismayed to see Lainie
heading our way, elbow to elbow
with Vince. So much for breakups.
I hope Marshall is still in one piece.
Vince gives me a curt nod and Lainie
coos, Oh, hey, Matt, pulling Hayden’s
attention away from turquoise leather.
This could go poorly, and does instantly,
when Vince rather obviously checks
out my nymph. Lainie’s voice frosts.
Hayden. Huh. She considers what to say,
and I think she might spare me. But
the green-eyed monster wins out.
Her mission is now to hurt Hayden.
I’m surprised to see you here. Her words
stab and the “you” twists the knife.
No Escape
I’m in trouble now.
I should have known.
Hayden: Really? Why would
you be surprised to see me?
Lainie: Because of last night.
I kind of thought maybe Matt
and Alexa were a thing now.
Hayden (a serious shade of red):
Last night? What do you mean?
Lainie (ignoring my evil glare):
Sorry. Sometimes I read too much
into things. Guess I was wrong.
I can either stand here
like a wuss and wait
to be leveled, or act
like a man, invite
the solar plexus punch.
“Alexa was at the party
last night. I drove her home.”
Acting Like a Man Is Overrated
Especially when it means hurting
someone you love, and Hayden
is stung, even though she hangs on
to a good percentage of her dignity,
at least in front of Lainie (the bitch).
Oh, that, is all she says, refusing
to publicly cede ground.
Something simmers beneath
the surface, though, sizzling
like hot oil. Vince senses it, too,
decides to dodge the pending spatter.
Let’s go. He gives Lainie
a decent push, ignores her complaint.
Hayden watches their retreat,
mostly as a way not to look at me.
I reach for her, but she sidesteps.
Will you please take me home?
Sssssssplatter! It blisters.
Hope it doesn’t leave a scar.
She Walks Two Steps
Ahead of me all the way to the truck.
It’s a struggle to stay behind her,
considering the relative lengths
of our strides, but if I’m lucky,
maybe her quickened pace
will burn off a little anger.
Luck is not my best thing.
We are barely out of the parking
lot when she spits, Alexa? Really?
I thought Marshall was your date.
Reverse déjà vu?
“I did take Marshall to the party.
What Lainie forgot to mention
was how she climbed all over him,
trying to piss off Vince. . . .”
Lainie and Marshall? Whatever.
Anyway, what’s that got to do
with Alexa? Cavernous breath.
That’s why you got home so late.
“Listen. Lainie drove Alexa
to the party. When she hooked up
with Marshall, Alexa needed
a ride home. That’s it. Nothing
happened between Alexa and
me.” Except for my wanting to kiss
her, and her slightly disparaging
remarks about Hayden. But that’s
nothing much. Nothing, really.
It’s maddening when the truth
(mostly the truth) isn’t enough.
You know how I feel about Alexa.
I can’t believe you’d do this to me.