The toilet door just flew open and three girls came bumbling out, each grappling with various states of explosiveness in relation to one another. They’re adorned in spangly black things, like spiders, and I don’t think that they meant to dress identically. That just happened. How terrifying.
“After you.”
“Thanks, umm. There’s a massive hole in the door.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. Would you . . . be able to stand in front of it for me?”
“Sure.”
“I won’t be long. I don’t think. I mean, I won’t be. I just . . . Yeah.”
“I’m cool to stand here. No worries.”
“Thanks.”
Now I don’t want to take too long and I also don’t want to not take too long, because either option would potentially conjure unhygienic and/or poo-related themes, which I don’t want to do. One time I made a diarrhea joke within days of meeting a guy, and he said “Too far” before ceasing all contact with me.
Then again, one of my more long-term boyfriends insisted that I keep the bathroom door open when I shit because he liked how my thighs looked sitting on the toilet.
So I need to figure out some sort of middle ground between these distinctly paradoxical experiences to ensure that the timing of my use of the bathroom is utter perfection, without too many sound effects or foibles.
Perhaps a wee, a straightening up, a dab more perfume, a lippy top-up, and, oh yeah, flushing and washing my hands and whatever. Although, there’s no hand towel. I wish I’d realized that before getting carried away washing my hands with the very refreshing designer liquid soap that’s been provided. Mmm. Mandarin. Now the doorknob is going to be wet when he touches it. Yuck. Oh, fuck it. I’ll wipe it with my kimono! Ok.
“All yours.”
“Would you do me the honor?”
“Of course.”
“Thanks.”
Oh, wow. I love being asked for help. Now I’m guarding the door for him. I feel so proud. I can’t even hear what’s happening in the bathroom. He definitely wouldn’t have been able to hear the intricate and well-crafted sound show that I put on.
“Done.”
“Cool.”
“It smelled good in there. I think it was your perfume. Did you . . . top it up?”
“Yeah, I did. Would you like some?”
“Ah. Ok. Sure?”
“Here.”
“I’ve never seen anyone put perfume behind their ears?”
“My nana always told me to dab perfume behind my ears so that when I walked past people, they’d get a whiff.”
“And why a dab on top of the head?”
“It’s for the pineal gland, and it feels good. I don’t know.”
“Thanks.”
“My pleasure.”
“Sorry about before.”
“Before?”
“On . . . the balcony.”
“Oh?”
“I spilled my drink on you.”
“Oh!”
“And then you sort of . . . disappeared.”
“Right.”
“Yeah.”
“Did you follow me down here?”
“No. I mean, I don’t know? Sort of. Maybe. I had to go to the bathroom. Then I saw you standing outside of the bathroom and I thought that that might be a good opportunity to own up. Then I saw that your shoes were, like, plastic, and I didn’t feel so bad, and then I didn’t know what to say, and then the whole bathroom door thing happened, and . . . ”
“A lot happened.”
“It did.”
“Yeah.”
“Do you . . . need a drink top-up?”
“Sure. That’d be nice.”
“Cool.”
“I can imagine that . . . you do, too?”
“Yes. Yes, I do.”
“Great.”
“I think I’m following you?”
“Ok.”
“Would you like a beer?”
“Not really. I could make us martinis?”
“Martinis?”
“Yeah.”
“Ok?”
“I left my supplies in the kitchen.”
“I’ll follow you.”
38.
Sometimes I worry that I’m completely out of my depth in the presence of a man. This one seems to be keen to go where I lead, which is nice. I’m not being rushed. Nothing is being forced. I can feel butterflies in my stomach. Warning signs gently reminding me to stay sensitive and awake. There have been too many times in my life when I have heard myself justifying the bad behavior of a man, because I seem to be addicted to enabling it, and then I become stuck in loops of escaping, and being trapped again, and deluding myself into thinking that that’s what I want.
“Damn.”
“What?”
“Someone’s taken them.”
“Where did you leave them?”
“In a bag just here.”
“Yeah. Leaving vodka out at a party is, like, an invitation.”
“Right.”
“Was it expensive?”
“What would be expensive?”
“Like, was it a good brand of vodka?”
“Yes.”
“That sucks.”
“I think I know who took it.”
“Who?”
“The smoked-salmon guy.”
“I don’t know him.”
“Probably for the best.”
“Do you want one of my beers?”
“Where are they?”
“Follow me.”
“Upstairs? You’re keeping your beers upstairs?”
“It’s the Wild West, baby. Trust no one.”
39.
Whose room is this?”
“No idea.”
“I wonder why they like pictures of houses and driveways in Palm Springs so much?”
“What’s not to love? They’re inoffensive. There’s a sky, a vintage car.”
“They just seem so . . . soulless.”
“I think that’s why people like them.”
The room we’re in is so large and yet the person who lives in it has chosen to remain so small. I wonder which shelf in the fridge is theirs. Probably the empty one. Their bed is a futon, and there are no bedside tables, or books. The walls are white, and the bed sheets are white, and their clothes are hanging on a silver rack. They wear a lot of black. There’s a set of white wooden drawers, and a retro lamp sitting on the floor. There’s no desk, although I can see a laptop poking out from under the bed. There’s a mirror resting against one of the walls, along with some framed photographs. I read somewhere that having artwork on the floor is really bad feng shui.
I bet they have a room somewhere else filled with all of their shit, and mess, and stuff, and crap, and all of their favorite little bits of nothing, and whatever morsels of a history and a personality that they might have had once upon a time.
I once dated this guy for a couple of months who had a super-minimal room, just like this one, except he also had these really calculated, pigeonhole-shelf things, and a really slick sound system built into the corners, and all of these little skull sculptures. I remember thinking, “Wow, this guy has absolutely no baggage.”
Then I went to the bathroom in the middle of the night and I accidentally—well, I don’t believe in accidents—walked into this other room, which, I swear, could have been a hoarder’s. It was astonishing. There were books, and pieces of paper, and old clothes, and technology, and crap everywhere. Soccer boots and dirty socks. I remember the dirty socks really vividly. They were white, with thick red stripes around the top, and the whole room smelled like compost. I didn’t know what to say to him about it the next day so I pretended as though I hadn’t seen it.
“Here.”
“No, thanks.”
“You don’t want a beer?”
“No.”
“This room is really depressing.”
“I know.”
“Maybe they’re a tourist or something.”
“In their own life?”
“Pretty much.”
“Do we go?”
“Yeah, ok.”
We just received so many interested and suspicious looks leaving that bedroom. One of the only reasons I can get through parties is by convincing myself that everyone’s too busy focusing on themselves to notice me and what I’m up to. Yet here we are, blatantly being noticed at every turn.
“Do you know many of these people?”
“Not really. I came with a mate I think I lost a while back. He was trying to pick up this girl. Anyway. It’s probably best we parted ways. You know. Give him some room to do his thing.”
“Right.”
“So did you want a drink of any kind?”
“Maybe I’ll just get a water.”
“I’ll get you one.”
“Ok, thanks.”
“Where will you be?”
“Outside.”
It’s so strange to be presented with someone that meets a need I didn’t even know I had. I’m always looking to connect with other human beings, and when it actually happens I’m always surprised. I wonder if I’ll see him again. I have a feeling that I’m going to and I’m nervous about it. I want to be very conscious of this moment, and appreciative of it. I want to breathe it in, rather than scare it off through being neglectful, or insensitive to its presence. I want every shooting star I’ve never seen to know that this glimmer of hope hasn’t passed me by.
I don’t want to overstate it, though. I don’t want to crush it by obsessing over it. I don’t want to tamper with it. No moment tampering! I just want to see it clearly. Whatever I am, whatever you are, whatever this is. Help me see it clearly.
“I get scared when I look at the stars.”
“Really? Oh, you put lemon in it. Thanks.”
“No worries.”
“Why?”
“They make me feel small.”
“Hmm.”
“Have you ever seen a shooting star?”
“Heaps of them.”
“Oh, no. You’re one of those people.”
“What people?”
“Those people that shit just . . . magically ‘happens’ to.”
“Have you ever seen a shooting star?”
“I’ve seen, one, maybe?”
“Do you look much?”
“Probably not that much!”
“I look every night. So. That’d make my odds better.”
“I’d say so.”
“I’ve seen a UFO, too.”
“Really?”
“Mmmhmm. Although I don’t tell many people about it.”
“And.”
“What?”
“Are you going to tell me about it?”
“Would you like to know about it?”
“Yes.”
“Well. I was at the beach and I couldn’t sleep. It was 2:30 in the morning and I went outside and sat on the balcony in my dressing gown. I listened to the ocean and I cried. I was thinking about my dad, and looking up at the sky, and this enormous bright orange-and-purple light shot in all different directions at this incredible speed, not that far above the horizon line. It was like a comet, except it went like this, and then like this, and then it just disappeared. It came out of nowhere, and quickly disappeared back into nowhere. And I just knew. I felt connected to something bigger than my own brain. It was . . . reassuring.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah.”
“Have you, like, looked it up?”
“Looked what up?”
“If other people have seen the same thing?”
“No. Never.”
“Well, my shooting star sighting, which I can barely remember, seems pretty insignificant now!”
“No, no, don’t do that. It has whatever meaning you want to give to it.”
“I was in the middle of a breakup when I saw it.”
“Right.”
“Yeah. I went outside to have a smoke because of course I was still smoking. I’ve been off cigarettes for a couple of years now. Anyway. Back then I was still smoking, and I would use going for a cigarette as an excuse to get away. I feel bad about that. Although, she did all sorts of shit to get away from me, so. Whatever. We’d gone to the Blue Mountains in an attempt to salvage our relationship, and, of course, it wasn’t salvageable. We fought the entire time. Then I went outside, looked up, and there it was.”
“Was it a sign?”
“Of what.”
“I don’t know. Something?”
“Something, maybe.”
“Cool.”
“Yeah, it was.”
“Who?”
“There’s a girl over there that keeps looking at you.”
“What does she look like?”
“She’s got a pixie cut.”
“What’s that?”
“Like, really, really short hair.”
“Maybe make it a bit less obvious that you’re sussing her out?”
“Am I being obvious?”
“I don’t know. Yeah. I just . . . ”
“Ok, well, it’s not safe for you to look yet. Her body language is, like, very open in this direction. I think that she really wants an opening with you. It might be a while before she—oh, ok, go now!”
“Oh. Yeah, I know her. Sort of. Her hair is shorter than it used to be. I worked with her.”
“She definitely has feelings for you.”
“What? How could you possibly know that?”
“I just . . . know.”
“How?”
“She wants to connect with you, and I’m blocking her path. It’s bothering her. I just . . . know.”
“She has a boyfriend.”
“That doesn’t matter.”
“Yes, it does.”
“Oh, of course it matters. It just doesn’t matter to her. She mustn’t be very content. Like, her having a boyfriend isn’t stopping her from trying to seek out your attention.”
“I don’t want to look again, so I’ll just take your word for it.”
“Ok. Did my sharing this upset you?”
“No. I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Ok.”
“Is she bothering you?”
“Um, no. It’s just something that I noticed. Her gaze keeps landing upon you whenever there’s an opening for it to do so. Like, when you were walking toward me with the drinks, and when you sat down, she did this double take. Then she looked me up and down, before realizing that I could see her looking me up and down, and then she looked away again. That doesn’t really answer your question, though. Um. Does it bother me? Well, if I weren’t allowed to talk about it, it would bother me. If I felt like I had to pretend like it wasn’t happening, it would bother me. The fact that it’s happening in and of itself doesn’t necessarily bother me, so much as if I had to lie about it or something.”
“Do you want to move?”
“Oh, I don’t mind.”
“I’m feeling pretty uncomfortable.”
“Because of what I said, or . . . ?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Ok.”
“Maybe we can move when I’ve finished this beer?”
“Sure.”
His body language has become really closed off and tense and twisty, and his legs and arms are crossed, and it’s a strain for him to make eye contact with me now. Damn. I seem to be addicted to identifying and expressing what I see, and I’m now r
emembering how I read in this book one time that it’s very important not to disguise brutality underneath a demeanor of frankness and honesty. Maybe I need to be gentler. People think that seeing is blaming. They assume that through articulating what’s happening that they’re being judged, and ridiculed, when they’re actually just being seen. I don’t mean to condemn. A scientist doesn’t judge the organisms in a petri dish. Scientific experiments aren’t about making the organisms right or wrong for doing what they’re doing. It’s about watching how they work, and getting to know how they behave and interact.
And I’ve noticed that people become slaves to what they don’t want to see, so I’ve become obsessed with making sure that they see everything. I’m terrified of being deceived and of becoming delusional, because I’ve so often been deceived and deluded.
My parents lived and breathed lies. They mistook them for intimacy. Whenever I’d tell the truth, or say what I was seeing, they’d tell me that I was being too sensitive, or too much, or too melodramatic. Then I would doubt myself and what I had seen, and I’d become deluded, after having been deceived. Because, in truth, what I observed was always happening. Like, always.
So I’m not going to ask him about his feelings for that girl, even though I really want to know, because he hasn’t talked about them, and I can sense that there’s a lot of unresolved shit going on.
It’s just that I also read somewhere that it’s very important to go slowly and calmly with men. They process things at a different speed. Especially relational and emotional things. One book even said to wait six to ten seconds after asking them a question before saying anything else. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6—
“So what’s with the kimono?”
“What do you mean ‘what’s with it’?”
“Why are you wearing it?”
“It was my mum’s.”
“I like this bit.”
“The roses? Yeah, me too.”
“Did you go to a costume party before this, or . . . ?”
“No. Are you talking about my kimono in this way because of what I said about that girl?”
“Why?”
“There’s, like, a tone.”
“Oh, fuck. Probably. Sorry. Yeah. Umm. I hardly know her. My ex-girlfriend always sensed that something was up with her, too, and I never listened. I actually gave her—my ex, that is—a really hard time about it. So, you know. It’s pretty weird you said what you said.”