Sunday, April 24, 2016

Fire and salt

The season here smells of flowers and dust but no salt though we're close to the ocean. Miramar was very different, at least in that sense.

My neighbors, the young French couple, leave with lightly packed bags every weekend, early in the morning or just before lunch. They'll return tomorrow and I'll be the first thing they see when they do. I always loved playing these little games with others, not in spite of them getting me in to trouble but because of it. Chloe is the only person that ever understood that side of me.

She never came to our summer house even though I asked her to a hundred times. It was always just us and Belle and her family, and later Carl. The three of us would sneak out at late as we could and go in to the woods, each time a little further than the last. The moon would guide us to the perfect places, but nothing made me shiver more than discovering that old empty house. I knew from the first time I saw it what was going to happen there. What I was going to do to him.

Wednesday, April 13, 2016


The young couple next door. Teasing him is too easy but I don't do it for him. It teases her too but this is strictly for myself, so I'll remember what holding back when I want something really felt like. I've done it before but not as of lately, so I definitely need the practice.

They pass by my patio in the afternoon and every time I feel them glancing at me in the corners of their eyes, laying flat on my back on a bath sheet. How they both pretend like they're not watching. Her: not with envy but to make sure I don't follow him for too long. Him: with a subtle hint of desperation ever since he noticed that my bikini isn't a bikini but matching powder pink underwear from Marlies Dekkers.

I know by the way she squeezes his hand as they pass that she's seen it too, it's the finest part of my day since I cut the 3 o'clock glass of Champagne. My frustration afterwards would be easily cured but instead I wait for them to return an hour later, hands still firmly gripped around my thighs. It's painless torture for all of us but I need it, if I ever want to learn.


Saturday, April 9, 2016

Our honeymoon

I have two neighbors here, an elderly lady and a French couple in their late twenties. The boy is handsome, he could do better than her but holds her hand and calls her chéri as if he's really in love.

He came by one day asking for a screwdriver (not the drink), I answered the door in my underwear and acted embarrassed when he stared at my plum colored balconette bra. Since then I know he wants to fuck me but I'm not here to make friends. I stay away from temptations even when I think that she might want it too.

Meanwhile, S tells me that Henry left Paris and went back to LA. "A friend saw him at Wilshire Boulevard" she says, "he looked heartbroken". She calls me on a landline phone in the kitchen, I sit with my legs crossed on the wooden floor and listen to her talk och breathe and laugh. She's the only person I'd want to see right now.

Tuesday, March 29, 2016


Every time it rains in the morning it feels like the first day of fall.

I'm still afraid of switching my phone on to see if he's written or called. I've stopped checking my e-mails and keep asking people in the village if they've ever heard of Avy Stanford. No one has and it makes me breathe a little lighter, at least for a while until it all comes back to me like missing heartbeats.

Easter came and went, like Christmas it never meant anything significant to me as a child. At best they were times when we overcame our dysfunctionalities and pretended we were a family for a couple of days. Mother would tell me stories from her youth, all of them fabricated but from honest intentions. My father would look at her with love, the way he remembered her from when they first met (this is what he told me). I would say that I miss those times but it was too long ago and I sometimes think that every damn thing has changed somewhere along the way.

Tuesday, March 8, 2016

Closer than ever before

I'm renting an apartment somewhere along a quiet coastline, just to remember what it was like to be alone. There's a small marina nearby but no yachts, just fishing boats and seagulls and abandoned restaurants. I can see parts of it from the little French balcony, the wardrobe in the bedroom overflows with ivory white lace blouses and the light curtains smell distinctly of cigarette smoke and old people.

I write more than I read but nothing gets finished. Every day I start working on a new letter, addressed to him but with different sentiments depending on the dreams I had the night before. I tell him about sunrises and sunsets, about people I meet in the bakery and about how I sometimes want to be just like him; how I know that sometimes he wants to be just like me.

I write outside and in bed, by the water or on a cast iron bench between the house and the towering mountains just off the coast. Always by hand, always knowing exactly what I want to tell him, but the part I never get to is when I ask him if he'll ever accept me back.