Wednesday, August 29, 2012

Drifting away

Chloe still won't tell me why she's been acting strange, not that I've dared asked her. I'm always afraid we'll drift apart, that maybe everything has finally been said and there are no words left to share between us. It's so different with Carl, we can go months without even talking, but with Chloe I need those constant reminders that she's still there, not just in body but in spirit.

We went to Monte Carlo one summer and gambled on my mother's credit card until the bank called her and asked if anything was wrong. We ended up having to get by on what we could get from the pretty people on the 40 ft yachts in the harbor, pretending we were 16 year old tourists from Madrid. They wanted sex in return of course, but Chloe was too smart for them. For almost a month we lived alone in an empty three bedroom apartment overlooking the ocean, learning basic Spanish for the act.

It's one of those things I remember and sometimes wonder about, if maybe the best times we'll have are already behind us. When I look at her now, the way that she is, I don't see a future, just the past.







Friday, August 24, 2012

Her favorite flower is daffodils

The image of Chloe pushing that blasphemous girl into the pool, it's in the back of my head every time I look at her. The flock of angry parents surrounding her, how she wouldn't apologize but demanded an excuse for comparing H&M to Chanel. To me, at the time, it was the pinnacle of civil disobedience.

And now, since yesterday, she's been acting strange, as if something is putting her off balance. It's in the little details, a trace of it in her eyes, in the way she stumbles on the words when she talks about her day. She wants to stay in tonight, no dressing up and no dancing, just the red wine and opium cigarettes on the balcony after sunset.

Henry sent me dried daffodils, one for each day since we last met, and a note saying he stopped watering them when I left. The perfect cliché with a twist and I hate to admit it works.



Monday, August 20, 2012

We met on a Sunday

Mother took me to a garden party somewhere off Mulholland once. I was eleven and left alone on a polished lawn full of platinum blondes in pastel colored cocktail dresses and their copycat daughters (no boys). Sort of like a barnyard with a better smell.

One of them wouldn't shut up about the newly opened American H&M stores, as if it was a major fashion happening. "Look" she said, flashing an ill-fitting jacket made of something close to burlap. "It looks like Chanel but is twenty times cheaper". Everyone gathered around her like a flock of hens except for one girl who snuck up behind her like a 4"6' Audrey Hepburn style ninja and pushed her into the swimming pool.

Someone told me that girl's name was Chloe. I talked to her. We've been at war with the world ever since.






Thursday, August 16, 2012

The games we play

Mother is home again. I kept her flowers alive but I'm not sure she noticed. The scent of her perfume (Cartier de Lune) slowly fills the apartment, I hear her footsteps and the little songs she sings when she's happy. They make me happy too, when I ask her where she's been she just smiles and tells me I look pretty.

The first days are always like this. I realize I've missed her, maybe because I'm not good at being alone, but I'll soon feel suffocated and wish she would leave again. I'll regret it when she does and worry about something happening to her, so that the last thing I ever said to her was something other than "I love you".

And in all of this I can never forget those words from her diary I found after my father died, what she wrote on a train thundering through the Russian wilderness over 30 years ago:

What I'm certain of, what I saw so clearly through that window, is that I never want to put a child into this world. I could never live with the notion that some day they would be left all alone.















Monday, August 13, 2012

Venice

Sounds in the apartment when I'm alone:

Restless traffic on 5th
Water running through pipes behind the bedroom walls
My thoughts (like thunder)

A week since Henry, seven days since he unbuttoned my dress and carelessly threw it on the floor. Seconds away from telling him it was a seriously expensive Alexander McQueen (SS12), he kissed me on the neck and whispered unspeakable words in my ear.

Seven days since he ran his fingers over my body, slowly and softly like California sand. Whenever I close my eyes and try to do it the way he did I can hear his calm breathing and the frou-frou sound of his shirt moving. I remember the darkness and the open window, the blinding sun in the morning and his Chanel Blue. A week since everything and I need to see him again.














Friday, August 10, 2012

Vivre sa vie

Woke up early this morning to the feeling of someone standing in my room, by my bed. It was just a dream of course, but my pounding heart kept me from going back to sleep. It's too calm here, too quiet, mother hasn't been home for weeks (whatever "home" is these days) and the apartment is losing the scent of her perfumes. Chloe leaves in the mornings and doesn't come back until late at night, sometimes we share a bottle of wine but mostly we just sit together in silence with the lights turned off.

I'm afraid we'll run out of things to talk about, and of everything that is still unsaid: about Carl, about her father, about my father. There are no pictures left of him, I'm slowly forgetting what he looked like but sometimes I can see it so clearly in my dreams. When I wake up the images are always gone, impossible to recreate but sharp enough to fill me with an incisive sadness I almost lost somewhere along the way. I think it's the only thing that reminds me I'm still alive.






Monday, August 6, 2012

Don Quixote


The second I get his text I know the battle is over. He asks me to come without asking, I'm playing hard to get but it's like trying to reverse a waterfall. Chloe goes with me in the cab, she holds my hand in hers and we watch Manhattan dissolve like smoke in the rear-view mirror. "I'll find someone" she says when we get to his Brooklyn address at half past two and I know that she will.

Henry makes me breakfast, lunch and dinner in bed on Sunday, I only get up to take a shower and watch him study. I know he's touched other girls the way he touches me but I try not to think about it.

When I get back home Monday morning I'm in the same dress I put on 36 hours earlier, he kept my underwear. "Now you have a reason to come back" he says. Chloe hugs me and tells me I look cute in his black D&G boxers, rushes off to work and leaves me alone with my daydreams.







Friday, August 3, 2012

Unloveable

Chloe and I share the same restlessness. In our minds we're always somewhere else, lingering in childhood memories or dreaming of a fairy tale future. We expect that getting what we wish for will make us happy, but when we do we're already looking for another way out and a different perspective.

We sometimes wish we were ordinary, that we could be those girls in American Eagle Outfitters glitter tops and sequin dresses in the middle of the dance floor on a Saturday night at Strata. We imagine it when we start dressing up to go out, but the alcohol and opium cigarettes poison our minds and fuck up our values.

We spend hours in silence on the balcony, falling through our fantasies, waiting for the dark. Though we may never be at peace we'll always have each other.






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