Adventures after Nightfall

Night. I have to turn my back on the sidewalk to load my bags in the passenger seat of my car. A perhaps emotionally disturbed man who might be homeless, who might be mentally impaired, or who might be on drugs tries approaching me from behind. I tell him, “I’m busy, have a good night.” He gets up close behind me. I don’t know what he’s capable of, but my hands, arms, elbows, and body are not in position to fight in any way. I am alarmed and frightened so I raise my voice over my shoulder, “BACK OFF, NOW!” He moves away, which is promising, but he hovers close saying something I can’t make out because he’s mumbling and because my ears are ringing with adrenaline and I’m about to disassociate in fear + anger. Time has slowed down and I’m taking in every piece of information and analyzing it. There’s good lighting, I’m near the front of a grocery store, there’s likely a camera, but the goal is to stop whatever this is from going down in the first place because I don’t want to deal with police reports or hospital bills, and I would have to muster the energy to do all that and heal by myself all while I hear criticisms about being a single female because that (and the bad behaviors, inabilities, and fragilities of former and would-be partners) is something I’m blamed for too. He comes back close and reaches past me and drops something on the hood of my car—a notebook that I might in another situation be curious about, but yes, he’s close enough and tall enough to stand behind me, trapping me and reaching past me and over the open door of my car to drop this notebook on the hood and I’m trying to avoid smelling him because I’m afraid of what I might learn from that. I turn around to face him using some sort of move I know from salsa and garba dancing. I’m still trapped by the open passenger side door, but am prepared to defend myself in whatever way I might. Mental inventory: slightly impaired still-healing right ankle, somewhat stable block heel sandals, and a skirt limiting my range of motion that unfortunately won’t rip but that I can hike up to mid-thigh so I can kick after a throat punch—lucky that I parked close enough that I’m loading the car while standing on the curb instead of standing in the gutter. I don’t want to escalate to physical yet, so I use the other effective tools I have, my voice, volume, tone, and alarming/aggressive word choice. I look him in the eye and pronounce, “BACK OFF, I’M GOING TO MAKE YOU EAT YOUR OWN EFFIN EYEBALLS!!!” This works. Shocked, he shuffles away. 

As I close the door, toss the notebook off my hood, and deliberate my steps to the driver side, aware that I can’t discreetly lock my passenger door yet and he’s not far away enough, I’m livid that this happened. I would have preferred to be kind, but he scared the S out of me. THIS is not the way to approach a female at night and it’s not my job to teach this. 

Side note: color doesn’t matter in this and similar situations. Yes, he was white. Yes, I’m flippin curious about that notebook.

Saudade

Saudade

I chose the pink cotton dress, woven cotton with cream lace.

After the party, he didn’t want to help me clean, he didn’t want me to clean in the morning, and there was no one else coming to help. So, I stayed up until 4:30am clearing, washing, and putting away the impromptu dinner party—he had decided to bring eight people home for dinner at the last minute. I cooked and hosted. No one spoke to me. I was a servant. But the townhouse was clean and when the light streamed through the high windows, I picked the pink cotton dress to bed. That clean home was the last moment of peace I remembered before I left.

I chose the three quarters length, white satin slip.

The mouthy staircase wound into the living room and I slipped from the living room into the sunlight on the vine garden patio. Just back from swimming with seals and colorful fish, the night impossibly sultry… romantic… the night sky beautiful beyond anything I could have ever dreamed.

I chose the flower-purple chemise.

A peacock was resting in my window when I woke. The lavender rooftops and the gardens, the mist on the ground that gave the townspeople magical properties so that they would float past the mango tree. This was after diving among the coral reefs.

I chose the flowy blue cotton and silk with little flowers.

Whitewashed walls and a small flower mural. Mexican tiles and warm air. Sipping tea and looking over my garden. Fruit, cheese, nuts, and bread. This was after ATV-riding to the lighthouse where I could see the Pacific blending into the sea.

I felt like I was glowing from within. I felt loved by the world, by the earth, purely loved.

Every beach, every stroll down a foreign street, every encounter with nature and animals, every bit of happiness and life and joy seemed like stolen moments. These were moments that I should not have had, that I was never given, and no one expected me to have, certainly not my mother, my grandmother, or my great grandmother, and beyond.

Maybe I recognized then as I know now that no one wanted me to have these moments. I’d stroll with… not quite a sense of ownership and belonging, but one of confidence and discovery. Maybe a person needs to be naïve to experience novelty in the world.

I’ve had my share, but like an addict I couldn’t stop craving more… more life. Then I discovered that sometimes life changes… the light becomes not as bright, the water not as sweet. I was left wondering whether I’d feel it course through me again. I don’t know how to stop wanting and wanting and wanting more.

Saudade

There was a time when I wasn’t able to sleep for three or four nights. One played the guitar ever so softly and gently until I fell asleep. A personal lullaby that I would recognize if I ever heard it again. If I ever heard it again.

There was a time when I was pulled to the inside and away from the curb, to be protected by another.

A time when I was shivering in the cold. I was held to keep warm and kissed on the forehead by yet another.

I was held once while I cried, until I finished crying about life. It was 25 years later than it should have been, but it finally was. 

A jacket offered, a motorcycle ride while wearing a dress, photo shoots, songs and poetry composed about me, fiction written with me in mind… yet…

Yet, who will remember me when I’m gone? My second death will be the same as my first.

Saudade

I used to want more first kisses. Now, I want one last first kiss. Maybe I already know his initials, maybe it’s wishful thinking. I used to want to keep traveling and bouncing from place to place. Now, I want to build a home.

Saudade