one mile past tonopah
It finally hit. Thirty years revealed itself in a blackened bathroom–unable to find the q-tips or the doorknob. The feeling is claustrophobic and disappointment.
“So many expectancies that are empty; yet, somehow weigh you down,” a friend writes about his own experiences at the age of 30. He is correct.
The ex-boyfriend emailed to wish me a happy birthday–we are born on the same day. He adds that he is happy and his almost-year-old son is perfect. The dagger doesn’t hurt as it used to. Not even the betrayal of another woman having the dream he and I used to share under a bedroom air conditioner burns. Yes, I’m okay with it. Before we parted, I was in the middle of a story about a woman who returns to her past, who finds her first love married with child. The wife is a noodle seller dressed in white. The main character is tawdry and strong–a sexual tiger with a red ribbon tied around her wrist. I said to Michael, my best friend, the worst thing that could ever happen was if this story came true.
Because I wrote the story, because I spoke the inevitable, the constellations won. The natural order was restored, and the tawdry woman tiger returned to her cave alone.
She spent last night in the blackness of a bathroom. The apartment gets too small for harsh words and two hard headed people. The self introspection. The failed attempt at combining the present with the past. The cats meow from outside the door. The bathtub faucet drips. Johann stretches his open claw underneath the door. In the kitchen, Jimmy eats pizza with fake cheese and black olives–drafting his own words for someone else to read. Where is she to go with her whale tears and disappointment?
There’s no escape for her this time. Not even in her own house is there privacy…except for the bathroom. She closes the door behind her and doesn’t turn on the light.
She returns to the darkness to see herself, again.
