Foreign Beaches Lined with Roofless Warehouses

 
There was a spark upon meeting that ignited a decade old denial. I had simply forgotten love. It was that simple. After all past shenanigans and dalliances and fancies I'd lost interest in the warmth of hands upon cheeks and the roughness of ropes on wrists. I hadn't wanted the memory of heartbreak over the Singaporean surprise: he's moving; I'm staying; end of story.

He sits across the wooden square table painted a deep rich black -- the same color as his bottomless pupils -- blinking a rhythm of another memory. Another memory I'd rather remain repressed. The black night of no moon and starlessness caused by city glare framed by the roofless warehouse. I am there squarely off center. Another lover creates obsessively in the corner hidden by shadows caused by corners obstructing streetlights. He doesn't see me, and I don't care to strain my eyes to see him. I was as black as the man's pupils who are staring at me now. That blackness is darker than that night, and I now know why I was never seen: I simply didn't exist outside of his corner.

He's smiling, and I see the silver tooth of past decay, and another possible derailment rides its silver. Carlights point straight at me , and I stand helplessly as he gets in his silver Toyota. He is leaving me here at the beach of unwashed love. He can't handle the tidal waves of passion made possible by unconditionality. So he speeds away as I run into the ocean hoping the undertow will carry me to China or maybe Singapore or at least some place as foreign as the emotions I feel.

I don't want these memories. I locked them so long ago in a box underneath my bed containing the witless notes of break-up and love. I scribbled them in college-ruled notebooks and burned them in the Weber grill ten years ago. Ten years. And I haven't loved since.

Now, he is across from me and that fire is back, and I feel the warmth of my cheek and the cold salty ocean in my mouth as I am revived by a stranger who saved me from my drowning. Could this be all of those moments in one? Will I end up in Singapore or on the beach or in a roofless warehouse? Or is there something else awaiting me?

He's asking me where I am at. He thinks I've been lost. And maybe I am. But I don't want to lose him. At least not yet. So I reply, "I'm here with you sitting at this black table that matches your pupils wondering where we are going."

And he replies, "To foreign beaches lined with roofless warehouses."

The Art of Waiting

 
I cannot stand the sun bearing down on me, burning my skin, squinting my eyes. It is intolerable and inescapable -- a constant reminder of passage. All I want is unobstructed vision. I can feel an itch in the corner of my left eye; it tears, and I cry. The sun did this. I hate it.

Sitting on a terrace at Yerba Buena with a hint of mint upon my lips, time is inexorable. I can move, but I don't like movement. I prefer to sit on a seat with time unseen, close my eyes among the crowded bus, and count. One. Two. Three. Four. ... Six hundred and fifty eight. ... Two thousand one hundred and twelve. When it stops, I stop. And wait some more. Then, after the waiting has left, I move or take my action. Sometimes I'm immobile for days. Waiting fo that to you.

It all started when I lost my time thanks to the malfunctioning technology left in pockets and on nightstands. It just decided to stop working, and I had no say. I now navigate by the placement of the sun in the sky. It is why I hat it so much: it has become my de facto watch, and I have transferred all my disdain for time to it. It is the only thing that marks passage. It reminds me that I'm waiting.

I've missed dates and others' expectations thanks to its disappearance. I am okay with that even though it is ostracizing. Maybe time left because I needed it to. Maybe it left because it was tired of waiting for me. Now, with more time on my hands I see a little more clearly except when the sun obstructs and tears. I hate the sun.

I can't remember why or how I came here. I can't recall how long I've waited. The only mark of time is the arc of the sun and my blistering skin. I don't remember a cool nigh laced with fog or soggy jeans on an uncomfortable cold concrete bench. I don't remember being asked to move along by some under paid security with a plastic badge. But that doesn't mean it hasn't happened. That's the joy of waiting: forgetfulness. Maybe that is the meaning of nothingness.

I can tell you are bored. I know you didn't know I could hear and see you. Waiting has brought me here. I've become aware of so much more than just this one plane. Did you know the other you is just as delicate? Did you know the other you also moves blindly? Most likely no. You haven't waited. You're only reading/listening. You couldn't hear/see me if you waited. Instead, this page/screen/space would be nothing, and you'd never remember these words. Instead, you are moving, darting, dashing, gallivanting. You are an explorer who knows what she is looking for, which make you nothing more than a passive observer. Waiting is never observing.

But I'm digressing by observation. I must get back to me and deny the tings you see. I must not give you any more clues because I don't want to meet you here. This is my corner made possible by failure. It is heavenly here. There is no such thing as accountability; for whom are you accountable when you wait? You just are; and that simplicity releases everything.

I am still at Yerba Buena and mint tea has been poured. I must have been waiting for it. But now it can wait for me. It will still be hot in my memory even when cold upong my tongue. That is if I can remember. The blistering skin will help me forget.

Now, I sip. And you? You are left to wonder whether it is hot or cold.