clouds whores and mango-scented pillows
the temperature is mild and the sky is at rest. no storms. no wind chills. mediocre rainfall. i'm as uninterested in participating as the climate is. when i rolled over this morning, i looked outside, saw the clouds, then rolled back over for three more hours of sun-bathing in corsica. i've been hiding during the day. avoiding clocks and leaving the previous night's makeup on. i like the crusty mascara look. it works well with my cobain playlist. the one that's been rotating with pearl jam, radiohead, and my new fave, david gray. no sun, no happy tunes. maybe i'm going through a non-intraveinous courtney love phase. undead by day, hysterically alive at night. bonus points for smeared makeup and lost days of productivity.
the second the sky turns black, i make myself dinner (buttered noodles). i shower (for an hour). i remove the mascara to reapply something darker and thicker for another night of whatever is to come. i'm alone in my apartment, i walk around in polka-dotted boy shorts, and i avoid taking the towel off of my head until there's some kind of plan set in stone. no girl wants to dry her hair and burn it under a hot iron unless she absolutely has to. well, not this girl at least. one of the only things keeping me sane in this strangling weather and suffocatingly lonely apartment is the smell of my wet, tangerine mango hair. so a night in means a night in sniffing my fresh, caribbean mop. a night out means splashing perfume on and wearing standing room only jeans. naturally, i go. bodies are warmer than hard apartment furniture.
it's no wonder i want to stay in. my hair turns me on too much to waste it on drinks and routine conversation. the smoke eats my perfume and the nudie matching game captivates eyes too much to notice my denim. when boys talk, i don't care. i don't care about college basketball. fantasy football. vomiting from high places. batting averages. tits. on second thought - i care about tits. at least that's a conversation i can contribute to. and have a firm opinion on. an opinion, albeit quasi-bisexual, that matters. i am an authority. and the weather is too dull and predictable for politics, economics, obscure film releases. we're all bored. lazy. our minds wander. and we're in need of spicy dialogue.
the boob banter turns up the heat and i'm still cold. it's a strange coincidence that as laundry day approaches, the only shirts left in my closet reveal more than arm's length and subtle collarbone. of course. at the bottom of the laundry basket are the shirts i want to wear. the ones that help me breathe. speak eloquently. feel equal. so in the midst of a murky month of bad weather and conversation, it is quite fitting that the only thing to wear says "take me home tonight," and the only conversations keeping us at the bar are about my most prominent assets. at this rate, i should start ordering blow job shots and offer a good tug to any old sailor that walks my way drunkenly.
so i'm at the bar, wishing for coffee shop chatter, talking about tits, and wearing a "she must be compensating for something" outfit. brains out the door - flirty, jack-drinking, skin-bearing whores welcome. i'm all that i hate in this january mess. i apply my lip balm too often, touch forearms with purpose, and things start to feel fuzzy because i've put a few pints of hard liquor on top of my sea of insecurities. it's easy to get lost in this crowd of pectorals and firm grips. i want to fit in. go head-to-head. put the straw down and get lipstick on the glass. i'm restless in the latest hours, and my apartment is still empty. i become assertive. confident. strategic. i keep my cool. i chew ice.
the bar closes, and i don't sleep alone. i say dirty little words. my hair is shades darker, and the gloss wears away. i'm myself. the one that doesn't wear a lacey cami. the one whose earrings don't dangle. the one that wanted to be naked and in bed all along. the one with tangerine mango-scented pillows because she slept wet-haired the night before. the one that was left alone on a cloudy, dull day and needed some company. someone to be close to. to touch. to talk to after a long-term commitment to bedroom hermitry. i haven't set an alarm in weeks. i haven't seen a.m. in a month. then, as the strength of a new arm holds my loneliness, i start ticking. my eyes open, and it's eight a.m. i want to get up. go outside - for a run, even. i look outside, and the parasites are still eating the sun. there's no way i'm going out like this.
so we retreat to my hard apartment furniture without apology. me and my polkda-dotted boy shorts wrapped in a chenille throw, that is. i want to shower. but i decide to pass out legitimately. wait for the proper outro to permit reinstated privacy. so i can lock the door again and commit to disinterest and curse activity. once i get the cheek kiss and good-bye, i return to the bed that's mine. and mine alone. i close the blinds that were left open on account of intoxication, pull the drapes, and climb into my down-feathered sanctuary. my company is gone, and i can resume what i've grown accustomed to. i can close my eyes until the clouds are gone. when night brings dinners, showers, a social life.
as i settle in for the long day of eye lid investigation, i feel a small morsel of upset. i realize i've spilled beer on my favorite jeans, lost my favorite earring, and my pillow smells like bar. my perfect little world of nothing doing has been penetrated by the sudden desire to do laundry, put on sweatpants and a t-shirt, and to vow to shower before bed when smoke eats my fresh scent. it's 10 a.m. i'm a new girl who's washed the mascara off, made plans to socialize before the sun goes down, and whose bottom-hamper clothes are clean for a night of tea, talk, and sleeping with sugar mango fairies dancing in her head. nothing whorish about it. although tits might still come up. such an irresistable topic, really.