https://www.angelfire.com/art/letters/annex.html
writegirl@altavista.com
Come Inside
R.A.Barrington
Part One
There wasn’t any ice yet. Not even that invisible black ice. No slippery slope to fall off of. No hidden danger. But that morning in front of the post office I went flying, feet up, Christmas parcels flying in the air. Plunk! I wish there had been ice, then I wouldn’t have felt like a klutz. I saw his hands grasping my arm before I saw him, a mad swirling dervish image, a black hand, long fingers, a sure and certain grip.
“Are you okay?”
“Ah, yeah…think so. Mornings fuck me up.”
He helped me up, grabbed my parcels, opened the door and proceeded to stand beside me in the long line of people on holiday-shipping deadline.
He was staying at a buddies parents house on the North Shore, had been over at Barnes & Noble in Crystal Lake, and was sending off some art books for his mother back in Murphy, North Carolina, 28906.
“I came to see the tremendous snow you are suppose to have up here.”
“No snow this year, just piercing winds…sometimes it’s like that.”
He asked about me. We started to talk about life for a while, at least twenty minutes.
Midsentence, we stopped while I took care of sending out three paintings, one to a friend in Scotland, Lhanbryde IV30 3PE, another off to Minnesota, 51117, the last one to Colorado, 80545, oh, and a winter white cashmere sweater with a pink polka dot collar to my friend Susan who had moved to Indiana, 47024, earlier in the year.
“Would you like to go for coffee?” he asked as I turned and was about to say thanks and good-bye.
“Sure.”
We ditched the horde and walked over to Jill’s Rosebud. I liked the way his eyes sparked when I told him about the small patch of shimmering rainbow sky I saw on the way to the p.o. “It must have been created out of ice crystals,” I told him. “there hasn’t been any rain in weeks.”
“If you aren’t busy tonight maybe I could take you to dinner at your favorite restaurant. I’d like to see more of Chicago than Kyle’s parents house.”
“Yes. Let’s do it…like American game? Or Thai? Middle Eastern? Have you seen the lakefront? It’s an hour to the city from my place.”
“Any place you like. Make reservations. I’ll drive. I’ll pay.”
“K. I’ll see if I can get us into Avenues or Everest. 9:30 all right? Pick me up at 8…that’ll give us an hour drive time and time to find a place to park.”
Oh, he looks perfect in my doorway. I like the way he moves, the way he dresses, the way he talks. I have my cell set to alarm call just in case he turns out to be a sicko maniac. He seems almost too good to be true. Then again they all do. They are men after all. During the date he will say one word, make one gesture, do something that reminds me of my father. I will feel safe.
I am drinking a Stoli. He is fixated on the restaurant. He actually knows the painters who did the works in the entrance hall. Wow! I am impressed. Now if he shares his venison in huckleberries he is IN! I will give him a taste of my pheasant.
“Say have you ever been to The House Of Blues?”
“Yes. It’s over on Dearborn. They decorate with outsider art. I heard Train is featured for New Year’s Eve.”
“Want to go? Oh, you must already have a date for New Year’s. My buddy knows the people who run the place. He said they are sold out, but I bet he could get us in. What do you think?”
“Nope, no date. Just said good-bye to an Irishman on his way to his homeland yesterday. “Drops of Jupiter” yes! /Tell me, did the wind sweep you off your feet/ Did you finally get a chance to dance along the light of day, hey, hey/ I’d love to go.”
I wanted to collide with him and I could tell he wanted a sample of me. Even Steven. No secret there. So I asked him in, when we arrive at my place.
He put his hand on my exposed panty-hosed thigh.
“Excuse me.” He jumped up. “Where’s the bathroom?”
I could hear him puking. Oh no.
He returned to the living room. “ I think I have food poisoning.”
I am thinking, “oh shit. And I picked the restaurant.” I said. “Want to lay down for a while?”
“Sorry I messed this up.” He said as I took him by the hand down the hall to my room.
“Hey, sick is sick. You didn’t make it happen.”
I spent the night on my couch being awakened by his trips back-and-forth to the bathroom.
The next morning he looked pale, wet, drained. I placed my hand on his forehead. “You are burning up. I don’t think you have food poisoning. I think you have the flu.” My Florence Nightingale instincts were coming out.
“Could be.” He said his teeth chattering like he was freezing to death. “I could call my buddy to pick me up.”
“You are too sick to travel that far. Stay here if you like. It’s no problem. I don’t think I am a poison nurse or anything like that. I won’t kill you. Promise.”
He fell back asleep two seconds later.
I made him chicken soup laced with lots of arsenic, oops, garlic, cuddled him up in blankets, brewed him cups of lemon tea, and changed the drenched sheets on my bed.
He is delirious. I hear his dreams.
When New Year’s Eve arrived, I was sitting on the couch, alone, watching Train at The House Of Blues on teevee, channel 7. Everyone was smiling and singing along and grooving to the music.
10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, HAPPY NEW YEAR! My phone rings, "I didn't think you would be home. I just called to hear your voice on your answering machine." he paused his voice barely above a whisper, “Baby we were suppose to be together tonight. You know it. I know it.” My exboyfriend has turned into a stalker. I must admit I am wishing he were here. He wants to come over.
“NO, I have a sick man in my bed.”
“What the fuck?” he is very pissed and confused. He accuses me of picking up strays, calls me “pathetic” and hangs up.
Sickman’s buddy came over on New Year’s Day with another friend. They picked up him and his car. He flew back to North Carolina on the 2nd. He’s back at his office on the 3rd.
A warm hug good-bye. A brief, whispery butterfly kiss. In two weeks we will meet all over again, fresh and new.
YES!
Part Two
[rest of story to come]