count 'em

This makes six, I think. Not counting the implied intent of starry-eyed and slightly delusional boyfriends or bums.

There was one hand-written on three-lined paper, circa 1986. Three that one wild month junior year of college. One on an airport shuttle about five years ago.

“When are you getting married?”
“I don’t know. You’ll have to ask my boyfriend.”
“You can get married whenever you want.”
“Oh?”
“You want to get married, you let me know. You can get married whenever you want.”

One sesame bagel, toasted, with veggie cream cheese and a side of self-esteem, thanks.


~beatrix

going somewhere

Do you know that I met him more than eleven months ago, in words if not in person? Eleven is almost twelve. And twelve is important, probably.

He wrote that haiku about the subway that I thought I understood. And I never even asked him what it was about.

It was cold the first time I saw him, even though I wasn’t wearing a coat. There was promise of spring, but it was winter. Like it is winter now. We’ve almost been around the seasons together. Almost.

Ten months almost. Ten is a lot, too.

He knows what foods to bring over when I’m sick, even though he doesn’t know if I like pulp in my orange juice. He knows I’d almost always rather walk a few blocks than have to transfer trains. And he knows how to make me laugh and what’s my normal morning bagel and how I like to fall asleep.

I’m the one who hears the funny things he calls out in his sleep. “Lonely float.” “Adidas.”

I know that the graphite-dot-tattoo on his palm is from being stabbed by a boy named Christopher in kindergarten. I know that there’s an oddly-appropriate freckle constellation of a grocery cart on the back of one of his calves. I can predict the order he’ll eat the things on his plate, and I know when it’s time to stop the movie by the weight of his arm.

I realized when I was falling asleep that I don’t know his shoe size. Or his favorite color. And I never know which side of the bed he’s going to want.

He’ll stop himself from asking me if we can try all the city’s beergardens this summer because it’s too much future, then he’ll ask me if we can send our kids to French immersion school, then he’ll ask me if we can go for bubble tea even though I hate both tea and anything that feels like a tadpole in my mouth. I’m almost always down for the walk to Chinatown, though.

I know there were girls before me, and I hate them. But not too much. I was no saint either. (It’s a funny thing to say, because I’m pretty sure there were some slutty saints.)

I hate that he had a life before me, but I’m glad we didn’t know each other sooner, ’cause we both know we would’ve screwed it up.

And all those other girls I’ll never want to count, I’m glad they broke him in. Broke him in without breaking him.


~beatrix



the blog has not only been around, but has been around with stuff on it for a whole year. thanks guys.
~b

the hardest thing is colors

He was the baby of one of Ted’s mom’s friends, and I held him in my lap while they, the grownups I suppose, ate at another table. He was old enough to sit and laugh, but still baby enough to be content with bouncing and cuddling. I’m not good at babies. But the surprising heft of him and the perfect skin on his chubby arms and legs and that baby smell I’ve never quite understood before. . . . For the first time in my life this felt natural. I tried to give him some apple juice from a bottle, but he was hardly interested and it dribbled down his chin.

Later, Ted and I walked up the avenue toward my place.

“I just think there should be enough time that no one feels rushed,” he concluded his reasoning for time of day.
“I think the hardest thing is colors. Like bridesmaids’ dresses.”
“What about a dark, rich blue?”
“I like that, but it makes the flowers tricky. . . .”

*****************

These days I’m back to drinking coffee once a week, sometimes more, without risking my heart bouncing around and convincing me I’m going to die. I’m not sure, but I think this might mean I’m happy.

“I had a really creepy dream that I shouldn’t tell you,” I told him, sitting in the little park with our coffee and bagels.

“Well, now you have to tell me.”

Whether I should have or not, I did. I told him about the baby.

“But that wasn’t really the creepy part. After that, we were having a very serious discussion about bridesmaids’ dress colors.”

The dream had tangled itself with our actual walk home the night before and felt like it could have really happened. Almost. His real-life suggestion is the color of his college teams.

A case of the Mondays, updated

I never know what to expect on a Monday. Sometimes, you wake up to a street strewn with bagels. I'm not sure what that means for the rest of the week.

Update: I got home from work and the bagels were all gone. Beatrix thinks birds ate them.

Giant jewish birds.

(And yes, they were sesame.)