We dance next to your oak table, the heaviness in the room outweighed only by the tension I feel. Candles burn and the flames compete with the cool weather of the early fall days. You can smell the cold carried on the back of golden and rusty leaves, maybe one or two shades of green, as well. Inside, the scent of boozy peaches is so strong you’d think there was dessert waiting for us, poached fruit flambé with a strong sauce. Instead, the gourmand scent could thank your mother, who worked at Estée Lauder and had no daughters to offload the job perks on.
Speakers bounced with life, playing us the top 40 hits I never listened to before. I missed out on a lot, spending six months in Israel as the culmination of finding G-d just after high school. It wasn’t as long as other women my age, but I remained feeling robbed of time. Hidden by in-ear AirPods, my secret addiction to Taylor Swift stayed between me, HaShem, and Spotify. Most people around me thought I gave in, entirely, to only listening to Jewish music. I took it as a compliment, not a warning sign that being encouraged to give up a key sense of your identity, an interest that makes you feel like you, meant something was off in this community. I accepted the praise, and felt pressure to continue my growth in Yiddishkeit, even if it felt at times not inline with what I wanted.
I’ve moved past those days, but haven’t quite processed them yet. How can I, when Taylor Swift’s voice is so loud I can feel it in my pores? I haven’t had a lot of quiet time lately. Not with you around. I feel I can talk to you about anything, and I do, mostly. But even my feelings on becoming frum, and who G-d is to me, is something I can’t voice just yet. I’m still figuring it out. So we talk about other things. Explore other places inside of us. Learn other things about ourselves, and what we like, what we’re waiting for. Who we’re waiting for and who we’re waiting to become.
There’s heaviness, outside of the overwhelming candle and dropping temperature, and it sits with me. I’m nervous because I don’t know what to do. You are my first kiss outside of basements of adolescence; the first person I became close to who hasn’t known me since I was the new girl, frizzy hair and lisped. You don’t really know who I am, and I get to show you what I want you to see. I don’t know how to play my cards and I have a feeling you’re a bit of a shark.
I can run away. Start to flail my arms, bob like a sugar-free candied apple in the sea. Hope to catch the attention of the lifeguard, maybe he’ll fall in love with me next. He would rescue me and I can get out, injury free. I often get too close to pull away, but find a way to break free. Either that, or G-d puts an end to it in unseemly ways I still question. I could get close to him, the lifeguard, and once that heaviness sinks in again, I’d find another escape. Another person to latch on to.
But something about you makes me want to stay. Try to break through the heaviness. I like the sandpaper feel of your skin. It’s a warm scratch. Even black eyes, on you, are somehow inviting. I like the threat of the bite. It keeps me on my toes, and I’m used to that.
You are the best of both worlds to me. In my life before I met G-d, I dreamed of someone like you. Sharp grin, well-dressed, smooth talker but all this painted on a shaky veneer. I catch glimpses of you when you doubt yourself, when you pace your cadence to fight your accent and speech impediment. I do that, too. I know what to look for. Private schooling and the right self-help books can’t mask an insecurity as deep as speech. Lack the ability to self-express, lack the ability to know self. I would know. Or maybe not.
But I like that I see a realness to you. The glances are rare, so I treasure them and count down the days the plastic façade begins to melt, as it so often does.
In my life after I met G-d, and once We started parting ways, I wanted someone traditional. We’d go to shul on Shabbat, maybe. But Shalom Aleichem, kiddush, and challah, of course. We would send Shabbat away, lovingly with Havdalah and welcome to the new week by ordering pizza from up the street and Netflix. I was going to become modernishe.
You did most of that, at some point. Yiddishkeit was important to you, too. You spent more time in Israel than I did, and you excited me with stories of your family’s minhagim. I found someone who met all the boxes I imposed on a future partner. Some of your boxes were half-filled, I think. I don’t know if you started to erase them after we met or if I never noticed white space before. I’ve never been good at reading between the lines. But you’re as close a fit as I think I’ll ever find.
I can’t catch and release you. I’m willing to be drawn into dark waters. I think they’ll be clear on the other side.
tangentwithtanner
gummygunk
prguitarman
blakekathryn
romaincrisis
yousharknotpass
baratheonpilled
theartofmadeline