Vacationing with Billie Holiday
This is how things would happen if I could control the world and the way people felt. I can’t and that’s clear, because the world is cruel and we’re not together. But, if I could, then the day would begin with a cold morning. And when I open my eyes I would see the matte grey sky through the space between the shade and the sill. And I would get out of bed quietly. I would try my best not to move the duvet when I stand up and walk to the bathroom. The wood floor would be cool and clean. I would brush my teeth and walk into the kitchen. With a mouthful of toothpaste I would put a kettle on the stove. I would spit into the kitchen sink and leave my toothbrush on the edge of the basin. My feet would freeze on the bare floor and I would walk back to the bedroom where you’re still sleeping. I would climb into our bed and the sheets would be soft and wrinkled in the spots where we sleep. I would put my chilly feet against your warm ones and you’d groan. You’re so cold. You would say with your eyes closed. And you’d roll onto you stomach. I would wedge my hands under your side and you would laugh. Are you using me as a heater? You’d ask this with one side of your face smushed into the pillow. Maybe. I’d say back. I would sit up suddenly and kneel beside your warm body. I would remember the kettle right before it howled. I would rush back into the kitchen and pour the hot water into the French press. I would do this because you love coffee and I love you. And when I bring the mugs back to our bedroom, you’ve rolled onto my side of the bed. I’d set the mugs on the table and you’d lift the covers. Get back in. You’d say. I would get back in and plant a minty kiss on your face. And your mouth would taste stale but it wouldn’t matter. It would start to rain outside and we would realize we may never make it to the beach. Well, maybe later, if the sky clears. Then we’ll throw towels and sandwiches in the car. And we’ll drive west until we hit the coast and then we’ll go north until we find the beach with the fewest tourists. There, I’ll lay out the towels and you’ll run into the surf. Later, after you’ve shaken the salt water from you hair, you’ll walk back to where I sit and you’ll stretch out beside me. You’ll put a damp hand on my leg. You’ll look at me with wet eyelashes and I’ll see the face your mom must have seen when you were little. You’ll fall asleep with your hand on my leg and I’ll read until I get hungry and the sun gets too hot. We’ll decide to eat our sandwiches sitting in the open trunk of the car. We’ll sit with our feet swinging over the parking lot and we’ll watch the baby with the plastic shovel scream at the edge of the water. But that’s later, and only if the weather improves. For now, I’m back beside you, happy and warm. And I pull you closer and rest my chin on your shoulder. I ask if you want coffee and you can feel my jaw bob as I ask. You touch my hair and I breathe a short exhale against your ear. Eventually, when you sit up, you rub your eyes with the heels of your hands and when you stretch the taut muscles in your back momentarily flex. I won’t be able to help myself and I’ll reach out and touch the twin divots just above your butt. You’ll reach around and snatch my hand. I’ll squeal until you let go. You’re ticklish and I know this. And when you reach for a cup of coffee, you’ll take a sip before you hand it to me. It’s so good. You’ll say and I know you mean it. You would drink your coffee and I would fall back asleep. And I would wake up to the sound of the shower running. But instead, the world is on fire and the morning won’t be cold and we won’t go to the beach. And tomorrow, when I wake up alone, maybe the sky will be grey and I’ll think of you and the things that didn’t happen and the way we would be if I wasn’t such an idiot. But instead, I’m the one who’s ticklish and I don’t know how to use a French press, even though my mom tried to teach me, and I don’t have a car with a big trunk and I totally and completely fucked everything up.