Summer of 2006, a loft in downtown Los Angeles, California

By Rachel Jendrzejewski

I remember putting chocolate candles on the kitchen counter - but very intentionally not on the table.

I remember feeble whomped-up spaghetti and edamame and ice water and two-buck-Chuck.

I remember distracted conversation. I remember feeling comfortable but overly self-aware in my no-clean-clothes bathing suit, yellow tank top, green-sweatshirt-material skirt and dirty bare feet. My hair was up. He was wearing jeans, a white T-shirt, and a wide grin. I remember thinking that Tennessee Williams might have written him into life.

I remember dim light and peaceful music and quiet strums on the guitar and talking, talking, talking in circles. I was so surprised by his appreciation for dinner and the way he insisted on washing all the dishes. I was so awkward about just drying and getting in the way. I remember feeling little-girlish in my hopes that I wouldn’t say anything stupid and that he would think I looked pretty.

I remember being scrunched up on the couch and learning to whistle, him saying that you just put your lips like you’re going to give someone a kiss and me cocking my eyebrow back, and both of us busting up laughing.

I’m glad we didn’t kiss at that moment. But the anticipation was building, and we made lots of small talk, and I remember finally giving in and wanting to just squeeze him to pieces with my legs around his back.

I remember being giddy and tipsy and comfortable and relaxed. I remember his fixation with my bikini top and its complicated strings. Messed-up hair and bobby pins everywhere and pillows on the floor and his consoling strength and his smile - his wide, sweet, whole-hearted, safe smile.

And I remember everything intensifying, and I remember sweating and feeling faint because we were right there but resisting and giggling over what would happen if my roommate came home. I remember getting spooked at sounds and jumping up and getting dressed over a false alarm. And then thinking twice, maybe, and getting serious and quiet and not talking.

And then it was cigarettes and bubble-blowing out the window, and spying on the neighbors, and sitting across from each other with thoughtlessly intertwining legs. I remember genuinely not minding that mine weren’t perfectly smooth.

I remember saying over and over, “You deserve to work somewhere else, someplace where you’ll be respected,” and him going to the couch and saying, “Come here,” with wide-open storybook arms.

And I remember going to him and finally plunging into the talk that had been needing to happen since the last time we’d seen each other, and I remember the realization that we both didn’t know what the hell we were doing and that neither of us was looking for anything, but here it was, and we both liked it, and we both felt kind of lost.

I remember the profound comfort in knowing that’s where we were and him saying that he liked my company. And the relief. I remember soft little bisous in between and adoring quiet eyes.

Then we both said, “Let’s just go to bed,” except we didn’t even pretend to try to sleep, and this turned to that, and “Should we?” turned to “Yes,” and my breath went away.

And it was strange, and much simpler than I expected, and larger than I expected, and painful and difficult, and not very seamless. I got nervous. And we didn’t have protection, and all I could think about was babies. And more, and further, and more painful, and further trying, and all the buildup.

It passed so quickly, and here we were, and there it went, and it’s over just like that. He was infinitely patient and kind. When we slowed down, I suddenly all-at-once both loved him and felt very weird and alone. And I remember thinking, il ne sait pas que c’est ma première fois: He does not know that this is my first time.

I remember half-heartedly trying to keep up the mood but that it fizzled out. We started laughing, and I was glad for that, and so tired and sleepy and uncertain. I remember feeling abnormally small, laying there and wondering what to put back on, and telling him, “That’s not romantic,” every time he said something embarrassing.

He sometimes got very still, though, softly paying me very sweet, very genuine, very just-what-I-needed-to-hear compliments. Not like a smooth-talker but rather like a young, darling, clueless little boy.

And I remember questions of what if, and what now, and what next, and what is going on, passing swiftly and silently between our eyes.

I remember crouching there the rest of the night, him sleeping and me staring, my insides bewildered, knowing someone had been there and not wanting it yet also somehow oddly nonsensically already craving it all the more.

I remember the soreness and the shivers and my bathing suit bottoms under the couch. I remember him saying that our mutual best friend can’t know, at least not yet. I remember the solitude of that.

And I remember waking up early, looking at myself in the mirror and hating my face with its ruddy broken-out skin and sunken worn eyes. I remember the smell of Origins “Fret Not” bubble bath while he was still sleeping, and lotion and foundation and mocha lip balm and fixed hair and a different shirt.

I remember the automatic ability to look him in the eye again. I remember feeling like my mother as I offered him a good-morning cup of coffee. I remember our thoughtful, quirky, nearly wordless early-morning misty-aired good-bye in the frame of my crumbling Oldsmobile.

I remember staring at his face and thinking that time had surely come to a standstill. I remember wishing that I’d brought a sweater outside and feeling grateful that he’d stayed the night.

I remember mouthing the word “good-bye.” Los Angeles was half under fog.

Rachel Jendrzejewski is an interdisciplinary performance artist and writer. Her work has been published in Back Stage and The Arts District Citizen (now known as Citizen LA), and she currently is working on her first full-length play. Rachel is the communications manager at Cornerstone Theater Company, and she lives in downtown Los Angeles.

Posted by Common Ties on Monday, October 29th, 2007 | Email This Post

This entry was posted on Monday, October 29th, 2007 at 12:02 am. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.