green ducks on a page

Posted: August 6, 2010 in Uncategorized
Tags: , ,

she was 2 years younger than me. i would go to her apartment everyday so that we could walk together to school. the maid would let me in the large sunny clean living room and i would work my way down to her bedroom. it was close to 11 in the morning and she was always sleeping. after i came in the maid would bring her a tray with orange juice and fresh bread with butter. she never ate. i did. she would then get up and lazily go to the bathroom. i sat alone in the room and entertained myself with reading anything i could put my hands on. i longed to smell the great stuff that always came from her bathroom and her kitchen. i was a complete expert in disguising curiosity, excitement, interest, envy, surprise, jealousie. i never knew that i was supposed to also hide my love for her.  her father didn’t care. he was too involved with a lover and a little bastard kid. teresa hated my guts. she was the perfect fucker and i was everything wrong in her eyes. funcny that years later we saw each other at a Bunuel film session and she was totally hip and accepting of the unusual, trying to impress her little architect boyfriend, no longer catholic. I didn’t have time for her.  so i waited quietly for her to decide when to talk, when to dance, when to eat, when leave and when to stay.  she was kind with the goodness of those that have everything and have never been confronted with the possibility of another’s different needs, or needs at all. so she loved me back, in her own way. she took me to her boyfriends aparment where i was nearly raped by one of his friends and nobody every knew. she would take me to the refined boutique where her father kept a charge account because this was before the advent of the credit cards and she would buy a bunch of shit for herself and present me with a beautiful pair of socks or something like that.  and she would take me to the garage of the building on the corner so that we would smoke cigarrettes, except i never did because i had promised that i would only smoke when i turned 18 and that was way far in the future so i would sit quietly and watch her smoke, sometimes two cigarrettes, in case we couldn’t get away for a while. and i tagged along, the shorter older shadow of my beloved friend. i found out that her mother disliked me for thinking me homosexual. i wasn’t even fucking sexual, let alone homosexual. but she feared for my influence over her daughter. i  was after all, a little bit of a communist, a little bit of a zionist, a little bit of an atheist, a little bit of a begger, a little bit of a poet, a little bit of a precocious philosopher and i could understand every fucking thing around me, but not the sexual part.  i felt sorry for her mother because i knew about the lover and the kid, as i now know that she did too so i feel even sorrier for her these many years later.  Ana Maria gave me this book to take home and write something on it. I could not grasp the meaning of it. We talked every day and we walked together every where we walked and what was I going to write on her beautiful book. I so that others had written all kinds of stupid shit, even some had put down lines of some popular songs talking about love and hope and shit.  i took the book home with me because it was a part of her.  just having it in my bag, in my own squalid little apartment and filthy little bed was like a secret magic touch. the one i could never  feel with the beatiful socks she would give me because these were quickly dirty and smelly. the book stayed beautiful pressed among my own notebooks and books.  i looked for a special pen and decided on a green ball point to write a special message on her special book because i just couldn’t bring myself to tell her that i thought that was really stupid, much in the same way that i couldn’t  later tell my husband how incredibly annoying I found sinatra and perry como to be. so i drew some green little ducks in line with seeds on the ground  over the golden lines and I thought it was pretty good except it was hard to find something important to say about the fucking ducks.   so i tore the page off, cautiously. the stuff that was written onthe back, i copied poorly….   then i redrew my ducks, this time better centered on the page to make room for words.  next time i went to her apartment i quietly put the book back on her pretty dresser and it smelled just like her. delicious. she asked me what had happened with the pages of the book and i told her i didn;t know, even though it killed me to hide yet another thing from her.


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