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Transfiguration
Monday
9:12 AM
“Hey. Can I ask you a question?”
I force out another sentence before the literary flow will shatter, frustrated that this passing stranger possesses the power to demolish my niche of short-lived inspiration. With a sigh, I glance up.
“Yes?”
He throws out a lopsided smile, a gesture that reveals his carefree attitude, the way a tycoon may discard a shoe that has fallen out of favor. I don’t like the way he’s staring at me, as if he already knows the secrets gushing beneath my tongue, or the lines that crease my forehead whenever I expose a passionate belief. This overconfident yuppie seems to think he knows me, when his arrogance only reveals his sheer ignorance.
“I’m doing an article about cultural taboos and I need some insight.”
He accepts my apathy as motivation.
“Well…Why do black people get mad when, you know, white people say ni-the “n word,” yet you guys can call each other that all you want. Isn’t that a bit hypocritical?”
I visibly stiffen. A slow burning rage consumes my rationality, ruining every vein it caresses, slithering up my toes and into the exact blood vessels that communicate with my brain. I feel hot and cold, like I am running a terribly high fever, resisting the temptation to submit to the wrath that billows like bed sheets to a summer’s wind. I steal a moment to analyze my complexion, which often tests the boundaries of toffee and mocha. It seems ridiculous that anyone could be classified as black, like the singular richness of a Crayola, ready to be smeared across paper.
He cocks his rectangular head to the side, puzzled that I haven’t retaliated with an enlightened answer. That icy rage cackles with delight and my hands hover over the keys, my jaw aching with exaggerated bite. I try to count down in my head, envisioning fat numbers disappearing from a chalkboard. Just gather my thoughts and form an intellectual, yet sharp response. Don’t give in. Don’t allow your words to fall victim to the initial deception of blind fury. My nails press into my palms and I realize that the hue is akin to the coal that supplies a snowman’s vision.
I scramble to piece together something witty yet severe, some high-brow, crass remark that oozes with the humanitarian ideals of Martin Luther King and the neck-turning authority of Malcolm X. I miss my mark before I can salvage the verbal garbage. My voice cracks and I momentarily study my nails, unable to relinquish their capture of my skin.
“Well, I’m not sure I’m qualified to answer that. I was raised to understand that the…n-word is offensive and derogatory, no matter what race is in question. I still believe that to this day. I’m not some sort of representative for the entire black community.”
He nods, pursing his lips together. He pretends to comprehend and then with a shrug, opens another round of fire. I frantically offer a weak excuse about the piles of work I need to finish and the deadlines underlined twice with red ink and my cell phone that will never stop screaming.
“Ah, all right. We’ll just talk about this later.”
He plops down into his straight-backed chair and I return to the awaiting palate of Microsoft Word.
I know that this conversation will always start out the same and will always end the same. He will never understand and I will begin to bear the effects, the laugh lines etched like dimples in the corners of my mouth, lines surely replaced by a frown.
10: 11 AM
I hear the tread of his footsteps before I acknowledge his lean arms slip around my slouched shoulders. Callum’s lips crash into my cheek with delicate ease and the kiss that follows resembles an ascending scale reluctant to reach tonic. The silver of his hair catches the light, showcasing artificial sparkles. It’s merely an optical illusion, a visual foil.
He grabs a plate from the other end of the table and then sits across from my chair. His hands greedily seize the slices of fresh toast, the serving spoon to access the eggs, the tongs to claim some strips of bacon. When his plate bulges with food, Callum finally stops. His Adam’s apple bobs as the Italian Roast slides down the slope of his esophagus and nearly mesmerized, I watch. His navy eyes chuckle before his throat can accentuate the noise, his Roman nose simultaneously wrinkling. His black T-shirt is marred by the afterthought of toothpaste and in this moment, all I can think is that he is untouchable and beautiful.
“Thanks for making breakfast.”
The gratitude hacks its way through the jungle of egg yolk and bread sprouting on both sides of his cheeks. I laugh and nibble at a strand of sausage, pausing to shovel down my orange juice.
“No problem. You’ve been away for a week. I wanted to surprise you with brunch.”
He grins and I can’t help but correlate the signature expression to the endearing characteristic of a boy, the way Peter Pan must have looked at Wendy when she placed her hand in his outstretched palm. My heart skips a beat and I conquer the oncoming blush, wondering how, at twenty-three, I’ve been reduced to clichés and incoherent babbling that would put the average school girl to shame.
“Well, it’s a much appreciated surprise….Say, isn’t that my shirt?” Callum wonders.
I fiddle with the hem of the striped button-down, the one that fits his body like a glove and affectionately sags on my petite frame like a tent. I had missed him more than I’d anticipated. The Oxford had been splayed across the floor, as though it were illuminating the directions to the fabricated monsters underneath the bed. I had picked it up without question and when the time came to sleep, all of my pajamas had seemed unsuitable. I had curled up between the sheets, embracing the fabric like a cocoon, while my head sank with defeated dreams.
“In fact, it is. It was on the floor next to the bed,” I calmly inform.
He laughs. There goes that grin again, the flash of the pearly, Chiclet teeth against fair skin. There goes that innate charm that launches like a firework and explodes above my unsuspecting head. There he goes again, making me ignore the problems outside these walls that test our patience. That smile is the solace of a warm gun camouflaged by the pillow of the depressed. I have to look away before I pull the trigger.
A copy of the New York Times and the Wall Street Journal declare their credence next to the depleted fruit bowl. He usually reads both while he devours breakfast and the conversation I desire remains unrequited. But this morning, the atmosphere buzzes with unexplainable energy. All notions of suicide bombers and glossy front pages are pushed aside. Right now, I am the center of attention, the belle of the ball, the ballerina spinning on the barren stage.
Eventually, another breaking story will surface, the vomit of another celebrity scandal will litter the streets and another shot will be fired in some underdeveloped country. And Callum will toss the same shirts and the same pants into his suitcase, while I sit on the bed and chomp on my nails, occasionally spitting out the flakes of polish. Callum will grab the cell phone he never bothers to turn on and brush the top of my head with a prolonged smooch. He’ll rush out the door with the speed and agility of an Olympic track star and I will shuffle into the kitchen, crossing out the wedding date with a Sharpie.
I will always flip on the TV, dig through the endless channels, then settle on CNN when the clock strikes 11PM. Sometimes I will actually pay attention to the developing information but more often, I will jab my finger on the mute button and just study his facial cues. The smile will flourish with dignified familiarity, emitting the cool click of bullets in their chamber.
I will shut my eyes and wish that I’m someone else, someone who didn’t have to feel pain in order to feel love.
“I think I could get used to that. The sight of the table loaded with food and you sitting there, wearing my favorite shirt.”
I don’t agree or disagree. I’ve seen his last girlfriend. I’ve never met her, but it wasn’t hard to see why Callum would find her attractive. Every Prince Charming needs his Cinderella glued to his forearm. He says that our relationship is different, that he’s incurably in love with me and he never loved Olivia. But my entourage only consists of phantoms and insecurities.
Cinderella’s got a fucking Fairy Godmother. The odds will never sway in my favor. He comprehends the restless innuendos of my silence. He reaches across the table and seizes my hand, our fingers lacing together. Caramel intertwines with peach and the familiar pound of the nagging cynic begins its usual symphony.
Monday’s poison emerges, an immortal Creature from the Black Lagoon and I squeeze his fingers, ready to cut the self-imposed noose that chokes and slurs my speech. However, I fold to my vices, finishing my sausage instead.
11:00 PM
He is exactly the type of libertine that I’ve been attempting to avoid and exactly the type of libertine that I could nevertheless chase until the soles of my feet bleed. Fortunately, there’s Callum. Despite his allergy to matrimony, I know he’s not going anywhere. Period.
Nate finally stops babbling about his revamped brownstone, so I allow my interest to scope out the party patrons. It’s the 75th Anniversary of The New Yorker. Naturally, the publishing company sniffed out the opportunity to host an outrageous soiree, complete with $900 delicacies arranged on Tiffany plates and obnoxious ice sculptures. Celebrities and socialites mingle with editors and staff members, the entire affair distastefully replicating a gathering on Mt. Olympus.
A five piece band provides background music until John Mayer is designated to reign the stage. Callum stands a few feet away, stationed by the champagne flutes. Most of the men don classy blazers or business suits, but Callum overshadows his counterparts, a modern Cary Grant in a warehouse of mannequins. He’s engaged in an animated, though friendly debate with The New Yorker’s editor-in-chief. He senses my gaze and to answer his wolfish wink, I deliver a trite swoon. He laughs and then returns his attention to the awaiting acquaintance.
Unfortunately, now I’m forced to endure the speculative inquiry of Nate. He nods towards Callum, as if inspecting an abstract painting. With a cordial snicker that clashes with the rough edges looming in his eyes, Nate casts a line wilted by bait.
“I shoulda known. Another beautiful woman lost to the light side.”
This is emphasized with a low whistle.
I bit my lip, try to play dumb, refusing to lug out the armor and sketch battle plans.
“I don’t think I’m following.”
Nate takes a swig of his cocktail and replaces the snigger with a sloppy smile, the artistic consequence of a toddler trying to stay inside the lines. I wish that Callum would pick up on my discomfort and save me. But then again, I never liked that whole Damsel in Distress Routine.
Wake up, Noelle. Wake up, because you already know what this is about.
“Oh, you know what I’m hinting at. Another pretty sista lost to the clutches of some Izod-wearing, white and uptight thief. What’s wrong, you hate a brotha so much you gotta go behind enemy lines?”
And to think, minutes ago, I found this bucket of slime one hundred kinds of handsome.
12 PM
I fumble with the switch and a small cry of surprise escapes my lips. I study the mirror, the always foreign sight of my enlarged reflection. I analyze every pore, every blemish, the doe-eyes and the miniscule ears that hide in the bushels of my curls. Is this what classifies me as black, African-American? Or perhaps, it’s the mélange of almond-shaped orbs, the apple cheeks, the proportionate nose clearly swiped from my Asian mother. Maybe these are what confine me, what separate me, what give me the dull pick to knock a few cracks into that damn and banal glass ceiling. But God only gave me hands and intellect and a malnourished heart and then I suppose, Heaven wants me to figure out the rest, work out the kinks and the complications.
Thumb and index numbly scuffle through the holes and I stick out my tongue, letting it hang with the stubborn humiliation of a white flag. I wonder if I should formulate a few streaks of saline but that requires active thinking and I don’t want to think anymore. I stare at my weapon of choice and envision the act of banishing it to the rightful drawer, blissfully returning to the king-sized mattress.
One curl after another cascades to the floor, its grace hastily morphing into ugly protest, a lion robbed of its prey, Frankenstein savoring the steady beast of electricity. One curl after another and I realize that I’ve thrown my body down a series of rabbit holes, while Alice peers down the edge, hand pressed to her gaping mouth.
The scissors croak a rusty victory hymn and I hum along, effortlessly matching the rhythm of their snip, snip, snip.