Things Not to Say to the Man Who Just Bought You Dinner

Wandering through the multiplex, don’t stare too long at the guy with the skull tattooed into his skull, then begin musing aloud about why you don’t find that particular design and locale of body art particularly arousing. This begs the question: “Oh, so you find tattoos sexy?”

Suddenly floating through your mind: images of every piece of body art on any man you’ve ever touched, kissed, slept with, danced with, traveled with, worked with, been friends with, been more than friends with, thought about being more than friends with, ran into on the subway platform and began spontaneously composing poetry about…

Absent from the parade in your brain: the man questioning. He has no tattoos.

Then, by virtue of the two being so closely housed in your mental rolodex, images of the same men’s varied body piercings…

There is no safe way out of this conversation. You are now screwed. Royally.

”Damn, I didn’t know he had one there. Well, I guess I know now.”

“So. You find tattoos sexy.”

You can now only remember the few you found most surprising, or well-designed, or just plain hot.

“Yeah…umm…they can be.”

Shoulder. Upper arm. Leg.

“Really.”

You know what is coming. And you know it is a good idea, in your response, to avoid mention of any man that the man questioning
a) knows
b) has ever run into
c) has ever heard you speak about
d) can find programmed on your cell phone.

“On who?”

Bingo!

Shoulder, upper arm, leg. Shoulder, upper arm, leg. Shoulder, upper arm, leg. "Goddamn. I didn’t expect that to be there. Or maybe I did. Maybe I knew it was there all along."

“Uh…”

Ok, focus. Focus! There has to be a safe choice. An acceptable conversation topic. Brad Pitt? Does he have any tattoos? Even men think Brad Pitt is hot.

Shoulder.

What about Tom Cruise? Most likely gay. Totally a safe choice. Do Scientologists believe in body art?

Upper arm.

Colin Farrell. Obviously, a kinky fuck. A complete masochist. MUST have something, somewhere. But why can’t I remember? Have I been brainwashed? What the hell?

Leg.

Oh. Boy.

“Do you want to share some Milk Duds?”

on distance. and color. and candy.

I speak young, but don't sound like a child. I catapult from words to sentences precociously. My mother speaks to me as if I am an adult, especially since my father is so often away on business. Even though her family is just next door.

Each time he goes, we pack for him--the green fold-over that holds his business suits, and another bag for his necessities. My mother gives me candy to hide in the bag--Peanut Chews, Twizzlers, and Chuckles. I separate them so he doesn't find them all at once. Lots of little surprises are better than just one.

In time, I am allowed to roller-skate to the corner store to buy the candy myself. "You know the ones to get," my mother tells me. I tuck the money into a skate. She leans over the fence and watches me go.

I don't like the way the Chuckles are arranged in the package. Red, yellow, black, orange, green: ugly. Why would they do this? It should be red, orange, yellow, green, blue--a rainbow, like my bedspread. But there are no blue Chuckles. There should be a blue one, and it should taste like the blue raspberry in the rainbow Italian ices. But the black one is his favorite. If I can find the black licorice-flavored Twizzlers, I buy those.

I add notes and drawings, pages ripped out of my coloring books, carefully shaded with my Crayolas. The blues are my favorites. Blue, blue-green, green-blue. My best friend in kindergarten, Marie-Elena, decides we must each have a favorite crayon, but we can't have the same favorite. She gets blue-green; I get green-blue. Blue-green is really my favorite, but I let her think it can be hers. I don't bother to tell her that she can't change my mind.

I don't ask my father if he gets mad at the black Chuckle like I do, for taking the place of a blue one, though I want to. His eyes are blue. Maybe that's why he doesn't seem to care that there's no blue one. Maybe he thinks it would be like eating his eyes.

Souvenir

“Remember,” my mother says. “Don’t touch what’s not yours.” Everywhere we go. Home stores with rows upon rows of sparkling glasses. Other people’s homes with shelves of knick-knacks and whatnots. Department stores dripping exquisite ornaments from the branches of artificial Christmas trees. “Look, but don’t touch.”

I am a well-behaved child.
I don’t touch what’s not mine.

Eventually, “I don’t have to say it. She knows.”
But she says it anyway. “Don’t touch.”

Smooth fabrics, textured papers, juicy fruit-flesh.
I want to touch. At the MoMA, it’s a conscious struggle to keep my fingers off the Van Gogh’s. Gobs of thick pigment prickle out of the sky of “The Starry Night”.
I stand before it. I look. I buy a postcard and go home.

Can you regret it, not touching what’s not yours? Can you regret it so much, it hurts all the way down to your fingertips?