juniper pearl

Harriet

These days, it’s usually around 4am that Harriet puts down her writing utensil.

It’s not that she always wanted to be a sleep deprived, tortured artist. Somehow, lately, inspiration stopped striking until well past the midnight hour.  She feels somehow comforted knowing that everyone else is asleep by the time she picks up her pencil. No one is around to even consider the sound of her furiously typing on her old electric typewriter.  All the first dates have said goodnight, even the Late, Late show has rolled its credits.  Somehow, she is comforted knowing no one is available to share in her moment.

Last night, she dreamed that a tv sitcom star leaned over and kissed her neck with his big lips, mid convseration about how he was growing sick of living in Toronto.  Even in her dream, Harriet stared straight ahead, just breathing, but she suddenly became aware of every vein in her body. Even in her dream, she went to the bathroom to calm down, but she still hoped he would know to give her a call later.  That’s how it always was.  In real life she imagined herself smiling, saying, “yes, please.” Or “how did you know?” but even in her dreams she was unsure of herself.  She woke up the next morning, feeling that kiss pushing on her neck, the garbage trucks slamming cans outside her window at exactly 9:07am.

The truth is, she would hold that kiss in her mind until 2am, when she would be so tired she felt almost drunk, and then she could write about it using flowery words and live vicariously through some other character acting out her own dream.  Some girl she called Celia, getting fondled sexily by some Canadian superstar in a bar.  Last week it was two lovers, Anne and David, and neither one was even her in the dream.  The truth is, there were men, but it was never how she wanted.

Tonight her current prospect will come over and immediately upon closing the door will look at her expectantly. They’ll talk about getting Chinese food but will just find themselves by the bed. But tonight she says, before he touches her,

“kiss me on the neck like you are some tv sitcom actor and we were just talking about how you are tired of living in Canada.”

He just shrugs, and says,

“You read too many books,” while lifting her shirt over her head.  He rolls over and pulls her on top of him; she always does all the work.  For a second she forgets his name. Only a small part of her feels this.

After he leaves she decides to make a list of the things she hates about him.  She sets up her typewriter, adjusts the ribbon.

She writes, “you look creepy with a moustache.”

“All you want to do is talk about post modernism.”

“There is nothing interesting in your medicine cabinet.”

She writes, “You made fun of me for wanting to watch a documentary on Nostradamus, that one time.”

“At least I use my hands to make things.”

“I do all the work.”

She writes, “The truth is, you are like a slug in bed.”

The next morning, she tacks the list to her front door with a push pin. She thinks, “I’m always more excited for the Chinese food.”  He does not bother to come up, that night.

“That’s that,” Harriet thinks. That’s what she always thinks.

i would love you, even when you were old,

even if you looked like bukowski.