Dear Maria (on hold)

Part 7

  I sat at my kitchen table enveloped in a huge sweatshirt, the sleeves coming down to obscure my hands, which gripped my hot mug of coffee, desperate for heat, hunched over the bittersweet steam that swirled up from the dark surface of my coffee. I looked out of my window towards Maria's house, watching as she painted, lost in her own little world just as I was lost in her. This became a morning tradition, watching her paint, read, write, or weed in her garden, from my kitchen table as I drank my coffee. She would enjoy her morning, oblivious to her audience. I would watch my lovely neighbor intensely, unable to look away. I would smile as I looked on, adoring her, wishing I was a part of her morning routine.

~ ~ ~

 My eyes flickered to glance at the clock again; it read 4:00 p.m. Time to get ready for my 5:00 p.m. shift at the bar I work at three nights a week. I tiredly rose to my feet and walked to my room, and began the mindless act of pulling clothes from my closet. I pulled up the stockings that blended into my legs, jerked on and zipped up a tight black skirt that ended just above my knees, and sorted through my shirts to find the right one for work. I carefully slipped on a deep red, long sleeved shirt that clung to my body and had a plunging neckline. Picking up my brush, I brushed my glossy and dark, wavy brown hair up into a high pony tail on the top of my head, then spun it into a elegant but casual bun. As I reached for my silver necklace with the key pendant, I banged my elbow on counter. Pain throbbed through my arm, and I shut my eyes, overwhelmed. For a moment, I let go and let the hopelessness and exhaustion wash through me. Then I tilted my head back to keep my hot tears from spilling down my cheeks; if I let them, that would be an admittance of defeat. And as defeated as I was, I could never, ever admit that, not even to myself. So I wiped my eyes and clasped the necklace around my neck, the silver key falling to rest above my heart. I applied my make-up resignedly, covering up with concealer and obscuring Holly with eyeliner, mascara, eye shadow, and lipstick. Blurring the lines once again between the fact and the fiction, the strong woman I played and the beaten girl I was. The final piece of my costume: my black, high heel, knee-high boots that added inches to my height and confidence to my step. I scrutinized myself in the mirror, and content in my disguise, I grabbed my keys and stalked out my door. I knew no one would look at me and see Holly; they would look at me and see a confident, untouchable and desirable woman.

I stood behind the bar watching the people drink, dance, cry, laugh, and flirt. I served them drinks, just as the bartender had served me mine that night oh so long ago. I could be someone other than myself here, and I liked who I wasn't. She was brave, witty, laughed loudly and could send the iciest of stares. She was the kind of woman who could be nonchalant about working at a dyke bar. The music that emanated from the overhead speaker filled and spaces left by gaps in the voices and clinking of glasses that permeated the dimly lit bar. Every now and then, the door would open, admitting a group of laughing women or an upset, lone woman, along with a gust of frosty air, that would remind us all of the cold world just outside the door. We all had our own ways of keeping that world at bay: for some, it was getting drunk, for others, it was dancing with a hot stranger, for me, it was watching these people live their lives, while doing my best to live someone else's.

The door clanked open, and as I often did, I looked up to see who was seeking to escape here. It was a woman who seemed to be somewhere around my age. She wore a half-smile, and something about the way she walked seemed somewhat familiar... As she moved across the dance floor to the bar, the lights bounced off her curly cinnamon hair. I froze, and it was as if my dysfunctional heart was pumping Novocaine through my system, thoroughly numbing me, making my head spin and the world shift. Not noticing me, she ordered a simple gin and tonic in that irresistible Boston accent. Maria. I stared at her for another moment before busying myself with making her drink. My heart thudding in my chest, I set down her drink in front of her, terrified that she would look up.

“Thanks.” she murmured, looking up briefly, then returned her gaze to her drink. My relief lasted only a moment, because she quickly looked up again in surprise. Our eyes locked, and we simply looked at each other, reevaluating each other, trying to figure the other out. As I saw into her eyes, I was remembering the night we'd met, how we'd stayed up all night drinking and talking, sprawled out on my futons. The way she had looked holding two coffees, framed in my doorway. Her bright eyes in the darkness of my house, and the sound of her voice in the silence surrounding me. From the way her lips softened into a smile that was almost a laugh, I could tell she too was remembering.

“Maria.” I breathed. Her name as I said it held every moment we shared, and every feeling I had attempted to bury.

I'd had no intention of ending my charade at the bar to be myself with Maria. As it turned out, I hadn't needed to. As she sat there in front of me at the bar ignoring what was going on around us, the lights, the music, the dancing, she watched me work. She watched me take orders, mix and serve drinks, lean slowly across the bar to flirt cockily with the lovely women, and smirk at my less lucky victims. On the outside, I exuded sexiness and supreme confidence, looking like I knew I was above everyone here, without being condescending. On the inside, I felt exposed, scrutinized, and self-conscious. My most private secret had been reveal to the one person I'd had any sort of connection with, she was watching me be a women who would wear this, this outfit that bordered on slutty, a women who would work as a bartender and flirt with other women.

My hand trembled slightly as I poured someone vokda, and I excused myself as soon as I could and stumbled to the restroom. I stood in front of the mirror, gripping the sink tightly to steady myself, and looked at my reflection. I was beautiful, but there were gaps in my illusion. My eyes were a little to bright, damp with tears, wide in surprise and anxiety. My teeth were clamped down on my lip so hard that I tasted blood on my tongue, and my chest heaved from my labored breathing. My dark, glistening hair was coming undone from my once perfect bun, and strands of my frazzled hair curled around my flushed cheeks. I could feel my facade slipping, and I struggled to gain composure.

The door to the bathroom opened slowly, and I didn't even have time to pretend that I was washing my hands before Maria's face appeared in the mirror beside mine. Our eyes met in the reflection, and I instantly saw that she saw. Saw me. Saw me beneath the heavy make-up and this suddenly ridiculous costume. Her face grew larger in the mirror as she moved towards me. The tension I felt between her body and mine just before she touched me was nearly unbearable, and yet, I almost hated to have it lifted as I felt the warmth of her at last.

I was overwhelmed by sensation as Maria wrapped her strong, bare arms around my slender waist. A shudder rippled through me, and I leaned back into Maria, and she pressed against me, too. Her arms tightened around my middle, but they couldn't be tight enough. I need to feel her body solid beneath my hand, in my arms. I twisted around in her embrace and draped my arms around her neck. We each hugged the other as hard as we could, as close as possible.

Then Maria pulled back slightly, but not away. She brought her hands up to caress my face, smiling into me, and my hands folded over her smooth, rounded shoulders. After the briefest, longest, moment of hesitation, Maria slowly leaned in and kissed me with excruciating tenderness. I both went into shock, relaxed more completely than ever before, and felt a rush of emotion, all at once. It was so soft, softer than any kiss I'd ever experienced before. And when at last she ended the kiss, she was still standing here, with her arms around me and her face inches from mine. There had never been an “after” for me before. Now I too was smiling, and I hardly noticed my warm, salty tears sliding down my cheeks until Maria gently brushed them away with her thumb. I closed the space between us and hugged her again, my chin resting on her shoulder, her hair brushing my cheek.