The Seven Confessions of Celia St. James

All Flowers Bend Towards the Sun in Time

I open my eyes in a sun-drenched hotel bed. She's had breakfast sent up. I can smell the coffee. I scan the room to find Celia looking smart in white slacks and a baggy, ribbed, baby blue sweater. Bacon eggs pancakes pastries are all piled up on a tray near. I'm covering my breasts with the sheet as I sit up, though I hardly know why, considering. "Thank you, I'm starving!"

"I'd give my little finger for a plate of biscuits and gravy," she lies in that sexy drawl. As if she'd ever let food corrupt her runway figure. Celia sits on a chaise across from me, newspaper in one hand, muffin in the other; her big rimmed reading glasses have slid way down the bridge of her nose. Her mug steams beneath a lamp on the little table beside her. I savor the sight of her. I've admired her in black and white celluloid so long; it's exhilarating to see her in color.

"You're staring," too absorbed in her labor, she doesn't look up.

I don't bother apologizing anymore, instead, I finish my pancakes, pull on my blue jeans, my concert t, and slide my feet into a pair of well-worn Keds. I call to have the car brought around, and we're off into a blue sky morning on an empty freeway flanked by green fields, land posts, and fences. She's on the passenger side holding in a laugh, failing half the time with a cackle. I shamelessly belt along to whatever comes on the rock station, enjoying the reception, until I hear the sound of defeat; a snap of the dial muting the radio.

"You win, I can't take it anymore. You sing like a deaf person!"

"I know, isn't it awful?" We have a laugh at my expense. She quiets down. "I didn't think she'd ever look at me that way. Except, there was this one incident," I start.

"Oh, alright," she says. I drum on the steering wheel to channel my excitement. "But pull over at that gas station first. I want to drive."

"What incident?" I ask eagerly, strapping on my seatbelt.

"It was the night she spilled wine on my shirt," she slides into the driver seat, throwing a bag of chips my way. Then she and hands me a can of coke.

"Thank you," I say reaching over to kiss her cheek. "Okay, go on."

"I'd been at her place before, this classic Beverly Hills abomination she and her husband picked out. It had a fireplace, a pool, a massive kitchen, a grand staircase. For two, it really was excessive. Anyways, there had always been this nosy little maid hanging around, so we'd never been truly alone, what few times I'd visited. But then, one morning, for reasons I won't get into, Don had the maid fired. Don was out late that evening, as usual, so Evelyn and I had the place all to ourselves. I remember I had on this little white sleeveless shirt. She wore one of those skin tight sweaters. I mean, honestly, with a chest like that, everything is a skin tight sweater." She giggles. I love how she giggles. It occurs to me, I too have one of those epic chests, and I wonder to what extent I might remind Celia of Evelyn.

"So there we are in the kitchen, looking for a corkscrew, finding it, opening a bottle of wine, sipping from our glasses. I'm sitting on her counter; she's leaning against it next to me. She starts telling me about Hell's kitchen. 

"I lived on 42th and tenth in a tiny apartment with my father." Eve tells me, "It was rough but I enjoyed life in the city when I was a kid; I remember going to Hudson Park with friends or to the pier to watch the tug boats. The zoo wasn't too far, either."

"So where's your accent?" I wondered out loud.

"You know where it went. Diction lessons! Mrs. Head. Who did away with yours?"

"Oh, I attenuated mine back in Georgia, I wanted to be ready for when I got here, so I got a tutor to come in from Savannah."

"This is entirely unsurprising of a studious girl like you." Evelyn looks up at the ceiling trying to conjure an image. "Savannah. I'm picturing white columns, epic willows, cobble stone roads. Did you have a pony growing up?"