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{guest} kim chinquee I thought of seeing him off, then getting in his car and going to his house, where I would turn up his stereo, putting in anything except the classical he teaches. I would sit at the less expensive of his two pianos, playing the songs I remember from childhood; it would be like dreams of cotton candy. I'd go into the kitchen, toasting his stale bread, eating fruit that would otherwise rot. I would take off all my make-up, turning on the heat, although it is spring. He has not tended to his garden. His mower is broken and his hands are too important. Weeds spring up almost into trees; the day before, I stepped on a dead sparrow that hadn't had the chance to be a bird yet. It had fallen to his step and it hadn't been emergent enough for him to pick it up. I'd come back from the library, where I'd gone to give him time to practice his piano, and I’d been in a daze, stepping on his tiny little agent. He'd said he loved his birds, fond of the nests above his porch light, said they'd inspired him to create his compositions. I felt sad that I was big enough, and then opened his door to report that I felt a squish under my boot. He is looking at me, telling me he loves me. Last night, he moved into the guest room--he told me I was shouting in my sleep and that he needed to sleep properly. This morning he came back and I woke to feel him touching my hair. I didn't move and wanted him to just keep on, but after I didn't respond, he got up and then I heard the shower doors opening. Now I finally respond, telling him I also love him. I am foolish to cry and now I think maybe I am doing it because I know he likes to comfort me when I am suffering. His flight will leave in twenty minutes. He says he better go, so we get up and then I watch him offering his passport, carrying his bag that includes the gifts I'd helped him purchase: the nightgown for his mother, the earrings for his nephews and his brother. He has to take off his belt, and then his jacket. He moves to the other end, and when he gets there, I can see him motioning to me, pointing to his cell. I hear my phone and he is calling. He tells me that he loves me. I listen, letting him. |
