I leave her at the airport, one last illicit kiss, the kind that cain’t never not stop fornever. She looks around as though she might be noticed by a co-worker, a brother-in-law, a reporter, and it makes me grab her harder and drag her back into the cab, squeezing her hair a little too hard, the way to get the lips to part wider in gaspy protestation.
“I don’t care.”
“Stop.”
* * *
“She had work.”
“Noooo!”
“You thought she was that perky naturally?”
“Well, yeah. The short hair and glasses, that’s a classic typology. They’re always unnaturally perky.”
“They’re fake.”
“I hate you.”
“Sue had work, too.”
“Whawhosit? Really? Why? What more could you add?”
“It was a reduction.”
“Ahhh…”
“Well, got rid of the dog ears, anyway.”
“How would you know that?”
“Eh. We work out.”
“And to think. I never thought women had work in small towns.”
“Please. If there’s work to be done, women will travel. We’re not so different.”
* * *
“I’m going to Syria next week.”
“To see your family?”
“Yeah.”
I want to hug her, or at least come close to her and see if she might reach out first. But I know it’s not right. I do, anyway. Stunned, to be held that long by someone who I thought oblivious. I wondered while she curled her fingertips along my shoulder blade if she had always thought the same. And by now it’s inappropriate. But still.
“I’ll get you something.”
“What?”
“I don’t know. Tchotchkes.”
“Ha! You do that. And one more thing.”
“What?”
“Don’t get hurt. Come back.”
* * *
“Don’t you have a girlfriend?”
“It’s complicated.”
“Bullshit. Don’t give me this complicated shit. It’s really simple. Do you or don’t you?”
“It’s really complicated.”
“Ohhh.”
“Can we get back to business now?”
“Well, if it’s really complicated, sure.”
* * *
She comes back with my tchotchkes. A poster of Bashar Assad. Tasbih prayer beads. A verse from the Koran in Arabic. Herself, impossibly thin and pale.
“Let me buy you lunch. It’s the least I can do.”
I don’t remember what we talk about because I can’t stop thinking about her eyes, and how she looks away each time she catches me gazing. But at the door, which I hold open, a custom scorned by the lib movement, she sighs and allows me to let her through first. I forget, embarrassed, forgetting how strong she is, and how my respect for her is short-circuited by my fascination with her skin, her eyelashes, her movement. We touch, and stop, and don’t do anything more, nor move until the ahem of the patrons behind, and that’s it. Our entire lives lived out in a few short moments.
* * *
“This is hard.”
“I know.”
“Not too hard, though. I can keep going as long as you can. But still, it’s hard.”
“I know that, too.”
“Why is it I look forward 30 years from now to the two of us having drinks and laughing about how hard we thought this was when we were young and illicit?”
“Because it’s hard.”
“Yeah. It’s really hard.”
* * *
“Hey, did you hear about that Evergreen girl who died in Gaza?”
“What? What was her name?”
“Easy, dude.”
“Tell me her fucking name.”
“Uh, Rachel Corrie.”
“You sure?”
“Pretty sure. Calm down. Did you know her?”
“No. I never knew anyone named Rachel.”
“Right on. Anyway.”
“Yeah, anyway.”
“Where you going?”
“I am going to fill my belly with alcohol. I’d prefer to do this alone, but you’re welcome to tag along.”
“Of course I’ll come. Who wants to miss a train wreck?”