Your voice reaches me, your low-key, common sense, no-nonsense voice. Voice of Sky God. I depise common sense as much as I am sobered by it. Who am I? I’m the one with headphones, listening to when I met you in the restaurant, you could tell I was no debutante. Dreaming, dreaming is free. Feet, feet, meet me at the turnstile. Dreaming, dreaming is free.
Remember our first year? Those other teachers in Room 114 lunchtime classroom listened in to our conversation, like true chaperones. As if unpacking a sandwich from your lunch bag, you brought out that you and your live-in broke up about a year ago.
(Oh, that means you’re single!)
I wondered what she was like. Sense of humor? Classy-dresser? Middle class?
“I don’t care if you don’t want to stay– in the Bay Area! Go ahead, leave!” you related, a distinct tinge of anger in your voice. As if hurt that she decided to leave you? Still, I thought, she must’ve had more of a reason than I’m going back to mummy.
I didn’t offer my statistics. They were listening.
So you asked another question. What sort of relationship do you want?
Had they not been listening in, I would’ve said, Well, it’s a toss-up. Do you seek a boring, risk-free, deep, intimate, lifetime bond? A vulgar and hot one nighter? Or a delicious combo of the two? Would’ve.
To throw the eavesdroppers off the scent, however, I answered, too quickly, a married one.
That makes sense, you said. For their benefit? Your words didn’t ring true, didn’t cover the entire nuanced, sensitive territory, but I didn’t press for the full story of what you felt.
Killian-Uttam raised her eyebrows and looked at Mott, as if to say, well, I drool over him too. I’d drop my panties for him any day of the week!
I thought of the bosomy student in your Studies class. She mooned and flirted until it was explained. that it’s a crime for a teacher to have illicit sex with anyone under age eighteen. Punishable by being never allowed to teach, stripped of teacher licenses and certification, being listed as a sexual offender, and doing prison time.
What’s illicit? she’d asked.
The voice of the Rich & Famous says illicit IS fashion! Vogue. Look inside any fashion bible magazine and see for yourself.
Have you ever clothed yourself in a bold fashion statement? The Rich & Famous want to know. Like a carefree cabbage moth as it flies hither and thither in the gardens of the Rich, the Famous, and the fashion-conscious Ordinaries. Yes! I’m an Ordinary. One time, I wore a black leather jacket with a thousand zippers, bought at Buffalo Exchange! I put a dollar in every zipped pocket.
You didn’t know me then.
When i walked down the street in that bizarre jacket, I met unexpected attentions, glances from passersby on Haight Street, like that time an aggressive kindergartner had hauled off and given me a black eye, yellow and purple, actually. Your bruise turns me on, their glances said. Honey, I’d love to beat you up. Meet, meet, meet me at the turnstile. You know I never met you. I never can forget you.
Dreaming, dreaming is free.
Get away from me, you sadistic sons.
The other day, I wore an all white bold fashion to my Saturday class.. What was I thinking? My teacher caught sight of me.
–Driving up in style, I see, in a yellow taxi?
I told her, I sit by and watch the river flow–I sit by and watch the traffic goAll white is a very stupid look. i don’t know how others carry it off.
I felt off all afternoon, as if I wasn’t myself, yet I wasn’t anyone else either.
I couldn’t wait to strip off my garments. To return home where we wear anything we wish in the privacy of our own.
Your voice reaches me.