The spring-time soil pressed its moisture through the blades of grass and into the fibers of my shirt, its sleeves rolled up to the elbow and long un-tucked about the waist. I tried to stare at the dimming sky and roiling birds returning from their winter-time somewhere. I tried to be with the atmosphere and not wonder what bugs were crawling into my hair or if the grass was staining these new khakis. Christ, I thought, I never wear khakis and now I’m on my back in the grass and it’s getting colder and wetter every second. I pushed my toes through the sod and thanked God for His interminable patience. Patience for things that grow quickly, like grass and patience for things that grow slowly, like me.
Nearly everyone had left by now. The evanescent cloud of mesquite, carnal air had since been blown off by the June-evening breeze. Little sculptures of bones and corn-cobs and silverware wore skirts of paper napkins on dance-floors of paper plates. A sub-note of cigarette smoke cut through the chill and polyphonic voices swatted the days events back and forth. Who had shared glances with whom. What so-and-so said about so-and-so’s new such-and-such. The clatter of plates and the splash of dish water and the understated barks of a dog in search of scraps. Now and then a balloon would lose its tenuous life and the voices would chirp and then cascade in laughter.
This prone posture was really a stratagem and a retaliation. Retaliation for the beautiful decorations and the lovely food and the conspiratorial smiles. She’d spent most of the party perched on her sofa with the terrier, scratching behind its ears and singing quietly along with the records. She would venture up to greet those arriving and bid two-kissed farewells to those parting. She spent only 20 minutes in the sun, in an ancient lawn chair watching young men in straw hats and suspenders play badminton in pale, be-soiled bare-feet. Now I’d swiped a sweating bottle of champagne and two maybe-clean glasses and was not-so-subtly waiting for her to come and see why I was sprawled beneath the elm in her yard.
Three weeks ago, we drove to the beach and I complained about sand and she dipped the edge of her dress in the skim and surf. Her eyes were smokily made up and hollowed me at a glance. Her bracelets clattered pleasantly while she regaled me with tales of galleries and underground music and the ways New York was the center of God’s own universe. I clutched my sandals, realized this day had to end and contemplated hurling myself from the lighthouse. She inspired extremity in all of us and obviously pretended not to notice.
The screen door wheezed and rattled. I craned my head over back to see. The inverse form of her and her dress, all pink and lines and angles, meandered through cluttered tables towards me. She swiped a whithering peony from the last table and planted it behind her ear.
“What is all this?” she inquired, sweeping a hand lazily across her field of view. I just smiled and looked up. She toed her sandals from her feet and descended, cross-legged, to my side. I did my best to pour the glasses of champagne suavely and without looking. I only spilled most of it and she laughed an absent laugh. I reached into the breast pocket of my shirt and found a small yellow note with a bit of glue across one edge. I’d written something in my neatest hand on it. I stuck it to her forehead gently and held out my other fist, closed around two small treasures.
“Can I read it or do I have to walk around like this all day?” she asked, lightly touching the spot it was stuck to above her brows. I nodded and breathed her smell through both nostrils. She plucked the note from her face and I brushed the bangs from her eyes. I opened my other hand and let the sun play off the polished metal rings. The eyes that always stared at you steadily and with casual self-certainty darted for a rare moment. Darted from my hand to the note in her own and back. She pressed her lips to mine.
“It is, isn’t it?”
We just watched the trees sway for a long time. The cigarette smoke would wander between us and the after-party chat would linger at the edge of attention at moments. The dog would scratch at the screen and the champagne would run out. I never did get those grass stains out.
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