Are My Eyes Yellow?

Chaz asked if I was still writing. I lied and told him the short answer is “no.” No one wants to hear writing has become an exit door I can’t seem to open in real life. That answer is too heavy for a conversation starter at a breakfast table.

“Nothing? Not even a journal entry?” hazel eyes on the horizon of a giant coffee mug, watching me for an answer.

I looked out the window, holding my gaze and the thought of putting on sunglasses. Morning light was rude on such a blazing hot day. Damn this headache.

Holding it like a priest holds a communion cup, Chaz pressed his lips to the mug and made that kind of sip where it’s more air than liquid; the kind of sip the wine snobs make under the pretense of tasting. I knew the sound well.

“Fuck, that’s hot!”

I looked and laughed at the same time.

“Good. I like my coffee hot.”

Taking in the pour-over, too expensive but trending fair trade arabica beans, I welcomed it like a junkie welcomes that first warm rush.

“Mmmm….” closing eyes like an addict’s eyes should close. It was a warm silent relief.

“You know, coffee is the world’s greatest mouthwash.”

“What?” I was back at the table.

“I mean, who drinks coffee and then brushes their teeth? After my three cups, I totally forget to brush. I know I’m not the only one.”

Chaz made a V-shape of his already thin torso and shimmied his way out from the table. I watched in slow motion. His actions didn’t warrant such a dramatic recording, but everything that morning felt in slow motion; a hang-over will do that.

“My dad always had coffee breath,” I offered, taking in another long warm swallow. “Funny what you remember about someone, isn’t it?” as if asking Chaz was the point of the question.

He was at the counter now wearing an apron with loud yellow lemons all over it. I banished the lemonade cliche.

“Now, that man knew how to cover up heinous morning breath!” Chaz pulled out two slices from the sourdough loaf I brought over last week, with last week’s I’m outta here fight with Mark. “Did he have yellow teeth? My dad had yellow teeth and yellow eyes.” I watched Chaz reach for the butter.

“I don’t remember, but I’m quite certain I need to brush my teeth.” I didn’t have a toothbrush at Chaz’s place, although I should. If Mark and I have one more I’m outta here fight it would put me at the threshold of roommate vs crashing on the couch.

“Thanks for letting come over last night.” I needed to say it even if Chaz would ignore it.

He was humming in the sunlight, his dark skin accessorized with the lemon apron. Are my eyes yellow? Is that why everything is so fucking yellow this morning?

“Ding!” The toaster interrupted like a school bell, then a knife scratching butter on the toast. I always burned bread so I recognized that sound, too.

“Sorry, Honey. I had the setting a little too dark but nothing butter and jam won’t cover up! Just like coffee to your foul breath. Seriously, Girl, that’s nasty.”

He returned to the table with two giant slices balancing on bone china, marmalade and butter catching a morning ray. More shades of yellow. My eyes must be yellow.

It’s in the presentation. Like all things in life, it’s how it looks at first glance, the presentation of it all that catches our attention. The toast looked delicious on the plate. Maybe that’s my problem, I fall for the presentation.

“Thank you, Chaz.”

“You’re welcome.” His voice sounded like a smile. The toast smelled like warm bread. I heard myself the exhale.

Chaz took a bite, then drank his cooled coffee, obviously waiting for something more.

“What?” I sounded like a teenager.

“Are you still writing?” I could hear him crunching. We were beyond not talking with a full mouth.

Yes, I write. I write all the fucking time reflecting on the art of being wounded. Mark is mangled, and I have no pulse to fight back, his hand around my throat has been successful. So yes, I write that kind of nonsense, like a drag queen performing on stage; very dramatic; hand on my forehead, lying on a set of railroad tracks.

I answered with “I’ve been talk writing.”

“Talk writing?” he laughed and covered his mouth from spitting toast. “You mean dictation?”

“Dictation? OMG…” I laughed out loud. “Yes, fucking dictation. I never thought of it like that, but yes! It saves me.” I kept laughing and suddenly my laugh sounded familiar. I think I was laughing last night… I kept laughing on purpose trying to will the memory.

“And?” Chaz was finished with his toast.

“And, what?”

“And are you producing anything worthy?”

“You’re sounding like my agent.”

“I should be; this friendship is costing me.”

Whether it was his comment or the hangover, my headache flaired. “Oh please don’t make everything in my life transactional.”

Chaz got up and kissed me on the forehead. “I gotta get ready for work.”

Work. How on earth did I turn writing into work.

“Eat something; it’ll make you feel better!” Chaz was yelling from his bedroom. I obliged, taking a huge bite and washing it down with coffee, the thought of brushing my teeth long gone.

Last night was coming back in, the caffine waking up a sleeping bear of memories. It felt like a job to remember, but I thought if I could remember, then maybe it wasn’t that bad.

Okay…we went to dinner. I snuck in a drink before we left, nothing new there. He had scotch and I had a martini and we ordered a bottle of wine, and the waiter kept pouring it - it was really good wine, it was a bottle of…fuck…whatever. Then Mark kept saying ‘that’s probably enough’ which was so annoying so I drank more, and then he got pissed and left the restuarant. Fucking left me at the restaurant.

With that I stopped. I took another drink of coffee, maybe reflexively.

Okay, I know I stayed at the restaurant to save face. I ordered another martini…they make the best chocolate martinis…okay I had one? No, two. I had two. I was chatting up the wait staff. Josh? Ya, Josh and… doesn’t matter. Nice young men. I wonder if they thought I was pretty.

I chuckled out loud. I knew what I looked like as a 60 year old woman and it was not pretty. Not anymore.

Oh my God, is that when I was laughing? Flirting with 25 year old waiters thinking I’m pretty… Is that even legal? Yes, Cher and Madonna. Okay…good, I remember when I was laughing. See, not so foggy... Okay, I was headed home and dreading the scolding from Mark. He’s such a fucking parent. I need to face the fact I hate going home. Or maybe I hate Mark. Ya, I hate him… Okay, then I stopped at the store for cigarettes and did I buy little bottles? I’ll look in my purse…okay corner store, little bottles…The Rogue. I was in The Rogue and I know Debbie and Jessica and Sam were there and…they were playing pool but was I playing pool…fuck was I calling Mark?

I looked at my phone “recents.” There were 10 back to back calls to Mark, and one to Chaz.

“How do I look?” Chaz startled me, entering the room with a twirl dressed in all black, an orange silk scarf tied around his neck. “By the way, I’m doing this for affect; you’re making this room deary. Get up and get your day on, girl.”

“My head hurts.”

“Ya well, so do my feet. I don’t wanna see you here when I get back. Life is short. Get your act together. For real this time.” He kissed me again, this time on the cheek and left the apartment.

I was alone. The part I hated most about life was always almost all of my days: aloneness, self-imposed or not, alone. The apartment’s only noise now a refrigerator hum. Chaz should have a cat. I’m gonna get us a cat.

Buzz-de-Buzz. My phone was on vibrate and like a bass guitar in a silent room, it was music to my ears.

“Please let me know you’re safe.” A text from Mark. I smiled without thinking about it, felt relieved and anxious, and then immediately thought of paying him back with a long delay. That’ll teach him.

Setting the phone down like a boxer with a knock out, I left the table and poured myself a cup of lukewarm coffee. The idea of writing sounded doable, but easier to dictate with this headache.

I’m calling this piece, “Dictation of a Journel Entry.”

Where do I start? Another cliche while my memory goes blank, on purpose. Blackouts are not just for the alcoholic.

Trauma will do it, too; wipe out giant swaths of time to protect the innocent, to cover the wounded in fuzzy gauze. But the memory will eventually bleed out, turning dark and crusty against what was meant to be a release.

A therapist shared the wound analogy. But she left out how the dressing gets stuck to dried memories and how the long hesitation to avoid ripping off the bandage will keep one glued to the icky mess, never to experience the relief of cleaning it up and moving on.

And I’ve waited so long that my wounds don’t bleed out anymore, they spew anger and insults. Like an engine without oil, there is only metal on metal. No wonder my head hurts.

Someone once said that it is easier to convey “I don’t care” than it is to hear “I’m hurt.” And, even harder to say, “I am hurt.” But how easy it can be to write about it when no one is reading.

Oh the power of words. They shape me, cover me, hide me, expose me.

And being so clever, I can change the vernacular at play when I fight with Mark. I won’t say, “I can’t do hard things,” because I can hide behind, “I’m out this bitch.” It rolls off the tongue like bourbon down my throat, numbing relief until reality sets in. And we’re apart, again. I am alone, again. And I get drunk, again.

Like walking the line on a DUI, the mental gymnastics of wobbling and waffeling with him over and over again is exhausting. I want him to hurry up and send me to jail. Lock me up and throw away the key. I’m too chicken to do it myself. So maybe I don’t hate him. Maybe it’s me I hate.

My coffee cup feels cold to the touch but I pick it up anyway. Mark says I never finish my coffee because I never want to leave anything so I drink the last drop on purpose and wait for a feeling of accomplishment.

A door down the hallway closes. I hear cars out the window, and still the refrigerator hum but the perverbial clock ticking is nonexistent, perhaps a blessing. The thought of one right now would be like water boarding.

Buzz-de-Buzz. “Are you okay? Please let me know.”

I felt remorse for waiting so long to respond. Not that it was a new feeling, but a remorse that ran deeper than the sorrow for fighting. It was a remorse for living this way.

I don’t want yellow teeth, or to see through yellow eyes.

I dictated one more line: It is a delicate balance between standing up for oneself without tipping over and dying on the sword.

Then wrote, “I need help.”

Mark returned the text, “I’m on my way. There’s an AA meeting at noon you could attend.”

I waited. Not to punish him, but because I wanted to write what I felt.

“I’m ready.”