Seen and Heard

She had caught me by the pyramid of my elbow and– all smooth– hooked me around for a hug. Centripetal force spun my hair and muddled into my mouth. For a brief second, I just saw the grains of her mascara, then my nose hit her shoulder. Undignified and off-balanced, the sheer force of how she squeezed me punched all the air out of my nostrils. I thought I shot a booger onto her chest. I told you– smooth.

She thanked me fiercely, shaking me in a bear-hug to punctuate her point. No need, I thought. I’m not the person to thank anyhow. She released me from her vice-like gratitude, and walked towards the gallery. I don’t recall if she sold anything that night. I don’t particularly remember any of her photos, just the trembling position of her shoulders as people flooded in to strike pensive in front of her work– poised for greatness, really.

Much later, we caught up over a brew, and things had changed. I was in the winter of my discontent and short on work, she was in her glorious summer of interviews, gallery shows, and, even more, talks with the Getty. When before she talked about love, life, and passion, now she was about success, investments, and networks. Barbed topics, insensitive to my empty pockets and pride. I had little to say. Well, more like little attitude to listen. I nursed the bottle between my hands, coldness sweating into the prayer of my palms.

What shifted was her paradigm, a small change in her direction. I watched her take a deep downward swig of her beer, lips pressed hotly against the bottle, eyes shut in a sudden rush to the head. I opened my mouth to say something. Her brow began to bead from the flush of the alcohol. I watched her mascara begin to smear, and didn’t say what I should have said.

Tags: alcohol, dark beer, fiction, love cervesas, photography, smear