by Lola West
“I know, right.”
Before eating, she reached into her bag, grabbed some kind of hair tie, and spun her unruly brown strands in a circle until they were tamed into a bun on the back of her head. Next, she pulled up her sleeves and adjusted herself in her seat. There was no shame in her desire to devour her ramen. She was preparing for it like it was a sport. I’m not sure why, but her demeanor reminded me of when you see little kids playing in a fountain. She was just vibrant and excited, like eating was one of her favorite things to do. Honestly, I’d never met a grown woman who enjoyed her food without a hearty side dish of guilt. But clearly, Lua’s relationship to food was guilt free. She was visibly ecstatic. She picked up her big white oriental spoon, ladled a sip of her broth, brought it to her lips, slurped, and then moaned, “Mmmmm. So good.”
More than satisfied with her reaction, I picked up my own spoon and started on my broth. The ramen joint I took her to was a little hole in the wall on 49th Street between Fifth and Sixth Avenues. In general, the place usually felt humid from all the hot soup. In the winter, that was a blessing. In the summer, you constantly wanted to wipe your brow with your napkin, but the ramen was too good for the humidity to matter. The decor wasn’t much to speak of. It was all wood except the floor, which was square gray tiles, and there were maybe six tables and a counter. Behind the counter was a doorway to the kitchen covered by a blue and white curtain that very focused Japanese men were constantly whooshing behind only to return with piping hot bowls of noodles.
The place was usually packed, but it was still early, a little before six, so she and I were lucky enough to snatch up a table for two. Sitting across from her made me both serene and almost giddy. I literally couldn’t ever remember a time when I felt so joyful, and yet I kept having to remind myself to stop constantly bouncing my leg under the table. In the hall in the hotel, when we realized our rooms were directly across from each other, it was such a relief to laugh with her. It was such a relief to make her laugh, and then when she asked me to have dinner with her, I thought I should panic, but instead I wondered if that was really a terrible idea.
We weren’t celebrities, so while the media was currently interested in our take on certain things, it wasn’t likely that we’d be trailed by paparazzi. Even if we were photographed, we called each other friends on a national television show, so why wouldn’t we share a friendly meal? Dinner with her seemed like a decent solution to the situation I currently faced, dealing with the possibility of everyday encounters with Lua at Hamilton. Suddenly, it occurred to me that maybe I didn’t have to be the asshole. Instead, I could be what I implied on Kelsey Jennings’ couch, a friend that Lua disagreed with. Of course, we couldn’t be close friends, but we could smile and nod from across the cafeteria, and she’d think fondly about that stupid media circus that threw us together for a bowl of ramen.
Plus, I knew that while Lua might possibly be the tiniest bit attracted to me, she couldn’t possibly feel drawn to me like I was to her because she had her boyfriend. He was always around her on camera, so it was my guess that he grew up with her. Clearly, her minor attraction to me was nothing compared to a relationship that she spent her whole life building. The way I figured it, even if by some chance I fucked this up and kissed her or something ridiculous like that, there was no way that Lua would let me lose control, because she loved that guy and a girl like Lua wouldn’t cheat on love.
Once I processed all of this, it was so easy to just accept that I could have this one night with her. I could be free to sit across the table from her and watch as she slurped and savored. I could take my time, track the pace of her movements, learn what made her laugh, ask questions about her treasured moments. I had the opportunity to know Lua, even if it was just for a few hours.
After we left the hotel, I let Lua control the tone of our interaction. Not that I wasn’t participating, but unlike ever before, I was listening. I wanted to spend the night learning as much about her as I could. So far, she had been chatty and personable, but contained somehow. It was hard to explain. Lua’s natural way of being was so much more open than the people I knew. She never seemed to consider how others were looking at her, like embarrassment was just another feeling on the spectrum of emotions. And yet, sitting across from me in the ramen joint, it was clear that she wasn’t intending on letting me get close, like she had at Bonnaroo. She had a wall up, and even though I was desperate to knock it down, I was glad that she didn’t really trust me. That was the right choice.
Lua spun her chopsticks in her bowl and pulled at the noodles that were swimming in the fragrant cream-colored broth. Once the pull of spindly yellow strands was twisted around her chopsticks, she lifted her hand and the noodles rose from the bowl and stretched toward her mouth, draping like a waterfall back in the direction of her broth. Mouth full of piping hot noodles and her eyes closed again in delight, Lua said, “God, I haven’t had Hakata in like forever.” She swallowed, took a quick breath, and then embellished. “When I was little, we used to go out to San Francisco for pride like every other year. And my dad would take us to a little joint a lot like this. Hakata ramen has always been my favorite.” Without glancing at me, she asked, “Is miso your favorite?”
“Nope.” I pushed my noodles around and loaded my spoon with miso broth. “Actually, I like it all, but last year I was in London with my friend Pete and we went to a place called Tonkotsu and I think their signature ramen is the best I’ve ever had.”
“I’ve never been to London. Is it cool?”
I didn’t tell her that London was the most amazing city I’d ever been in because, like Rome and other ancient cities, you are so aware of history when you walk through London’s streets, but unlike other ancient cities I’ve been to, London is also a fierce example of modernity. The collision of the ancient and the modern can make you breathless. I didn’t know how to tell her that without sounding like a privileged asshole, so I didn't elaborate. “Yeah, it’s cool. Have you ever been to Europe?”
“Once. My dad took me when I turned sixteen. We went to Paris, and then we took a train to Barcelona. It was really an amazing trip. European cities are so steeped in history, ya know? It’s not like here. Somehow when you’re there you can feel the complex relationship between everything old and everything new. It’s awesome.” She slurped her broth again. “But not awesome like cool. Awesome like the true meaning of awesome, awe-inspiring.”
Listening to her talk about her experience, which so resonated with my own experience, it occurred to me I was making a lot of assumptions about what Lua had and where she came from. And that maybe rather than assume, I should be asking. My confusion/epiphany must have been all over my face because when I returned my concentration to our exchange, Lua was studying me. She seemed to be trying to read my thoughts, and to my surprise, I wanted her to know them.
“I was just thinking that maybe we are less different than I thought.”
She turned back to her bowl. “It didn't occur to you that maybe the smart-talking hippie girl from the commune could be a little bit worldly? Just cause we choose to live differently, doesn’t mean we don’t travel or learn about the world, Drew.”
“I see that.”
“I’ve been to the ballet and Broadway. I’ve been to history museums and art museums. I’ve been to Mexico, Canada, Panama, Thailand, and all over the United States. Our parents exposed us to the world. We might not stay where your family stays when we travel, but the whole point of our community is to value human lives. Understanding cultures often comes from being exposed to them. My father treasures humanity’s beauty and creativity; so do all the other parents in my community. They would never keep that from us.”
I nodded and chewed on the inside of my cheek. I felt a little bit like I was being scolded or schooled. “I’m sorry.”
She smiled at me. “It’s a common misconception. People think that because we live separate that we isolate, and I guess in some ways we do. I’m certainly not keeping up
with the Kardashians. But I’m also not planning on spending every day growing broccoli and milking cows for the rest of my life.”
I must have still looked troubled because she reached across the table and touched my hand, the one with the spoon in it. She said something in an attempt to ease my feelings, but I didn’t hear her because the little three- or four-inch plot of skin beneath her touch caught on fire, sending sparks clear up to my shoulder. Her intention was to quiet my discomfort, but my internal reaction to her touch was something much stronger than comforted. I looked down at her hand on mine, her four fingers on my skin, her thumb pressed against my wrist, and I wanted super glue. I wanted her to touch me more. My breathing quickened, and I licked my bottom lip. As quickly as she put it there, she drew her hand away. I dropped my spoon and chopsticks, moved my hands to my lap, and tried to look innocent.
She cleared her throat and started talking again like nothing had happened. “I want sake. Do you like sake?”
I nonchalantly commented, “Sake’s good.” Inside I was thinking, that’s an amazing idea because I could certainly use a drink right now.
“Do you like unfiltered sake?” she asked.
“Absolutely. It’s the best.”
“Do you think they’ll card us if we try to order it?”
I hadn’t thought about the drinking age since I was fifteen, and I got my first fake ID. “Not a problem.” I winked.
She leaned in, her eyes gleeful, and whispered, “Do you have an ID?”
Instead of answering her, I called over the waiter, and ordered the most expensive bottle of unfiltered sake on the menu. He didn’t even try to card me. When he walked away, she didn’t mention the ID again. Instead, she said, “What’s your favorite color?”
“Blue, you?”
“Purple. Blue? Really?”
I never had anyone question my favorite color before. It seemed like an innocuous question when she asked it, but now, I wondered what I had just told her about myself.
“What’s wrong with blue?”
“Nothing, it’s just mainstream guys always say blue is their favorite color, like their gender demands it.”
“Mainstream guys?”
She blushed ever so slightly and made a goofy, oops-I-totally-just-made-a-boo-boo face that involved clenching her teeth, scrunching her nose, and smiling with her eyes. “Guys who didn’t grow up on the thrive.”
“Ahhhh… interesting. The thrive, that’s what you call your community?” She nodded. And then smiling, I asked, “Just out of curiosity, who’s making assumptions now?”
The waiter returned with the sake and two little cups. He uncapped the bottle and poured us a glass. Cups filled, she lifted hers, instigating a toast. “Here’s to dispelling assumptions.”
I lifted my glass and clinked it against hers. “Kampai.” I downed the whole thing like a shot. The warmth of the liquor sizzled in my throat, but it was smooth enough that the burn didn’t radiate to my chest. She surprised me again by downing her glass too.
I lifted the bottle and refilled the glasses. She sipped the second glass.
“So,” I said, “tell me something deeper than your favorite color?”
She rubbed her lips together and looked up at the ceiling like she was searching her mind for some interesting detail to share about herself. “I like performance art.”
“Sounds… pretentious,” I teased.
She shrugged her shoulders. “A little.”
“When you say performance art, what do you mean? Are we talking flash mobs or happenings?” To be honest, I wasn’t all that familiar with performance art. I’d once taken an art history class where we discussed happenings, which were performances in the 1960s that people attended, and the whole point was that the art would be affected by the varying audiences, but that was the extent of my knowledge. I just wanted to seem like I was smart.
“Have you ever been to a happening?” she asked.
“Do they still exist?
She shook her head no, and then said, “Well, not really.”
“Then how could I go to one?”
“Well, there are decedents of happenings, like theatrical performances that incorporate the viewer. I once saw this performance where instead of sitting in an audience to watch a play, you wandered around a warehouse, taking in what was happening in each room. Only a handful of people were allowed in at a time, and the performers often incorporated the audience members. They did things like dance with you or cry on your shoulder. And the whole time there was this eerie operatic music playing. It was weird, but it was so powerful, and you didn’t even know why.”
Suddenly, it occurred to me that maybe I had experienced something like a happening. Once when we were in high school, Katie dragged Pete and I to this crazy thing called Fuerza Bruta. It was an Argentinian dance/aerobatics troupe that put on this insane show where you stood in a large room and the performance took place all around you. There were guys that ran up walls, flashing lights, this plastic sheet that descended from the ceiling that was covered in water with dancers rolling and curling through the wetness. It was almost indescribable. It was literally like nothing I had ever seen before or since. It was also one of the most amazing experiences I ever had because somehow being part of the experience, standing with the other people in the room and breathing the same air charged your batteries. Honestly, it was amazing, and it was in New York. I wanted her to see it. I wanted her to see it with me.
I looked at my watch, just before seven.
“Have you heard of Fuerza Bruta?” I asked.
She dropped her spoon in her empty bowl. “No, what’s that?”
“Come on, I’ll show you.” I pushed my chair back, stood, and pulled my wallet from my back pocket.
She didn’t move. “We didn’t get a check yet.”
“We don’t have time for a check.” I dropped a hundred on the table. She hesitated. “You can pay me for your ramen later. Come on. If we don’t leave now, we’ll never make it.”
She looked at me, staring at my eyes, seeking something. I held her gaze, trying to relay that in that moment, she could trust me and at the same time I hoped she wouldn’t forget that there was no way I could make her promises.
12
Lua
When we left the ramen place, Drew seemed a little frantic. We didn’t really have that much time to make it all the way downtown to the theater near Union Square, which apparently was where we would be seeing Fuerza Bruta. He was busily rushing to the corner to grab a cab when I suggested we take the subway.
“It’ll be faster.”
He seemed kind of hesitant but followed my lead. I knew we could take the R from 49th Street directly to Union Square. I had done it many times before, visiting the city with my dad or Joe’s family. When we got on the train, we stood facing each other because there were no seats. Again, I noticed how tall he was, and for the first time I realized how good he smelled. It had been a little hot in the ramen place, so his smell wasn’t just clean boy; it was a little bit musky, like the way it smells before it rains, like soil. Although we were face-to-face, we didn’t talk much for the first few stops because he seemed to be holding on to the safety bar for dear life, gripping it so tightly that his knuckles were white.
I found myself asking him, “Have you ever been on a subway train before?”
He nodded in the affirmative, but I wasn’t sure I believed him. To prove to him that he was perfectly safe, I dropped my hand from the bar above my head, distributing my weight evenly between my feet and engaging my quads so I could roll with the movement of the subway car.
I swear to God, he looked down at me with legit terror in his eyes. “What are you doing?”
“I’m fine. Nothing is going to happen if I let go. Worst-case scenario, I fall, but it’s unlikely.” The train slowed, pulling into a stop, and while I wobbled a bit, I was able to keep myself upright. “See.” My demonstration had its intended effect. The tension in his jaw and his hand r
eleased a smidge, and the color was returning to his knuckles.
The warning that the subway doors were closing sounded. Again, I smiled at Drew and left my hands by my sides, riding the momentum of the train with the strength in my lower body. No problem. I heard the airy sound of the brakes releasing and then the whir of the metal wheels on the track. The train’s momentum pulled at me, and I commanded my muscles to compensate against the inertia of the movement. Then, for no apparent reason, at least no reason that I could see, the train abruptly stopped, unexpectantly throwing me forward into Drew’s chest.
To be clear, I am not dainty. I’m five foot six and I think I weigh like one hundred and seventy pounds, but I’ve only ever been on a scale at the doctor’s office. I’m feminine, busty, and round. I’m also strong. I have worked on a farm my entire life, so I have muscles that are fierce from use, and honestly, I’m just built fleshy, plush like pillows. Joe calls me voluptuous, but I hate that word. It makes it sound like I am a vaudevillian stripper. Truth is, I’m just not a waif. I’m bigger and for me that’s normal. I’m naturally curved and soft. I know that this is crazy bizarre to mainstreamers, but I don’t really worry about the look of my body. In fact, I am amazed by my body. I love all the things it can do. I love that I can climb trees and hold my breath under water. I love that I can run and dance and that as a woman I might be able to grow a baby someday. I love that I can laugh and cry and kiss and feel anxious. I just like being a human and my body processes that for me. It’s pretty hippy-dippy, I know, but I think self-love and acceptance may be the biggest perk of growing up without a television. That said, having the full weight of my body crash into his was no joke.
Drew took the collision like a champ. He never let go of the bar above his head. The other arm flew toward me, wrapping around my body just below my waist so that the fullness of my hips pulled tight against his groin, and then we kind of dipped back, like for a second we were both hanging at a sixty-degree angle, held up by that one incredibly strong arm. I had no control, so it was Drew’s legs that righted us, me still pulled tight against him. He had to squat a little to make it happen, so when we returned to standing, both my legs were bracketed by his, and I was more than aware of our closeness. I felt the cool swell of tension between my legs and my heart was flying, like a hummingbird’s wings. The train started moving again, and he didn’t let go right away. Pressed against him like that, I turned my eyes up to see his expression. It wasn’t peaceful. His eyes were closed, and I could feel his chest rising against mine as he breathed in through his nose, quick shaky breaths that seemed to be slowing, unlike my own.
