by Amy DeMeritt
“Do you mean a fire fighter?” She smiles and shakes her head. “Nope. I really wanted to be a firetruck. At that age, it took a lot of arguments to get me to understand that talking cartoon inanimate objects and animals are not real.”
“That’s adorable. So, you figured out at age sixteen you wanted to write? Was there something pivotal that helped you figure that out?”
“My grandmother helped me fall in love with writing. She and I would play this game together that she made up. She had this old feather quill that I loved to play with and write with. She invented a game that whoever was holding the quill had to weave a story. We would pass the quill back and forth between each other and continue the story where the other left off.”
She gets quiet and looks down at her plate in a sad way. I reach across the table and take one of her hands in mine. She looks up and gives me a small smile.
“When my grandmother became sick, she asked my parents to always make sure the quill was by her bed so that when I came over, we could say our stories together.” She pauses and takes a deep breath.
“Bailey, you don’t have to finish telling me this right now.” She shakes her head and gives me a small smile of determined strength. “I’m ok. I was sitting with my grandmother when she passed away. She started a story about an old woman that was going on a journey and a young woman that would be going on a separate journey. Just before she passed me the quill, she said…”
She pauses and takes a sip of wine and takes a deep breath trying to contain her emotions. I rub my thumb across the top of her hand and squeeze it encouragingly.
“She handed me the quill and asked me to promise her that I’ll never stop telling stories. I made her that promise, and she smiled, closed her eyes, and fell asleep forever.” I wipe tears out of the corners of my eyes and Bailey smiles affectionately at me and squeezes my hand.
“I’m so sorry, Bailey. It sounds like you had a beautiful relationship with her.” She nods her head. “My grandmother was my best friend. Writing helps me remember her. Sometimes, I write a line down and close my eyes and imagine her voice whispering the next line to me. My grandmother had a beautiful sweet voice. If sunshine and daisy’s had a voice, it would sound like my grandmother.”
My throat is tight and burning with emotion. It’s just so sad and beautiful – this relationship she had with her grandmother and the reason why she loves to write. I wipe at my eyes again and take a deep breath trying not to turn into a sobbing mess.
“Sorry, Piper. I guess this isn’t very good first date conversation material.” I smile and shake my head. “Bailey, its perfect first date conversation material. I want to know you and what moves you. We can cover the basics like your favorite movie or favorite color another time.” She laughs and smiles broadly. “My favorite color is orange and my favorite movie is a toss-up between a Japanese animation called Spirited Away and a very unknown Britney Murphy movie called The Ramen Girl.”
“I love the color orange – sunset orange is the best. I’ve actually never seen either of those movies. What are they about?” She smiles and shakes her head. “Do you have plans Monday night?” I shake my head. “Good. You’ll come over and we’ll watch one.” I smile really big and laugh a little. “Either, you feel really bad about almost standing me up, or I’m much better company than I thought. You have already awarded me with promises of at least two more dates and we’re only halfway through dinner.”
Bailey shines a bright toothy grin. “I don’t agree to or propose pity dates. I don’t think it’s nice to get someone’s hopes up like that. I’ll never say something I don’t mean. So, yes, you are very good company.”
“You’re not so bad yourself.” I have a ridiculously cheesy grin on my face and Bailey smiles and gives me a cute little laugh.
“So, what about you? What’s your favorite color and movie?”
“I know you’ll probably think this is a total copout, but I actually don’t have one of either. I like pretty much all colors. And I honestly don’t have a movie that is my ‘go-to’ when I just need something to cheer me up or whatever. But I could easily watch Hocus Pocus every week and not get sick of it. Those witches crack me up.”
“I’m surprised you know that movie. No one ever knows what I’m talking about when I make references from that movie. What’s your ‘go-to’ when you need cheering up?”
“Water.” She looks at me with a confused smile and laughs. “Water?” I nod my head. “So, you just stare at a glass of water?” I laugh hard and shake my head. “No. If I have the time, there’s a waterfall up in Green Pine Forest that I love to go to. It’s about a thirty-minute drive from here. If I don’t have time to make that little trip, then I take a shower or a bath. I have one of those plug in waterfalls in my apartment that I like to sit in front of and watch. It’s three-feet tall and I added real river rocks and live plants to it to make it more real.”
“That actually makes perfect sense. Water is very soothing and relaxing. I didn’t know there was a waterfall so close by. Is it very large?”
“It’s a pretty decent size.”
She starts to say something else, but our waiter comes over to see if we need anything else. We’re both full so he places a long black tab holder on the table and departs with a small bow.
When we get back to Bailey’s place, I walk her to the front door of her building and she nervously shuffles on both of her feet and looks between me and the door.
“Would you like to come up… for coffee or something?” I smile and nod my head. “Coffee sounds goods.”
It’s as if I can see the nervousness fall off of her like the shell off of a pistachio. I understand the feeling. It’s tricky asking a woman up after a date – especially the first date. Many times, you just want to continue talking, but the other person may think you want more than that and then the whole mood of the evening is spoiled because they think you’re only interested in sex. Or that person ends up being the sex craved freak and you end up having to kick them out or having to make up an excuse to get them to leave.
When we get to her kitchen, Bailey opens a small drawer full of perfectly organized single serve K-cups. “Piper, what do you prefer? I have medium, dark, and mocha.”
“The dark roast, please.”
She pulls out two of the dark roast cups and adds one to the single serve coffee maker. While it brews, she turns to me with a shy smile. “It’s a little intimating making coffee for such a talented barista. How do you like your coffee?”
“How ever you’re making yours is fine. I love coffee in all forms.”
Bailey smiles and goes to her fridge to grab a bottle of all natural cream vanilla creamer. She adds just the perfect amount to the coffee and then hands me my mug. She watches me and waits. I smile and take a sip. “Just perfect, thank you.” She laughs a little and turns to make herself a cup. “Well, it’s definitely not one of those amazing lattes or cappuccinos you make, but it does the trick in a pinch.”
After her coffee is made, we go sit on her couch. Bailey places a round wood coaster down on the coffee table in front of us both and then she settles back with her knees draw up and turned sideways to face me.
“Your living room furniture is very unique. Did you make it?” She smiles and shakes her head. “No, my grandfather did. I love that you think I am handy and creative enough to actually make furniture though.”
“That’s cool. I really love the combination of the natural wood and the metal pipes.” She looks around her living room and smiles. “My grandfather is a great craftsman. He built his and my grandmother’s house with his own two hands. Well, with a small crew of men as well. After my grandmother passed away, he decided he just couldn’t live there anymore. It broke his heart to be in that place without her. So, he took a lot of the house apart and repurposed it amongst the family before selling it to a contractor. The pipes are from the plumbing, the tree trunk is from a giant oak tree in the yard that he had built an awesome tree hous
e in, the knobs on the entertainment center are from my grandmother’s jelly cabinet, and the clock is part of an old twisted willow tree that had been struck my lightening the year before and was sitting in his barn drying out, waiting to be turned into something beautiful.”
“What about that dungeon door?” She laughs and looks at the door. “That was their cellar door. My grandmother kept her homemade jams and jellies and her vegetables from the garden down there.”
“Are you very close to your whole family?”
“For the most part. I don’t have any siblings, but I’m very close to my parents. My grandfather is still alive and we’re still very close, but I was always closest with my grandmother. I have aunts, uncles, and cousins, but they all live out of state. I don’t get to see them very often so we aren’t very close. What about you? What’s your family like?”
“My family is not quite as beautiful as yours.” She frowns and reaches over to take my hand. “I’m sorry, Piper. You don’t have to tell me.” I shake my head and smile. “It’s ok. My parents never married. My dad proposed when my mom got pregnant, but she said no. He died when I seven, but was a good dad from what I remember. He worked in a factory that makes commercial farming equipment, and one day while they were moving a piece of equipment, a chain broke and the machine fell on him and he was crushed to death. My grandparents on my father’s side had both passed away before I was old enough to remember them, and my grandparents on my mother’s side disowned me after I came out. We weren’t very close anyway so it didn’t bother me too much. I don’t have any siblings either. My mom is, well, my mom. She’s a bit flaky and unpredictable, but I still love her. We get along for the most part.”
“I’m sorry about your dad. That’s very sad. My grandparents on my father’s side are the same way about me being gay. They won’t have anything to do with me or my parents after I came out. But as it was for you, it wasn’t a great loss because I was never close with them. They live out of state and I don’t really have a single good memory from the times we went to visit them. They aren’t very nice people in general. Ok, so a less heavy subject now. What is your favorite kind of music?”
We end up talking for hours, toggling back and forth between “heavy” subjects and “simple” subjects. Neither of us realize how late it is till Bailey starts yawning uncontrollably and laughs at herself. We both look at the clock and let out a small gasp and laugh that we’ve been able to talk for so long without getting bored with each other and without checking the clock once. It’s after one in the morning. I stand up to leave and Bailey slowly follows. I take our empty mugs to her kitchen and set them in her sink before she walks me to the door.
“Piper, thank you for dinner and for a wonderful evening. I had a really nice time with you. Sorry I kept you so long. Are you going to be ok driving home so late?”
“It was my pleasure, and yes, I’ll be ok. I don’t live too far from here.”
Bailey smiles, takes a small step towards me, and takes one of my hands in hers. She nervously shuffles on her feet again and I smile. We slowly meet in the middle and gently press our lips against each other’s. Bailey inhales deeply and presses in closer to me as she parts my lips with her tongue and our mouths begin to move in perfect sync with each other. My knees weaken and my head swoons. Oh my god, she is that most perfect kisser that the “Controversial Lesbian” blogged about the other day.
When she pulls back, she’s smiling and her eyes have taken on a glossy mystified look. “Can I call you tomorrow?” I smile and nod my head. “Of course. Goodnight, Bailey.” She gently presses her lips against mine for a moment and then pulls back still smiling. “Goodnight, Piper. Drive safe.” I nod my head. “I will.”
Chapter Four
It’s only four in the morning on Sunday and someone is pounding on my door incessantly. I put my pillow over my head and groan, trying to block out the noise. Maybe if I ignore them, they’ll go away. I was so looking forward to sleeping in today. They are not leaving! I throw my pillow across the bedroom, knocking over my shoe rack, and climb out of bed, throwing my comforter and sheet aside. I stomp through my apartment, unbolt my door, and fling my door open.
“What?!” Staring at me is my mother. Of course. I should have known. Her expression changes from impatient to startled to wounded in a split second. “Is that anyway to greet your mother?” Without waiting for an answer, she pushes passed me and comes inside – without an invitation of course.
“What the hell are you doing here, Mom? It’s only 4am.”
“That goddamn useless piece of shit of a boyfriend of mine thought he would play Mr. Fixit and broke my shower. I have to go into work in less than an hour. Can I use your shower?” I groan and nod my head. “Yeah, fine. Go.” She rushes off to the bathroom, and a moment later, I hear the water turn on.
I grab my phone off the charger and plop down on my couch. I missed a blog post yesterday from the “Controversial Lesbian”. I tried to get myself to clear the notification yesterday so I wouldn’t be tempted to look, but habits are hard to break – especially ones you feel so strongly about. I’ve been following this woman’s blog for years and have “loved” her for just as long.
Things with Bailey are going great so far and show potential to be better than any relationship I’ve ever been in. Why does the curiosity of what this blogger would be like in the flesh cause me to not be able to fully appreciate what I actually have? The instant Bailey kissed me, I should have unsubscribed to this blog and never looked at another post.
With a bit of sick guilt in my belly, I open the blog.
It’s amazing, this endless outlet of typing words, feelings, fears, frustrations, joys, any possible emotion, and just plain Me-isms. Sometimes, I take for granted that I have this vast expanse of digital world and, while faceless, thousands of avid readers to vent every possible thought to.
Many of my posts can come off harsh, unapologetically judgmental, and damn right in your face blatantly rude. Yet, for the most part, you all empathize with me rather than demonize me. I think there is just something so beautiful about this relationship we share. Yes, I said relationship. While I may be an anonymous voice and none of us have met, the invisible “roads” that carry my words to you and your words to me, have united us in such an intimate way that I feel I must tell you a truth. Completely heart felt, baring my soul, stripping the mask of “controversial”, here it goes – you know me better than any single person that knows my face.
What is it about this vale between us that allows us to share so intimately our deepest desires, our greatest fears, and our worst and best days? In my “real” life I tend to be a bit neurotic about sharing with other people, letting someone get deep into my personality, my feelings, and my Me-isms. It’s just too dangerous a concept for me. Notice I put real in quotes – want to guess why? Yeah, that’s right – it’s a bit of a contradiction really. How can anything except this blog be my real life if I am not completely open and free anywhere but here?
Do you often hold back things you think or feel because you worry how someone will judge you or that you will upset someone? Dear reader, you are not alone. When I started this blog, seven years ago, I had no idea anyone would actually read it, though I hoped. I used this as a sort of one sided conversational journal to say the things that have been burning inside me to be let free, but I dared not speak to a single face. Why did I not just tuck away in a comfy corner with a soft leather-bound journal, smooth ink pen, and a cup of tea to scratch away on paper? Why did I choose a blog, a page that other eyes could so easily stumble upon and have access to 24/7?
Paranoia, quite simply put. Imagine, scratching on paper the words you dare not speak to someone and then a someone stumbles upon your musings. Albeit I may live alone, the chances were still too great. Besides, that beautiful charm of some faceless stranger happening upon my words and possibly responding to them, I just could not resist that lure.
There have been times I have tried to en
trust certain frustrations with a friend, family member, or a girlfriend even, and as I am sure you can relate to, never were they the ear and voice I needed. God, why is it so hard for people to just listen and hear me? Why is it so damn near impossible for a person to pull their heads out of their asses for just ten minutes to listen and feel what I am feeling?
I wrote recently about waiting for my “Jenna Tourney” – the most perfect kisser. Well, I guess I have another confession. I am also waiting for that face that embodies all of you. Does the perfect girl exist? The one girl that can, not just knock my socks off with her kiss, but can hear the words without them being spoken, but when I do speak, listens and empathizes.
You are such beautiful faceless hearts that I so love very much. Thank you for reading and hearing in your hearts the words I cannot share with anyone else.
Sincerely in love with you all –
“Controversial Lesbian”
P.S. To the few sharp tongued readers of this blog, hold your comments on seeing a “Shrink” for someone to talk to. I choose to find a healthy way to deal with my frustrations, not bog down the already overwhelmed health industry with the mundane humdrum of my day.
P.P.S. The astute reader will pick up on the sarcasm in the post script, while the belligerent reader will try to call me out for calling my musings, emotions, etc. mundane humdrum, accusing me of being self-depreciative. Hold those comments as well, please.
I have such mixed feelings about this blog post. While I love a shy woman that does not easily reward just anyone with all her secrets and all parts of her personality, I still want that woman to be able to trust me enough to eventually open up and let me discover what makes her tick. This woman sounds like she is completely shut off from allowing anyone that knows her to have access to any real depth to her person. It really makes me wonder if she could ever really open up completely to someone if after seven years of writing this blog, she has never been able to open up to anyone like she does to her readers.
