“That you did,” I laugh, playfully tapping the top of her head. “Are there any more surprises? Are there two wigs? You were a blond last year, I tend to remember details like that.”
“It’s my real hair, silly—my birth-color,” she says, reaching up to tap the top of my head in turn. “I’ve ditched the wig as a symbolic gesture—I want you to see the real Tallulah, without wigs in the way. Remember when you first saw me? Remember stuff like this?” So saying, she takes a couple steps back to give herself enough space and extends a leg straight out in front of her, perpendicular to her body from her hip to her toes, and executes a perfect pirouette; then, slapping her leg to the floor and stepping close again, asks, “Where was that?”
“At WH, of course,” I respond. “You were wearing a scarlet bikini and transparent white cover-up dress with lace netting in the middle, with a silvery scarf tied around one of your arms, and every inch of you was incandescent in the light-show, whirling in pink and blue. The music was a mix of eighties New Wave and nineties Shoegaze and current versions of it—my kind of dance music. I remember hearing Bow Wow Bow, Adam and the Ants, Ladytron, Goldfrapp, and Ride. And you finished off with “Primitive” by Killing Joke, a tribal stomp of a song if there ever was one. The audience was going berserk at the end, when you were tossing three hula hoops in the air and catching them in perfect rhythm while doing high kicks and twirling. It appears that night’s permanently engraved upon my memory and only now do I realize it. Fancy that.”
“Fancy this: I remember the way your eyes stood out from the hordes on the dance floor and made me feel naked and safe at the same time. You were staring at me the whole time and barely moving, as if I was the only person you could see, and it was like a wave of nature was passing through me. That’s why I came out afterwards and fiddled with my hair by the support pillar, right by where you were, and bent over and stretched and stuff to make my dress cling to me. It’s also why my dress was unzipped a bit—I did it backstage ahead of time, to have a loose neckline. I dropped my purse on purpose and went onto the floor on all fours, pretending something had tumbled out and that I was looking for it, to make my neckline dip and give you a chest-shot, and I felt your eyes there too—felt them a lot! I said to myself, ‘Ooooo, baby!’ because the force of you was really in your stare! And then you came over—I’m so glad you came over!”
“Oh, I remember that as well as if it happened hours ago too, not a chance I’d forget your yellow dress and conspicuously absent brassiere, and your smile and stretches and the way you tossed your hair and squirm-crawled around on the floor, sleek and graceful as a cat—all pure honey. And, honey, as we know, can…” Here I trail off, looking Tallulah up and down with delight.
“Honey can what?” she purrs, looking deep into my eyes.
“Catch anything, especially when it wants to be caught,” I reply. “I’m very glad I came over too!” And it’s here that Tallulah seizes and squeezes my hands in an indescribably stimulating manner, transmitting vitality that races up my arms, pulsates in my temples, whirls in my breast; and here that her eyes light up, brimming with joy, and are as beautiful as a pair of eyes have been since the dawn of time; and also here that we both know, beyond a doubt, that we won’t be parting ways tonight. I can’t begin to describe the magic of this interval! I’m so deliciously stunned and tingling it’s as if I’ve traded my senses for ones that feel vividly enough for life to resemble a dream; I’m oblivious of everything pertaining to my surroundings except for the touch of Tallulah’s hands and expressiveness of her eyes; I’m wondering how I could’ve shut her out of my life, without allowing myself to get to know her better, and amazed and grateful I have another chance to get to know her; I’m determined to make it crystal clear I want with all my heart to continue to see her and have no intention of being an idiot and a coward and running away this time; I’m already racing into the future, picturing us building a life together. Perhaps my thoughts concerning our future come off as being premature and delusional but, Angie, Ella, Steve, I can assure you I’m not indulging in exaggeration. It is possible to know, in an instant, that one’s peace of mind depends upon coming to an understanding with a woman, nurturing a relationship together; that one will be incomplete and flailing without her, flung into a black chasm of depression; that one had no idea how isolated and alone and incomplete one was, because there was no one to hold out the promise of self-completion and yearn to be with and grow old with. I know it’s possible because it’s happening! Stepping closer to Tallulah, and aware she’s enveloped in sympathetic tension—that rousing energetic benignity’s emanating from every last sinew of her body, investing me with courage, assisting me in formulating my words, I say, “Look, I love La Bohème and am obviously here to see it, but running into you is far more important—a Godsend and miracle, no doubt about it. So, Tallulah, this is the deal: would you like have dinner at a quiet place now and catch up more and tell each other lots of things about each other that we didn’t tell each other before? I don’t want to wait until the opera’s over, be away from you for a second. And I won’t be able to hear a note of the opera anyway—I’ll only be thinking of you. How do you feel about it?”
“Justin, there’s nothing I’d like more than to have a quiet dinner with you—of course yes let’s go,” she answers without hesitation, continuing to look at me tenderly and seriously, as if bringing the whole of the wonderful world within her into her face. “But please let me wipe off my mask in the ladies’ first—I don’t want to be makeup-caked when I’m with you.” I must admit I involuntarily start when she mentions visiting the ladies’ room: for an instant it occurs to me, because of my lingering guilt over my avoidance of her last spring, that she, upon further reflection, might decide not to return. “Justin,” she hastens to assure me, “the idea was to see La Bohème in this get-up with my friends and be silly. (Here she nods towards the wig on her handbag and indicates the feather boa with her chin.) But I don’t want to be silly anymore, not with you. As you said, meeting again is a Godsend. So please let me do our Godsend justice and be presentable for you. Don’t worry, I’ll be right back—nothing could ever keep me away.” She picks up her handbag, not taking her smiling eyes off me, and then strolls towards the ladies’ room, bestowing the sweetest of over-the-shoulder glances upon me and blowing me a kiss.
In less than ten minutes Tallulah reappears and we meet each other halfway, literally: too eager to wait an extra few seconds I hasten towards her as she approaches and soon I’m holding her at elbow’s length and gazing at her as if she’s materialized from a dream, marveling anew at her beauty—her unadorned, makeup-free, beauty that I haven’t seen since last spring. No makeup in existence, no matter how skillfully applied, will ever equal the natural radiance and texture of Tallulah’s skin or do justice to the balanced contours of her features. “What?” she inquires in an angelic tone, widening her sky-encompassing eyes and seizing my hand.
“Well, you said you wanted me to see the real Tallulah and I see her and all I have to say is this,” I answer, wrapping my arms around her and pulling her close and kissing her as if I’ll never have another opportunity.
“I like your way with words, Justin,” she purrs once we’ve finished kissing, after probably at least five minutes. “I think it’s one of the most poetic things anyone’s ever said to me—your kisses make me feel peaceful and pretty.”
“Oh, you’re always going to be one of the prettiest girls ever born—have no doubts on that score,” I say, picking up her handbag, intertwining arms, and guiding her towards the exit. I feel as if a world of wonder awaits me outside the exit; as if my world’s expanding to admit a multitude of namelessly delightful things I never suspected could exist; as if I’ve caught a wave of delirium that’s still in its infancy and will carry me to a place I’ll never want to leave. Intermission’s over, incidentally, and our friends—having plainly discerned the extent of our attraction—have returned to their seats. Tallulah and I have bee
n so absorbed in getting reacquainted we’ve neglected to bid them adieu: common courtesy vanished in the miracle of reencountering each other.
I’m telling Tallulah about a French bistro, candlelit and quiet and intimate—mentioning Champagne, prawns, and bulots—as we approach the exit doors and she agrees it’s the place for us to go, but this plan quickly falls by the wayside, because the moment we step onto the plaza we’re greeted by the sight of the Lincoln Center fountain, illuminated from within by bright white light: it looks like a giant multi-tiered wedding cake, alive with motion. “Ooooo,” Tallulah coos, tugging me in the fountain’s direction. “Isn’t it to die for?” Within seconds we’re seated on the fountain’s rim, embracing as mist settles on our cheeks.
“The fountain’s gorgeous, all right,” I say, framing Tallulah’s face with my fingers, “but it’s completely eclipsed by you.” And I’ve never been more sincere in my life: Tallulah’s otherworldly beauty in the undulating light, and her wide eyes, pulsating with tenderness, bright with the energy of her vibrant spirit: I can’t believe my night at the opera’s metamorphosed into this immaculate vision. Here I am: being whisked along on desire’s wings, thrilled to the foundations of my being—seated beside the girl who I’m positive is the most dazzling and adorable one on earth by far; and couple that with our brief but very memorable history, fraught with moments frightful enough to distort my judgment and scare me away; and add to that her willingness to be with me again, no questions asked, and my overwhelming gratitude that it’s so: tally it all up and then try to tell me I won’t remember every last detail of these bountiful minutes until I draw my last breath. There’s a moment when Tallulah’s nestling her head against my chest and turns just enough to gaze into my eyes; and the kindness and trust that’s in her eyes, and the delicate vulnerability that’s in her eyes, their trembling light; and the way she suddenly, with a soft sigh of a cry, wraps her arms around me and clutches me so tight she starts shaking: it just destroys me, how sweet she is and how insane I was to deprive myself of moments such as these a year ago by running away from her—how cowardly, irresponsible, out-and-out stupid that was. But I’m with her again and I’m going to do right by her this time. I’m not going to lose heart, allow fear to get the better of me, and fail to trust her this time. I’m not going to allow the miracle of Tallulah to get away from me again.
From the fountain Tallulah and I scamper hand-in-hand to Columbus Avenue, laughing all the way. Once there, we look for a cab, having decided to have our dinner at my place, where we needn’t concern ourselves with remaining within the boundaries of publicly acceptable behavior. But guess what? Now that I realize I’m happy to be a magnet for tempest-prone girls and would never want it to be otherwise, what’s the point of continuing? These accounts of my girl-adventures have always been an attempt at therapy and understanding—written because I’ve mistakenly considered my taste in females to be an affliction, misguidedly sought a cure for what never ailed me in the first place. But I’m cured now, right?—cured in the sense that I’ve awakened to and am at peace with my true-to-self inclinations. I’ve not merely become reconciled to my preference for tempestuous girls but wholeheartedly embraced it and consider it to be a precious gift, without which I’d certainly flail about in unending discontent, be endlessly oppressed by muddled smothering unhealthy thoughts, so no more therapy’s needed; or, rather, the therapy business has been revealed to be wasteful self-delusion. Sorry, but I’m through with detailing my adventures. Far better to call Tallulah and provide encouragement (She’s at the law library, in exam-preparation hell.) than write another line. You understand, right?
Love and Respect,
Justin
* * * * * * * * * *
From: Angie
To: Justin
cc: Ella, Steven
Sent: Sunday, May 4, 2014 12:01 PM
Hey you,
What? You finally awaken to the truth of your laudable love of wildcats and then decline to tell of your latest adventure, deprive us of the full-out tribute that they, and Tallulah in particular, are entitled to? For shame! I say you owe these girls, formerly unconscionably maligned by you, a heartfelt celebration of their blood-stirring qualities! You certainly owe it to Tallulah, considering she’s the one who’s enlightened you and brought you peace of mind!
By your own (belated!) admission these girls bring joy and meaning into your life, so you need to do the honorable thing and atone for your former recriminations against them! You must shower them with accolades! Do it, Justin!
We’re waiting!
Angie
* * * * * * * * * *
From: Steven
To: Justin
cc: Angie, Ella
Sent: Sunday, May 4, 2014 12:39 PM
Justin, I second Angie’s motion. Without stressing what’s decent for a man to do when it comes to making amends towards wronged females, I’m eager to hear what surprise your sweetheart sprang on you: I’m sure there is one. To put it another way: you owe us some entertainment on account of how patient we’ve always been with your unenlightened attitude, uncomplainingly enduring your endless complaints. Refusing to finish telling of your escapade simply because you happen to like such things now is just plain bad form, unworthy of you.
Steve
P. S. Not to imply that your previous recountals weren’t entertaining. Hell, what was always very entertaining about them was how stubbornly you were refusing to see that you can’t live without bringing hellcats home.
* * * * * * * * * *
From: Ella
To: Justin
cc: Angie, Steven
Sent: Sunday, May 4, 2014 1:02 PM
Hey there Slouch,
And I third that eee-motion, Justin! The honor of the women you admire is at stake, so get busy! Make your apologies, clear their names, and beg for their forgiveness now! I mean, you’re really refusing to follow through and be a gentleman when the occasion demands it? Justin, I don’t believe it—you’re better than that! Plus I’m eager to get to know Tallulah better: she must be an extraordinary girl indeed, because she’s the one who’s torn the blinders from your eyes at long last, apparently for good—the others came up short in that department. Nor to forget your obligation to us: whetting our appetites, teasing us, and then walking away is completely unacceptable! Finish what you’ve started, Justin! There’s no way around it, buckle down and give us the rest of the story instead of making unacceptable excuses! If you don’t, you’ll be no better than you were a year ago when, by your own admission, you shamefully gave Tallulah the gate! Don’t give us the gate, Justin! I’m waiting—we’re all waiting! From every angle, doing justice to Tallulah, and to us, is the right thing to do!
Ella
* * * * * * * * * *
From: Justin
To: Angie, Ella, Steven
Sent: Sunday, May 4, 2014 1:32 PM
Hey Nags,
All right, enough already! I’ll own up: I was putting you on! Of course I need to atone for my former assertions that magnificently manic minxes are a curse, make amends for my unenlightened complaining. Of course I’m going to celebrate the never-can-be-praised-enough qualities of wildcats, particularly as personified by lovely Tallulah. Of course I’m going to profess my gratitude to these girls, and Tallulah first and foremost, by means of a loving tribute. Doing so is therapy as well, right? It could even be said that a loving tribute will be my first genuine therapy-via-writing session: what better way to calm down once and for all with regard to my love-liaisons than by proving to myself they’ve been fabulously fulfilling? If I formerly wrote because I was looking for a cure where it couldn’t be found, then I presently write to reinforce my discovery of the cure and hold it close to my heart: it’s important to affirm what I love, especially in the light of having denied it for so long. But there’s a difference: this will be my sole written word exploration of this new territory. A one-off reinforcement of what makes me happy, well and good, but why would the wr
iting need to continue? Now that I know what I love the thing to do is live it to the utmost, without the distraction of writing.
So I’ll be getting back to you later in the week, or next week, after I’ve written my tribute as it deserves to be written. I’ll send it as soon as I’m finished, no more nagging necessary.
Until then,
Justin
* * * * * * * * * *
From: Justin
To: Angie, Ella, Steven
Sent: Thursday, May 15, 2014 9:29 PM
Hello again my Pretties and token Gent,
As promised, here you go:
Where was I at the end of the last Tallulah email? Right: Tallulah and I have decided to eat at my place instead of a restaurant, so we’ll be free to indulge our mounting attraction to our heart’s content. As we wait on Columbus Avenue for a cab we’re unable to keep our hands off each other, unable to keep our lips apart. In fact, we allow a great deal of cabs to pass us by, not willing to abandon our abandon, be distracted from one another for a second. I’m not sure how many traffic light cycles occur before we finally do hail a cab, but I clearly recollect what occurs once we do: I’m assisting Tallulah inside it, she’s bending to avoid striking her head against the roof, and her sweater rides up her back, exposing her midriff between its pink and the black of her skirt; her midriff, lily white and smooth and soft and rippling in the lamplight, is the very definition of irresistible and I seize her there, whereupon she gigglingly cries out, “Ooooo! Molestation!,” and we tumble semi-entangled into the cab; she’s undulating her hips, glancing at me over her shoulder, flinging her hair; and there’s the blaze in her eyes, and the curves of her hips, and the pings of her laughter, and the crisp whisper of her stockings when she seats herself and crosses her legs and rubs them together, and the lines of her smile, as sweet and delicate as they are sensuous and sultry… A lesser man might be unable to refrain from pouncing but I know I’ll have ample opportunity and have no wish to break the spell, cease relishing every anticipatory moment—our night’s still very young. Stroking one of her thighs, I laugh, “What a Fireworks Princess you are!”
Tallulah Tempest Page 6
