I was much further out and not waiving but drowning
On January 31st, in building 1801 near Biscayne Blvd in Miami, a woman swept her balcony with a red broom. It was 1:41 p.m. She wore her hair short and pruned her plants in a long-sleeve black top. I watched her through the rainy window to see if anyone would join her. Across the street, two almond milk lattes joined me.
4 minutes later a man in a beige hoodie walked by dragging a black suitcase. I watched the wheels of his bag hit the wet pavement and wondered where he was going and where he had been.
Where was I going?
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On January 27th, I had a meltdown over diamond earrings. Convulsive tears that fell on the pages of my coloring book and lightened the orange ears of an elephant. I ordered fried rice with shrimp, miso soup with tofu, a Tom Kha soup. Purple mashed potato.
They must have forgotten the purple and I forgot about the diamond earrings.
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On Dec. 7th, the sun set in Miami at 5:08 p.m. I have no proof, but I was there with the cicadas and breeze. The palm trees joined us. They brought a statue of a royal blue and yellow walrus.
A man in a white shirt and blue pants - the same hue as the patio furniture - walked by slowly. Two women in pink shirts followed. Another man appeared on the patio with a box of pizza.
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On a Tuesday in Paris, I watched a couple devour one another in an open foodmarket. It reminded me of a French man who did the same to my face whenever we hung out. “Who cares about these people,” he would say.
Under a wine colored awning. I drank the same color.
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There was that one week in February. On a Thursday, after working a 12-hour day, my Wi-Fi went out (God, are you there? It’s me, Vanessa). I binged Oreos until I felt sick and the insides of my teeth were covered in black and the cream stuck to the crevices.
What made me stop? What makes you stop?
The hum of the refrigerator.
I stared at a bottle of Advil PM, knowing morning grogginess would be the debt to pay. I crawled into bed to read a book about a young woman’s time in a mental institution. I circled a quote: “None of us survive.”
Did I cry that night?
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The day before I received a package from my mother. Inside were 5 bags of coffee. Why?
“It’s five dollars. Now, with this damn war, everything’s going to go up, and it doesn’t spoil in storage.”
Read: I love you.
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That same Wednesday, I hired a man on TaskRabbit to change my living room curtains.
“You’ll tell stories of the easiest money you have ever made,” I said.
Closing the ladder, he laughed. His thick Russian accent reverberated in my ears when he said, “This is exactly what I’m thinking I will tell my friends.”
He arrived at 4 p.m. He left at 4:05 p.m.
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Later that month in San Francisco, many women wore dark denim. This surprised me. I have a complicated relationship with dark denim.
On Geary Street, a table of attractive men with dark features, perfectly groomed beards, and really tight shirts gathered to smoke hookah at a lounge. I watched them greet each other and make room for the two who just walked in. I made a mental note about San Francisco and then I googled “burgers near me.”
I thought about crisp hotel sheets and a freshly serviced room. I imagined unbuttoning my pants and letting my bloated belly hang.
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On March 1st, American Airlines Flight 2391 with service to Miami was delayed because the incoming aircraft was late. Groups 5-9 were required to check their bags.
“I will not leave my bag,” she yelled. “Ma’am, please step to the side,” he responded.
For some people, traveling is very difficult.
On my way to seat 25F, I made eye contact with a woman who had pale skin and bright green eyes.
“You are so beautiful.”
“Oh, thank you.”
Can I have your number? I did not say.
On this same flight, a woman I know intimately wrote in her journal about a flight leaving San Francisco.
I was much further out than you thought and not waving but drowning - Stevie Smith