Wednesday 04.06.2011 | 11:23 AM EDT
“Smiles” | Spiritualized, Laser Guided Melodies, 1992
I lie in your bed for the first time. Your steady breath slows my cocaine heart. I dream…
It’s morning. We wake in your bedroom, smiling. Your parents house in the ‘burbs. Kentucky? You rise by the window, body slim, skin like milk. Astrid scampers on the bed. I am taking pictures. She licks the lens. I keep asking: is this ok? Your dad in the room down the hall, expecting him to catch us at something. But we are chaste and innocent in our first night. You reassure me. I feel trusted, endeared to him.
We ready ourselves together. Your bathroom expansive, not like cramped New York. Sink top populated densely by girl things – lotions and ointments, perfumes, orphaned earrings, makeup-dappled tissue. Bright sunshine streams through large windows, refracting off steam. The mirror is fogged, your arms raised, lips pursed, tossling your wet hair with a towel.
Atlanta morning traffic. We are driving. Somewhere obligatory–to work? to school? Orange 1982 Toyota Celica. Showered with Southern sun through the T-Top. We remember. It’s President’s Day. No school. No work. We are smiling.
We reach my parent’s home. Day bright as a diamond, we pull up the driveway. Huge lawn, green and yellow for yards and yards and yards. Mom and dad on the veranda. Introductions. She smiles brightly at you, his eyes tender, knowing.
Kitchen, large as a house. Steepled roof, exposed beams, terra-cotta tiles. My childhood nanny making tortillas by hand. She is 73, crows-footed, eyes wrinkled by years of smiling innocently, broadly. She turns to greet you. I wake up. You are rising. Smiling.
Celica: derived from the Latin word coelica meaning “heavenly” or “celestial”.
Page 1 of 1