Oh Baby, or: The First Half of 2018

I’m not sorry that I remember in words. Whether or not our past takes shape through language, these are facts –

One: I was raped in my apartment by a man with more hair on his back than on his balding head, who wore the Star of David around his neck. He reminded me of an Italian wise guy, the kind you see in movies that get fat on wine and veal. Two: For a long time, the only person I told about my night with a rapist was my fuck buddy, a pretentious and confusing shit I understood to be a legitimate friend, especially after he encouraged me to move in with one of his pals from film school. I wouldn’t say he left me since he was never really quite there to begin with, but I was still devastated to find him drawing away from me emotionally, less than a month after the rape. When it became clear that his actions were part of launching into a relationship (”I’m just not ready,” he told me, but he supposedly had feelings for me too) with a mutual friend six years our junior, instead of being irritated or angry, I was pathetic and desperate for us to still remain friends. I got no credit for remaining friendly with her, although I never understood being anything less than civil with another woman just because a man fucked you and then fucked you over. Three: I had a medical abortion that became an incomplete abortion that became vacuum aspiration and while I was reasonably certain my resilient little fetus was not the result of being raped, the alternative explanation was worse. I was alone by choice because I didn’t want to be alone by necessity, terrified he’d deny his role in fertilizing the parasite growing inside my stomach. Four: At the point I lost my job, I had already fast tracked myself to earn the title “alcoholic” and quite frankly didn’t care. I was dirty, desperate, dumb. Pregnant, because this was before the abortion, and somehow I found myself depressed that I lost any choice to keep a baby I didn’t want anyway due to my excessive drinking. This thing will come out looking like a fucking elf, I told myself at one point. I was probably drunk.

Love’s Lessons

In our time apart, we grew closer; words eclipsed distance faster than our feet covered ground. With each infatuation, I learn something new about myself. You taught me that love, in its infancy, is easiest when miles separate the subject from the object of a verb.

Age of the Water Bearer

From the beginning, you journeyed for a more favorable sign. Still, I adored the problem that was you, even as the trials became more than I could bear. I was challenged through my hope to divert your path to my constellation. In the end, I did myself no favors. The mythology of “us,” by way of oral tradition, remembers me reckless, elides the contradictions that passed your lips.

I lost my own course in chasing you, water bearer. You were immutable and animated by air, drawing oxygen from the lungs of nymphs. At times, I felt your equal. More often, you reminded me that I was not. You did not desire complementary angles; the shape you sought in the stars overlapped with yours, as if you needed some version of a her that reinforced your bones.

Even as the sun’s proximity to Venus predicted our lives would decouple more abruptly than the event of their crossing, I was unprepared for your absence. Devastated by loss and to lose. And I’m more sorry than your audience will ever know, both for myself and (as time goes on, less) for you. Because you see, I never wanted to fall in love.

Contortionist

For too long, I played the contortionist, bending without breaking until I fit the shape of the scripts you provided. My existence in your life was carefully curated and intentionally finite. Amber, you were fun. You were easy. Even then, my performance was reviewed in the context of your narrative, my character some reduction of fiction designed only to advance the plot.

But no woman wants to live as someone else’s story. When I refused to be reduced, you destroyed the version of me you created. Worse, you were vindictive over my exit from the role; you made me doubt that I could live as more than just a subplot, too desperate in my need to be at the center of the tale and too broken to deserve it.

Gemini to Gemini

Reality is created in the culmination of our experiences, I told Scott. What we call logic is pieced together. A tapestry suggests intention; as a metaphor, it’s also trite. No, logic is more like an installation of scattered stars, the universe from an abstract view. Our thoughts are nebulae and black holes. They’re formed and reborn as they pass through time. How we reason, and all the things we pretend to understand, cannot contain supernovas, cannot bypass the gravity of passing meteors.

You overthink everything, Amber, he said. I wondered how often I disappointed him, the course of my reality set in opposition to his own.

In knowing Scott, I began to wonder – when a Gemini is born a twin, are they less than half a whole? We all enter this world under fire, our dispositions determined by the placement of the sun. With two Geminis, there are four minds. But he always feared himself a fraction, dependent on his brother’s shadow. I’m afraid my friends only invite me out because I’m his twin, Scott had told me. The universe didn’t anticipate you, I wanted to respond. You’re not broken. You were simply born incomplete.

Of course, I knew to keep this to myself: he never spoke to me for my opinion. In his reality, a woman’s orbit circled his needs. We reflected his light, but not out of love. No, to satisfy his need to finally feel like the sun, he diminished our potential, allowed us only to be stone and never stars.

Gemini to Aquarius

We’re both air signs, I say, expecting you to laugh. You do.

I won’t tell you that I’m trying to find direction in fiction: I’m using meanings arbitrarily assigned to planetary alignments and the quadrants traveled by Mars to better understand your gravitational pull. Part of me wants to explain to you that the stars are more accurate than you’d believe. When our constellations cross paths, we feel a validation of self, an intellectual closeness that falls short in its warmth. I’m flexible and you’re rigid. This doesn’t interfere with your needs, and only displaces one of mine, because we both share the desire to remain independent, to honor the selves we salvaged, however broken. In our friendship and moments of intimacy, we form complementary angles within the spaces we don’t already overlap.

This is a little crazy, so I know better than to tell you that astrology is my latest comfort. For me, it’s always held a place in my heart and mind as my favorite pseudoscience. Horoscopes and the compatibility of signs are also the means of turning abstract thoughts into a narrative, at least lately. Don’t worry, though. Like most things that exist between us, it’s not serious. So I just smile (as I so often do when I hear you laugh). Because even if you don’t love me, afraid to be more than water in a woman’s hands, I can’t help but share in your joy.