It’s Sunday and I wake up at 6:30 and take the dog out and marvel at the stormclouds and sit on the curb for a minute while Mango does his business and the breeze out here, the look of things, reminds me of something I can feel but can’t remember. Sets a warming kinda mood.
I take the dog upstairs and feed him and then hop in the shower and when I come out and get dressed is when the rain starts up, torrential, and since I cleaned and organized my room last night in anticipation of a guest who never showed up I can see now, with everything in its proper place, what my apartment kinda looked like when I first moved in.
More than that: in the gray light of the morning storm I can see what my apartment looked like at dawn following the first time my ex spent the night. First guest. That was a Sunday too and it was stormy like this one, the thunder woke us up, and we moved around under the sheets together while rain hit the window and afterward, when she’d fallen back to sleep, I waited ‘til the downpour flagged to a drizzle so I could hustle outside, across the street, and from the window at the Mexican restaurant I bought some empanadas and croquettes and a colada and then jostled back, jumping over puddles in a ginger kinda way so’s not to spill the coffee, and the storm picked right up almost as soon as I was back in the apartment. We ate inside the blankets while watching An American in Paris, talking, until she curled toward the wall again while the movie ran its course and then I put on the next one, A Place in the Sun, and she went on sleeping through almost the entirety of it except she did wake up for a few minutes in the middle. She flopped over toward me and put her head on my shoulder and squinted at the screen. “Is that Elizabeth Taylor?” I said yeah and then told her the story I’d just heard on a podcast about how, when Montgomery Clift had a drunken car accident right in front of Liz Taylor’s mansion (I think he flew threw the windshield?), Taylor ran out to the wreckage and pulled Clift away from it and laid him out on the grass, tending his injuries as best she could, and when she noticed that he seemed to be choking on something she pried her fingers down into his mouth and pulled his own shattered teeth from the back of his throat.
She waited a beat. “Wow.”
You could hear in her voice she was nodding off again.
Today’s a Sunday just like that one and after I uber to Starbucks I think back over that morning while schmearing my bagel and then on and on while eating it. What a pretty snapshot of a situation it is. The right place and time and mood. Nice and pretty person too but the wrong one.