Driving home from the Litchfield hills last night on music-induced memories. "Color My World" brings the scent of a man, the feel of him as we danced. He was a drummer. Would leave the stage to come down and dance this Chicago song with me. He had those Willie Nelson-Charlie Manson eyes that saw inside me. So no words were spoken as we sat in his old clawfoot bathtub pretending that the fire whistle going off at noon was an alarm. Then laughing at the could-have-been it wasn’t. He was almost a decade older, yet our minds as well as bodies touched for a time that hangs in space, readily retrievable, called into another place by sound.
Flowers from another man lay on the seat beside me. And another follows me home in his own car. Gus had shown me a picture of a lady on the internet he said looked just like me. She’s lovely, ten years younger; I don’t see any resemblance. At home, Jim tells me I’m prettier.
I don’t believe them, still, I wonder at their perception of me. Or at their lies. And thank my luck for all the men I’ve known.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology