I prefer writing about strangers. It’s easier, I think.
Like the creature of Gisele’s height but Kat Dennings’ build who walked into the mysteriously lit coffee shop yesternight and made me lose track of my thoughts. She wore a pair of tight, dark blue jeans (which made her sound like a song); and red patent leather high heels. Her tailored black shirt was unbuttoned on top, generously revealing her lace-bound breasts. And by the time I slid my gaze up to her exotic face, I swear I began feeling a bit hazy-headed.
“Jeez!” my male companion said over a cup of his Moroccan Mint hot tea, as if blowing his breath over the steaming surface. Perhaps, he was blushing; but I hadn’t looked at his face for seemingly a million minutes by then.
“Mazel tov!” I mumbled, followed the creature with my eyes. Then, once she plopped down into the aged couch next to us, I concluded with a “Damn!” — for emphasis.
Her face. I didn’t really see her face: The rest of her upstaged it.
But in a story — any story in which she would dictate her own reappearance — I would give her the face of an angel, if angels were born on the coasts of Brazil or India.
Certainly, she would have droopy eyelids with velvety eyelashes, best worn by those smart girls who are always either in the midst of a compassionate tear or a self-deprecating prank. I would give her a well-carved nose, but on the larger side. It would be Roman-esque, resonant of the young Sophia Loren. And it would juxtapose well in relation to her chin which was in the shape of an Italian prune plum.
The lips… I normally don’t pay attention to the lips. I just know that most of the time, they complete a woman’s face perfectly. Sometimes, the mouth is worth mentioning, but I must see it in action first. It’s the manner and the breath with which the mouth makes out words that gets my attention. But by that point, I’m most likely so stricken by the girl’s smarts, that again, I don’t pay attention to the lips.
Yesternight, I didn’t really see her face, but it is her face that would guide me into the fiction of her. Into the fantasy.
I prefer writing about strangers. Because it’s easier, I think.
Like when, the other night, I stood in line behind a tall boy who wore a white tee and a pair of slim fit, ripped jeans, he could’ve easily existed — in someone else’s fiction. But then, his shoes caught my attention: They were black, lace-up boots with missing laces. Scuffed and dusty, as if he had just walked miles through sand and perseverance to get here, they reminded me of a pair I once photographed up in the desert. Those other boots were parked outside a cabin inhabited by a group of outcast artists, and a blue-eyed boy with a Siberian husky. The boy and I wouldn’t sleep that night; and when the dawn illuminated miles and miles of sand ahead, he peeled on those same boots and rode away on his motorcycle. The blue-eyed husky would follow him, and I would wish I had memorized his face a little bit better.
The other night, the bottoms of the boy’s ripped jeans where tucked inside each boot, but somehow I knew that despite the nonchalant appearance, it took some careful thought and manipulation to get the job done. I slid my eyes up his long legs, past the aesthetically, half-tucked tee, and along the shapely back. I didn’t really see his face, but in a story — any story in which he would dictate his own reappearance — he would have a beauty mark above his lips. And he would be blue-eyed, of course.
Yes, I prefer writing about strangers. Because it’s easier, I think.
Like the calm old woman in a burgundy housedress and slippers that reminded me of my grandmother’s pace, the other day: I saw her walking a girl child, up a tiny hill in Griffith park. It was overcast, and the fog of the marine layer refused to burn off. The two of them walked slowly, and I could tell by the curvature of the woman’s spine — over and above the child — that she was quiet and listening to the stories made out by the little mouth. And so, she reminded me of my grandmother’s pace.
The kiddo wore a gray mouse outfit: with ears, and a tail; onesie feet and all. And by the way she walked, with more assurance than the adult in her company, as if leading the way; and by the way she swayed her tiny right hand to punctuate her stories; and by the way she gripped her grandmother’s index finger with the other — she made my heart moan with memories.
I didn’t see the child’s face. Neither did I see that of the grandmother.
But in my story — any story in which they would dictate their own reappearance — I bet they would have the details of the face I see in my mirrors.
Because I tend to memorize the faces of my loves with my heart. And I prefer writing about strangers. It’s easier, I think, for my empathy to speak — and for my loves to dictate their own reappearance.