The vision seems to float up the spiraling, wrought iron stairs that begin somewhere below in a hidden interior garden and curve their way up to its terrace. Her white gauze dress and lace shawl billow in the stiff breeze like sails on a ghost ship. There is little light, only that of dim streetlamps, fireworks and the sporadic flash of lightning.
She makes her way to the lip of her terrace, her shadow and outline of thin cotton resting against a coral painted cupola. From where I sit, hidden in my shadows but for one flickering candle, her stance seems precarious; her frame, small, and the winds fuerte. I see the soft glow of crimson as she drags from her cigarette. She faces the cobalt sky as colored sparks drop down like rain.
From the small light of her cigarette I see her glance across the street, briefly, at the shadow that sits in partial darkness, in and out by the dictates of a candle flame. Neither of us speaks but we are aware of each others presence. I sip my wine; she takes another drag as her shawl billows around her body. The moment is magical, surreal. Nothing seems to fit, yet everything is in its place. The fireworks continue to explode, the lightning bolts flash behind holy shrines, the street lamps glow a faded gold, her cigarette still burns red.
Later, I return to the terrace to turn off a small exterior light. I glance across the street. I see the woman stepping from her shower, her small oval window facing my terrace. She stands before the vanity mirror, naked, wrapping a white towel around her wet hair. From her bathroom mirror and through the beveled oval window, I glimpse her reflection for the first time. She turns to face the window. Mortified that she would see me standing in the dark from across the narrow cobbled street and looking in her direction, I disappear into the rear shadows of my terrace. Only by chance, and for a moment, did I see her as I went to extinguish the terrace lamp. One always feels guilty when inadvertently witnessing a private moment believed unseen.
If the floating image in white gauze who stood at the lip of her terrace beneath an exploding sky and seemed to sail into the fireworks reads this, I was not watching you. But in catching your filtered reflection in the mirror, it was beautiful just the same.
Same Solar System, Bitchier Side of the Moon
Photo: Thoha, Courtesy: Flickr
The Full Moon is my nemesis; cursed, bloated orb, get some Pamprin.
She does not serve me well. At this time, nearly a year ago to the day, during a sultry Mexican night of full moon and raging hormones, I gave into temptation and had an insatiable itch scratched. I’d like to blame the mosquitoes but they only bit about my ankles. Full moons and itches don’t suit one another. Just look at its pock marks.
If I had been stronger, not weak like Fredo, I would have taken another in a series of cold showers, followed by a liberal dose of Benadryl cream and fastened a chastity belt of which I would have swallowed the key. But La Luna always wins and the sad thing is she should be on my side. But she is fickle, that pale, irritable temptress, and mean-spirited, too, if she feels a twinge of envy or water weight gain.
Lesson Learned: Never have an itch scratched during a full moon, it will come back to haunt you on some moonless night, and might even leave a scar.
Dogs in the Hood
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