Despertar

the high cost of art

The last time I went to a Wachovia branch, a tiny, shrill Chinese woman approached the banking window and started chattering rapidly, in very accented but completely articulate English, about how she had just gotten over the influenza. The teller, a black woman, smiled indulgently and murmured some token phrases about the importance of good health.

"And me," the Chinese woman chattered, "even when it is very cold, even when it is cold as the freezer, I never get sick. Never."

"That's nice," said the teller. "Do you take vitamins or something?"

"No," said the Chinese woman, "I just eat right. I eat right."

"You eat rice?" said the teller.

"Yes," said the woman, "I eat right."

"Rice, like R-I-C-E rice?"

"Yes. No, no! I eat right, R-I-G-H-T, right."

At this point, the teller had already lost interest, and apparently decided the woman was referring to some obscure Chinese remedy whose name sounded something like rice. "Ah, okay," she fake-affirmed. "Is that something that's good for you?"

The Chinese woman paused, looked up from the deposit ticket she was filling out, took in the teller's patronizing, uninvested smile, and stretched her face into one of her own. "Thank you very much," she said, handing over the deposit ticket and scooting out of line.

I almost missed my turn at the adjacent window, witnessing that exchange. I really wanted to jump in and help out, because I know ridiculous miscommunications like that are exactly why the black and Asian people in Chinatown hate each other so much.

*

All good things come at a price. The sex is fantastic, it is artful and unlike anything else I've ever experienced, physically. I look forward to it all day, I enjoy it in the moment and I give myself the shakes reminiscing on it at random points the next morning. Sex with Marcus was, I now realize, not especially great. Not terrible, either, just, inexperienced and random. No deliberation, just chance. This isn't like that at all. It's like an elaborate performance, every time.

But, all good things come at a price. I've reached the point where I can't do consistent, ostensibly casual sex anymore. I started taking the Pill, which makes me feel better about the inevitable slips, but I resent changing my body chemistry for someone who hasn't specifically committed to changing his anything, yet. I'm not going to ever hurt him, and I just want the same assurance that he won't hurt me.

Also, I forgot to always pee after sex, and now I have a UTI. Damn it.

*

Oh, and my Aunt Susan collects eggplants, non-edible ones. Eggplant-shaped ashtrays, an eggplant welcome mat, various eggplant-themed sculptures, a butter knife with an eggplant handle.

That's why she's my favorite.