Wild Plums

Wild Plums                                                                           

His foot is on my float, holding it in place behind him.  This foot has pale water-softened skin on the bottom of it, and running my finger over the wet flesh is a sign of our intimacy.  His face is not facing me; in fact, his whole body is turned away from me and toward his ex-girlfriend.

Sandy, his ex, is standing in the pool on the edge, and her hair is red.  Or is supposed to be red, but has been burnt into a blond crisp and manipulated into a coil on the back of her head.  Her is skin is also burnt into a crisp, freckled tan.  Her manner is of forced easiness.  "Yeah, I knew he coulda’ got somebody to watch his kids. We were going down to Suds, man.  Loretta coulda' done it.  You can't convince me.  He just didn't want to go..."

I turn my head and study the outside of the pool.  Light blue concrete and clear water.  I choose not to acknowledge Rob's foot that is now drawing circles on my bare side.  Sandy's words fade a little as my mind stops drawing out the meaning and just stills to the cadence.  Rob queries. She answers, and the pattern repeats as I draw my hand into the cool blue loveliness of the water. 

I have been here before it seems. Where attention is like spotlight that I want on me yet isn't mine.  I turn my head and study the tan on Rob's back, his legs.  He turns a bit and I study the lightness of his eyes, his easy grin.  I slip off the float and into the cool water. Rob glances at me, but my thoughts are separate and my own. 

I think of the trees on my land, some 2 hours travel away.  Lots of trees, but three of them are stunted little black things, with twisted branches, like something out of a Dr. Seuss drawing. Back home, these trees have burst into fruit that resembles little pale red circles.  When I pulled one from the tree, I did not know what it was.  The land is new to me; the trees are only growing on me in their familiarity.  I took one of the pale fruit, and discussed it with my aunt. 

"Bird trees?"  was her prognosis. "Or maybe persimmons, but I think they only come out in the fall.  Persimmons are sour and will make your whole face pucker..."  She demonstrated the sour face that used to strike her and her sisters at the taste of a persimmon when they were children. 

Rob has unanchored my float, moving his foot away.  He is swimming in lazy circles while talking to Sandy.  It is our third date. I have not dated in a while for reasons as ambivalent as not wanting to put forth the effort and not feeling worthy after years of a wretched relationship. But when I noticed that my weekends were getting empty, filled only with the reading of a novel or the wallpapering of my kitchen in shades of blue and gray, I started timidly typing into a profile online. 

"I am single," I declared. "I am creative." At least I think I am, was my mental addition, as I remembered countless hours writing and photographing the details around me, years ago. 

"I like water," I wrote. I remembered entire days of my youth spent in the summer heat, swimming, or being pulled on inner tube attached by rope to the back of a boat.  I realized I was describing myself as a child, before life taught me to be wary, taught me to be reticent.  I looked at my profile, written in a state of whimsy in different colored pastel type on a bright blue background. 

I decided I liked it.  Maybe if I found someone who liked those qualities, I could return to the free spirit I used to be.  Maybe. 

I booked a trip to white water raft, feeling better already.  I took vacation time and packed up my car to wander around the Appalachian Mountains in search of adventure and inspiration. I started calling my girlfriends to join me in trips to bars, to museums, to shop for "the little black dress" that Cosmo says you should have. I hoped that I would find the places to wear it to later. 

I had almost forgotten about the profile, until I started receiving instant messages online.  I chatted a little, but it wasn't until Rob's that I paid much attention.  In its too big print and penchant for exclamation points, the very print seemed to suggest an optimism that I wanted. 

He called. I did not.  He emailed me; I did not return it.  But slowly the phone calls I did answer started to last hours, and a date seemed like the natural progression. 

My stomach ached with nerves when I met him beside the interstate in a parking lot.  We went to a mall the next big town over, and he courted me with Godiva chocolates and offers to watch me try on swimsuits.  I accepted the chocolates, declined the swimsuit offer, and on the way home, found myself letting his tongue roam my mouth just a little bit before I pulled back. 

No, I could not go home with him that night.  Maybe some other time?  I slipped from his car into the darkness.  Outside his sports car and his gaze, I already felt a little colder. 

So it was I who pushed our second date a couple of weeks later.  He had not called, had not emailed, so I sent him one.  Then a reminder.  Finally, I could come up to visit him a half a state and a two and half hour drive away.

I wore the black dress that I had not yet found a place for.  He liked the dress and the way it seemed to skim over the tops of my breasts, and let my legs show. I keenly felt his appreciation as we wondered around his town, into the darkness beside the river, and into the glitter of a casino. He crazily quoted E. E. Cummings to me while our bodies were pushed softly together while waiting in line.  "I like your body with my body..."  My heart gave a little patter and I laughed a little at the perfection of the moment. 

We fed coins into the slot machines with abandon until all the coins were gone.  Later, when I kissed him bye, I walked away filled with thoughts of bronzed skin, the touching of one's mouth against another's throat, and more.  I was a little giddy with the possibilities. 

So there was no doubt I would go on the third date, and now here we were. After a morning of watching incredible mechanical feats of hydroplanes and F-19's at the river show, while his hand slid over my shoulders in what seemed like faint promises, we were relaxing in his neighbor's pool.  Except that his ex-girlfriend was there, and as his attention was swept up in her smoky voice. And I--I remembered the reasons I had stopped dating to begin with, the reasons why being alone had seemed like such a good option for such a long time. 

I had finally taken some of the fruit from the tree over to my grandmother's a few days ago.  "Plums!" she declared, and washed one for me to bite into.  It was incredibly sweet and rich in flavor.  It tasted like the essence of summer itself, all those lazy boat rides and dives into clear water and all the sunshine, captured in this small fruit that resembled a cherry tomato. 

"They're good," my grandmother continued, "but sometimes they have an aftertaste."  It hit me then, a tangy, bitter unpleasantness.  I think it was the skin that held the bitterness.  My grandmother saw my face, and shrugged.  "Nothing's perfect. You're still very lucky to have these trees on your land.  Wild plums are rare." 

Sandy finally raises her body out of the water and wanders inside the neighbor's house.  Rob turns to me and after I watch his smile work its way lazily across his face, we seem to drift closer in the water.  He starts telling me about Sandy, about how they are still friends after they broke up years ago, and I let his voice slide past me and echo off the water.  Instead, I watch the play of light on the skin over his rib cage.  In the afternoon sun, it is an indescribable color made of copper and tan and light.  It shimmers almost blindingly, and I reach to touch the perfect glass beads of water trapped against his side. 

"What?"  He asks me quizzically, "Is something wrong?"  He looks down at his side to see if there was something--a smudge of dirt, or a bug bite. 

"Nothing,” I tell him as his movement changes the interplay of light and leaves his skin a smokier color; something with a shimmer but somehow paler in its appearance than the gold it looked a moment ago.

“Nothing," I repeat. "You're just fine."