Bette Davis
Winter, 2006
Lydia Copeland
You didn’t count on rain today so you sulk around the house petting our animals and trying on different colors of the same pocket t-shirt. You will need to leave for class soon. There’s a Sociology exam and you think you know all the answers. I have the day off from work and all I want to do is lie on the floor and stare at the ceiling fan. Its blades are shaped like the leaves of a palm tree. I’ve turned on the TV and you’ve put on some Benedictine Liturgical music that you checked out from the library. We both like the overlapping newscasts and chanting.
Three days ago we argued over finances. I was mad because you spent the electric bill money on comic books and you were mad because you think I should know that money is an illusion, that it is a fleeting thing and it doesn’t matter when we don’t have it or when we do. You slammed the bedroom door in my face. And without telling you, I went for a walk in the dark around the six safe blocks of our neighborhood. I took my time. I mulled things over. My mother had warned me that all early marriages are strewn with arguments over money. We’re just like everyone else. You were trembling when I got home. You thought I’d left you. You held me tight in your anger and for a moment we were like something out of a movie. You mussed my hair with kisses and I cried into your shirt collar. Since then we’ve argued over how to discipline the dog when she eats your fried chocolate pie, how to properly wash a drinking glass, how many days to keep the stacks of mail piled on top of the toaster oven.
We argue about the color of our friend Peter’s Ford Escort. I say it’s purple. You say it’s blue. I tell you you’re color blind. You remind me that you took color theory last semester and you know colors in a professional way. Then you call the yellow light orange when it is obviously yellow. You know this, but you say that in Ireland people actually do call them orange lights. I remind you that we live in Tennessee and that our traffic lights are red, green, and yellow.
I try to prepare you for my summer freckles. I tell you my face will soon be full of them, that I won’t look like me. You say you love freckles. I say you won’t love these freckles. You say you’ve always wished I had more freckles and that if I really knew you, I’d know about your fondness for freckles. You love, love, love freckles you say.
We argue over how many beers you should drink at the little movie theatre in North Carolina where they serve Pabst Blue Ribbon while we watch short films. I say more than three is excessive. You say less than eleven isn’t worth your time. You say your tolerance is such that you can stay sober through a whole case of beer. I say you’re married now and you shouldn’t be drinking whole cases of beer. You say whoop di do. But then you feel bad for saying whoop di do and you put your arm around my shoulders and pull me into you and I can feel your beard against my cheek. You tell me you’re sorry and that you can’t change over night, but that you will eventually change. There will be a day when you drink only two beers and call it a night.
When we aren’t arguing, we laugh longer; we touch each other more often. I make over-the-top dinners of yeast rolls, carrot bisque, and quail eggs. You build shelves in the kitchen for my houseplants. The dog is happy during these days. Her tongue hangs out of her smiling mouth and her eyes shine when she looks at us. We make love on the balcony of our apartment at two a.m. and don’t even try to be quiet about it.
Last night we watched All About Eve and you said you could never be married to Bette Davis because her eyes are too scary. You said she was beautiful, but her gazes were too long and too commanding and you’d feel threatened if she poached some eggs for you or straightened the boutonnière on your tuxedo. You couldn’t even sleep in the same room with her even if you each slept in separate beds. I said I wouldn’t mind having those eyes if it meant I could control you. You laughed, but I was serious.
You have emerged from the bedroom in a green t-shirt. No pocket. In green, your skin looks paler; your eyes are brighter. You are dashing in that shade of green. I think I should tell you this, but I don’t. The monks singing in our house have put the dog to sleep and the cat’s eyes are as slender as sunflower seeds. The monks will go on singing for hours. You think this might calm the tension between us. You think the monks will spread your secrets throughout the living room. You think they will tell me all the sentences that float around your head during your bicycle rides around town. But the monks only tell me about sacredness and safety, love and service. They sing of thankfulness. They may never sing of doubt or second guesses or arguments or orgasms. They may never sing of loneliness in an apartment on a rainy day.
You wheel your bicycle out of the hallway and nearly run over my ponytail. I am sprawled on the floor, strengthening my gluteus muscles. You perceive this as laziness, as a fuck-you to the co-workers and acquaintances of the world. But I am in another place with the monks. They take me to the crumbs under the couch and to the long blue veins in my outstretched arm. They take me to the tree branches that almost touch the window and the sound of the house finches at the bird feeder. I begin to picture in my head my own naked body. You know this body better than I. You know the days when my breasts are fuller. You know when my skin feels feverish. You have braced my hips in your hands. You know the bones there.
I get up out of the floor, walk you to the door, and kiss you like you’re going off for a long day of laying railroad ties. Your spine is aligned with the doorframe and in your face there is something like sadness. You’re dressed in raincoat and galoshes and I can suddenly see you at the age of three, fiddling with those too tight elastic straps that cinch the rain boot to the trouser. You have no umbrella. I kiss you and it’s one of our perfect kisses. It is the kind of kiss where your bottom lip fits nicely between my lips. It is the kind of kiss where we both close our eyes. After you leave, I pray to the monks that you will watch for bad drivers, especially college girls with cell phones making one-handed turns, and that you will remember all the answers to the test you know so well. God bless you, I say to no one.
Lydia Copeland
You didn’t count on rain today so you sulk around the house petting our animals and trying on different colors of the same pocket t-shirt. You will need to leave for class soon. There’s a Sociology exam and you think you know all the answers. I have the day off from work and all I want to do is lie on the floor and stare at the ceiling fan. Its blades are shaped like the leaves of a palm tree. I’ve turned on the TV and you’ve put on some Benedictine Liturgical music that you checked out from the library. We both like the overlapping newscasts and chanting.
Three days ago we argued over finances. I was mad because you spent the electric bill money on comic books and you were mad because you think I should know that money is an illusion, that it is a fleeting thing and it doesn’t matter when we don’t have it or when we do. You slammed the bedroom door in my face. And without telling you, I went for a walk in the dark around the six safe blocks of our neighborhood. I took my time. I mulled things over. My mother had warned me that all early marriages are strewn with arguments over money. We’re just like everyone else. You were trembling when I got home. You thought I’d left you. You held me tight in your anger and for a moment we were like something out of a movie. You mussed my hair with kisses and I cried into your shirt collar. Since then we’ve argued over how to discipline the dog when she eats your fried chocolate pie, how to properly wash a drinking glass, how many days to keep the stacks of mail piled on top of the toaster oven.
We argue about the color of our friend Peter’s Ford Escort. I say it’s purple. You say it’s blue. I tell you you’re color blind. You remind me that you took color theory last semester and you know colors in a professional way. Then you call the yellow light orange when it is obviously yellow. You know this, but you say that in Ireland people actually do call them orange lights. I remind you that we live in Tennessee and that our traffic lights are red, green, and yellow.
I try to prepare you for my summer freckles. I tell you my face will soon be full of them, that I won’t look like me. You say you love freckles. I say you won’t love these freckles. You say you’ve always wished I had more freckles and that if I really knew you, I’d know about your fondness for freckles. You love, love, love freckles you say.
We argue over how many beers you should drink at the little movie theatre in North Carolina where they serve Pabst Blue Ribbon while we watch short films. I say more than three is excessive. You say less than eleven isn’t worth your time. You say your tolerance is such that you can stay sober through a whole case of beer. I say you’re married now and you shouldn’t be drinking whole cases of beer. You say whoop di do. But then you feel bad for saying whoop di do and you put your arm around my shoulders and pull me into you and I can feel your beard against my cheek. You tell me you’re sorry and that you can’t change over night, but that you will eventually change. There will be a day when you drink only two beers and call it a night.
When we aren’t arguing, we laugh longer; we touch each other more often. I make over-the-top dinners of yeast rolls, carrot bisque, and quail eggs. You build shelves in the kitchen for my houseplants. The dog is happy during these days. Her tongue hangs out of her smiling mouth and her eyes shine when she looks at us. We make love on the balcony of our apartment at two a.m. and don’t even try to be quiet about it.
Last night we watched All About Eve and you said you could never be married to Bette Davis because her eyes are too scary. You said she was beautiful, but her gazes were too long and too commanding and you’d feel threatened if she poached some eggs for you or straightened the boutonnière on your tuxedo. You couldn’t even sleep in the same room with her even if you each slept in separate beds. I said I wouldn’t mind having those eyes if it meant I could control you. You laughed, but I was serious.
You have emerged from the bedroom in a green t-shirt. No pocket. In green, your skin looks paler; your eyes are brighter. You are dashing in that shade of green. I think I should tell you this, but I don’t. The monks singing in our house have put the dog to sleep and the cat’s eyes are as slender as sunflower seeds. The monks will go on singing for hours. You think this might calm the tension between us. You think the monks will spread your secrets throughout the living room. You think they will tell me all the sentences that float around your head during your bicycle rides around town. But the monks only tell me about sacredness and safety, love and service. They sing of thankfulness. They may never sing of doubt or second guesses or arguments or orgasms. They may never sing of loneliness in an apartment on a rainy day.
You wheel your bicycle out of the hallway and nearly run over my ponytail. I am sprawled on the floor, strengthening my gluteus muscles. You perceive this as laziness, as a fuck-you to the co-workers and acquaintances of the world. But I am in another place with the monks. They take me to the crumbs under the couch and to the long blue veins in my outstretched arm. They take me to the tree branches that almost touch the window and the sound of the house finches at the bird feeder. I begin to picture in my head my own naked body. You know this body better than I. You know the days when my breasts are fuller. You know when my skin feels feverish. You have braced my hips in your hands. You know the bones there.
I get up out of the floor, walk you to the door, and kiss you like you’re going off for a long day of laying railroad ties. Your spine is aligned with the doorframe and in your face there is something like sadness. You’re dressed in raincoat and galoshes and I can suddenly see you at the age of three, fiddling with those too tight elastic straps that cinch the rain boot to the trouser. You have no umbrella. I kiss you and it’s one of our perfect kisses. It is the kind of kiss where your bottom lip fits nicely between my lips. It is the kind of kiss where we both close our eyes. After you leave, I pray to the monks that you will watch for bad drivers, especially college girls with cell phones making one-handed turns, and that you will remember all the answers to the test you know so well. God bless you, I say to no one.