Toothpaste Kisses
The first time I heard Toothpaste Kisses by The Macabees I was slow dancing in a crowded room with you. You told me, I like this song. It feels like home, in a weird way.
When I first saw you, you were leaving Weller’ s Used Books, wearing those sun glasses bigger than your face, and that long, black trench coat. Your lips were painted russet, and you walked with your chin up, like you always do. I played the directions card— do you know where the nearest coffee shop is? Next thing, I was sitting on your velvet couch and you were across, in that big, Victorian chair by the window. You sipped your red wine and told me, I’ m a Scorpio. I also hate the color orange.
Every day was different. We’ d go to new shitty Chinese restaurants, read books at downtown bars. Take a stained glass class. Take organ lessons. Anything to keep your blood flowing. I didn’ t mind, but I slept early. You were a nightingale. It wasn’ t unusual for you to be absent in the mornings. I got used to making the bed.
The one thing that stayed constant was the songs. You played Kool Thing on the way to therapy every Wednesday. You said it got you ready to release the beast. Get your Black Mamba on. Get the hair on your forearms on its tippy toes. I’ d pick you up, and you’ d insist on Fade Into You by Mazzy Star, and every morning, you’ d put on Melody Calling by The Vaccines. I’ d watch you slither around the kitchen. Your hair was long, and it was always pin-straight down to your hips.
It was a Sunday night. You were spread about the floor, crumpled blank pieces of paper scattered around. You were all clenched fists and bulging eyes. I offered
Angel Resurreccion
you a cigarette. Bad for the lungs, you said, scratching your head. What’ s wrong? I asked. You told me you felt small. That you needed to go somewhere, anywhere. That you needed to taste new air, to feel different vibrations, that you wanted to breathe what it was like to exist. To immerse yourself in something, to drown. Take the city bus somewhere, I suggested. Do something new. I’ ll have your glass of wine next to your big chair in the morning. You scrambled some things together in a briefcase, buttoned up your coat and left. The door shut very quietly.
It’ s been four years now. I replace the wine glass every night, and dust off the window sill. I fold the floral bed sheets, and I’ ve arranged each one of your CDs, your vinyls, your big heavy books. I’ ve ironed your blouses. I’ ve folded all your laundry, separated it in drawers. I write you letters and place them in envelopes, missing the address. Sometimes I find long, black hair on the carpet or in the shower. I can’ t tell if it’ s yours anymore, or if it belongs to one of the women who warm your side. You always slept on the left.
The door was slightly open when I came back from work, and I could hear something coming from inside. As I got closer to the living room, the music grew louder.
You were sitting on the big, Victorian chair by the window. Your hair was cut into a bob, and you were wearing orange. Cigarette in your left hand, glass of wine sitting delicately in your right, as you hummed along to Toothpaste Kisses.
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