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They were making out on my couch. It all happened so fast. The first one, the little one, was snuggling on my lap. The newcomer sat opposite. She packed a pipe as she pushed her long wavy hair out of her face. The little one had curly hair, tight curls that she pulled up into a bun. This curly bun formed a mass of follicular chaos that was the perfect imagining of her enthusiasm. She cooed me, she snuggled me, she let her hot breath arouse me, and then she noticed the other; the other who sat and watched in starvation. So I nudged. I told the little one it was too hot for snuggling. She “hmmphed” once and dove onto her girl friend.
The kissing was timid, at first. They were gentle. They cherished each other’s faces. They caressed and talked to each other closely. I was three feet away, but I couldn’t decipher their language, so I can’t tell you what they were saying, but I can tell you what I saw.
I saw two astonishing women who were born into ill-equipped families. They weren’t bad families, they were just families unable to nurture the two incredible little girls that they used to be. They grew up lonely. They had boyfriends that bored them, and a few that amazed them. They did love men—as they grew, they never doubted that. But there was just something else missing. Always this something ineffable and ungraspable—missing. The language did not exist to define it. Then they kissed.
And as they rubbed each others noses in Eskimo kiss affection, each of them seemed to whisper, seemed to sigh, “you’re it.” They were so beautiful—in those days—when they were full and happy.
They disappeared into the bathroom and when they returned, flushed but composed, they started asking me about my marriage, specifically what my wedding was like. They couldn’t imagine planning something like that, they said. So I told them.
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Metanarrative