Beth

Beth, short for Bethlehem, the little town of the song where Jesus was born. Beth, she of tendrils of thousands of hairs drawn together in unity on her lovely head. Why did her parents name her such? The casual mistakes that would come like the mailman (rain, sun, snow) with her name; and why wasn’t it short for Elizabeth, and could her parents have been mistaken? How was this her name, or could they have gotten it wrong? Where do names come from? Maybe she should have been Lucy, Jill, Claire or Connie. It could be that she could change her name, but she started out as a Beth, short for Bethlehem. A long name for a short child.

How could I ever forget the day I met Beth? I saw her out at a Saturday’s market, the sort of recidivistic place where Intel chip farmers hawk their sincere produce to those of us who can afford to spend a little extra on Kale. I was perusing the spread of turnips one particularly odiferous vendor had brought for sale, when I had the prescient impulse to look over, possibly to avert my nose, possibly from fate. Who was that? Somehow all 4 feet 11 inches of this girl seemed to rise above all the distractions of the scene. She was considering the virtues of arugala grown in a grimy valley east of the bay ( I had tried it; it was unremarkable) versus the charm of the stalky red lettuce that filled its strained packing box fat (hm, I was intrigued). Hello, can I help you pick vegetables? Could any act be more intimate? Take the testicular qualities of kohlrabi, hard like a kidney stone, the bulbous carrots like a fat man’s prick, mix them and… well, perhaps intimate isn’t quite the right word. But you see how close we could become in these quarters, amongst the lust of organic food? I approached her willingly, and she did not refuse my attention for long. In short order we walked side by side through the stalls and halls of the outdoor market surveying the entire scale of offerings like a king and queen newly joined and eager to view their lands.

We made love that very night. Can we say making love is synomous with sex? Or do we oblige each other that pass? Her apartment was a shrine. The tapestries she had brought home, to the states, from Nepal and various other countries on the periphery of China that I had heard of before but could not reveal much about, were laid about in fell across the living room which also served as the bedroom. The walls were white, except where they were blue. She had painted them herself, she mentioned. When I reported to the toilet after, I noticed she had a transparent shower curtain. The tiles on the floor were chipped in a corner, and her laundry burrow was overflowing with a wealth of clothing and magazines. Was that a Vogue peering out at god and whomever else might stumble across it? The porcelain basin featured black hairs in the familiar crevices a casual cleaning doesn’t disturb. I examined my face in the mirror; still there.

Outside she was frying something over the stove. She wielded a heavy iron skillet like a wand, like a heavy broadsword employed in the holy missions of Jesus. Joan of Arc, this Beth. The contents crackled and popped and spit back at her from the cruel heat, never consigned to their fate. She wore only a lavender skirt (how did it feel across her body?). Her back displayed a map of freckles that hinted at some distant treasure, the kind men agonize over obsessively until they drive themselves mad. When she smiled the darkness showed between the gaps of her teeth, not quite white. She focused all of her attention on the lucky, doomed denizens of the pan, leaving me alone to make tea. She liked hers with honey instead of sugar.

We sat over the small coffee table, the lone one of its kind in the apartment, on the wooden floor. She had fried the eggs, and the spices seemed as foreign as the woven art on the wall. Never cumin, never rosemary, of course. The fork sat in her hand like a little girl’s, the top poking out bare from the knot of her fingers. Beads of sweat down her breasts, a summer’s kiss. We talked but didn’t say much. Godard spoke to her. We’d never had much to say to each other. When I finished my eggs she scrapped hers onto my plate. They had gone cold, rubbery: I had finished my eggs, but here they were, more eggs on my plate. I would never hold that against her, or her lavender skirt.

The futon pulled down into a bed. A changeling couch, or was it ever even a couch? It had long since dried, and now it smelled of benign fabric. It was our spaceship. The open window was our air conditioner. There was no clock. What time was it? It was dark, though that only let on part of the picture. Did she fear losing me? She shuddered as she fell asleep, as though her body shivered from cold, or some Penecostal spirit moved her. The street, hidden from my eyes (but not my ears, always the more resourceful), droaned on, cars and maniacs rambling across the concrete. They had no idea what was inside. They couldn’t see through the walls.

When I woke, I realized I hadn’t realized I was asleep. I could recount the shade of the ceiling without the lights on, and that was it. It hadn’t changed, and didn’t tell me how long I’d been out. Cad. The mat was still warm from her body, her spot was still there, but she was not. Oh, did you also have the nightlys? There was a thin promise of light around the edge of the bathroom door. Some things are sacred. Have your peace and I will have my sleep.

When I woke a second time the light was in the window. Morning. What does it take to keep the interloper out? Relentless and always uninvited. My clothes reminded me of the day before, their smell testified to it. The plate was still there on the table, flakes of overcooked egg settled on the lip. Had we really eating breakfast for dinner? Or were we free of such conventions? They had tasted good, especially with the sweetness of salt. She had tasted good; could I salvage some from my lips, my fingers? Had I been to greedy? Gluttony of the flesh, the most delightful excess. The light was still on in the bathroom, the outline outshined by the its newfound rival, diminished against the door in the grey room. Some things are sacred. But there is a time for everything, and so I went for the knob. I had the faint inclination to knock, but it came too late. A lesson to procrastinate. I probably would have ignored it just the same.

The light inside was absolute, with no windows to invite competition. Poor, prideful light. We had spent most of the night together. Had the light been there all the time? She wasn’t inside, and it was a very small room, with no nooks and crannies. But, was she kind enough to leave a note? A box sat in front of the bowl, on the tile that was chipping in the corner. Wood in front of porcelain.

When I opened it, it was empty. It smelled like lavender.