In Which The Next Night Was No Different

by fabian perez

On & On

by SAMANTHA NELSON

That night was only the second time I had been in public with Marie. The first time had been a few weeks prior, when my body had still been adjusting to winter, visible breath stinging at my nostrils and lips. Layers of knits so that my coat fit more snug and my arms and legs moved more stiffly, crunching through the snow.

We’d gone for sushi at a tiny place near my house. We ordered a pot of steaming green tea and elaborate rolls of salmon, mango, avocado, shrimp tempura, and at my insistence, unagi. Our coats and sweaters hung off our chairs, mittens in our purses, toques still on. I thought that having dinner like real friends, the conversation might come more easily. But we sat mostly in silence, and any attempt of mine at cutesy banter fell terribly flat. Half sentences. Staccato. Pitiful. Responses.

But she seemed at ease with me and I felt OK with her, so we ate until we were too full, and then walked back to mine to lay on my bed and smoke a joint that would get me more stoned than I had been in years, so that we were both content staring into dim lighting, creamy walls, sheer golden curtains.

by fabian perez

The next time we met, I invited Lucie too. “I’m meeting a friend out. We’re going dancing you should come!” She agreed and brought her Australian friend, Stacey, over for drinks. Three vodka waters in, Stacey revealed she wasn’t coming out and by four Lucie did too. But she graciously offered to drive me to the bar and I took her up because one thing I have learned is that slushy snow and expensive flats don’t mix.

She dropped me off, all: “Have fun, girl!” and I strolled into the bar without so much as a blink for there are some places which are as comfortable and as unthreatening to one’s self-confidence as one’s own home. And this bar, broken glass, sticky floors and surly bartenders notwithstanding, was one of those places for me. Waiting in line at the ATM, alone and at peace, a man walked up behind me, towering, and said something I didn’t hear. I turned around and wasn’t bothered. “Hi Jeff” — a sweet smile.

I dated Jeff once. A big guy, with a powerful, sexy voice denoting a confidence that he lives up to: always speaking to you directly and always looking you in the eye. The moment I met him I felt the intense sincerity and goodwill he exudes wash over me and seep into my pores. I liked that, so despite a tugging urge in the pit of my stomach telling me that I was not actually interested in this man, I proceeded with two drunken make-out sessions, the memory of which make me simultaneously cringe and dry-heave, and then a single date: a late-showing of Prisoners so that I didn’t sleep for approximately one week following. Sometimes at night I still see Paul Dano’s bloody, swollen face and it’s a slippery slope to tense muscles, imagining I hear someone on the other side of the wall, another bout of insomnia.

I took my reaction to the film as a bad omen of our dating. That combined with my sexual repulsion of him, anyways. Now we’re friends and he lets me in no-line/no-cover but when his hand grazed my thigh that night, grazed my faux-leather high-waisted leggings that every other girl has anyways, and he said something deeply and directly, “Oh, I like your pants”, I went “uh oh” inside.

We chatted a while. He likes to lean in close to my face when he talks. Studying me. In response my eyes darted from his face to the people around me, the floor, the ceiling, hand touching my hair until I finally told him that “I better find my friend — I’m supposed to meet her here." See you soon.

As I went to hunt for Marie I looked down and saw a text from her. “I told my boyfriend we met at school lol."

Wait what.

I had known Marie had a boyfriend, but not that he was coming. I thought this was an open kind of thing; a she’s-allowed-to-sleep-with-girls-because-it’s-hot kind of thing. The text had me thinking differently and now I had to pretend I went to school for medical administration, and since we’re talking about it, I probably should have.

I was suddenly craving a drink so, head high, I navigated my way toward my favorite skinny asshole of a bartender. I don’t know his name but I know that he lives in an apartment building only a few houses away from mine. He’s very tall and very slim and was blessed with a nice face. He has long hair that he keeps bunned on the top of his head. When I order drinks from him he doesn’t smile and when I see him out on our street he doesn’t either. Once I saw him holding hands and walking with an only okay-looking redhead.

He got me my beer, patient eye contact, no smile, and I went to find Marie. Dingy floors, walls, dirty booths, all made blurrier by beautiful blaring Lauryn Hill and alcohol. I had to get really close to Marie before I could tell it was her. Dim lighting and the fact that she had seemingly grown four inches. We hugged then chatted, tiny awkward squeals of glee. Dancing, drinking, smiling, giggling. Her boyfriend behind her.

Sometimes I slow down and I can’t believe my eyes. She has Venus’ face. A fuller, moon-faced Jhene Aiko. A one-off genetic fortuity. 25 years ago, a baby was born with perfectly symmetrical, glittering, dark features that complement each other like sunshine and rain. The kind of beauty that doesn’t inspire jealousy, just awe.

She introduced me to friends of hers from high school, the type of people I sometimes forget exist. Gel in their hair and polished, pointy dress shoes. Or lots of make-up, tight mini dresses and stilettos. She introduced me to her brother, another one of these. Short and stocky, an open face, and one of the friendliest people I’ve met in a while. He took to me, and vibrating floors, everything murky, we got close to shout in each other’s ears. “No…I don’t know a Kelly...I think I’ve heard of her though..?” After bonding with the brother and he held his hand out to me, palm up and waiting. He wanted to twirl me. It was 90s hip hop night and, no, I did not want to be conspicuously twirled but what were my options? So I twirled: sweatshirt, pleather leggings, ballet flats.

I learned that playful dancing away from the outreached hand is the best option of avoidance and the bar was full of its usuals. I tried to make eye contact with two girls dancing close to me. Slender in t-shirts. Slim pants and heels. Pretty faces with just the right amount of heavy make-up. Toques on. Heavy bass and heavy lyrics and when of "Return of the Mack" came on I stopped trying and didn’t even care I was dancing alone.

But things get blurrier and stickier and drinks get warmer and flatter. I opted for a bathroom break mouthing “I’ll be back” with exaggerated lip movements and a smile to Marie, the brother, the boyfriend. Making my way through the sweaty crowd, I eyed the guys I was into. None of them looked back and often times there are just too many pretty girls in one place. When I made it to the bathroom I walked into the only open stall, and squatting and peeing, I noticed the metal tampon disposal box sitting there, importantly. Someone experiencing spiritual club-hopping enlightenment had printed in large blocks across the entire tin with a black sharpie: “Suffering is optional."

Another thing about the bar is that it had, and still has, the worst ventilation I have ever sweat my way through with struggling breath in my entire twenty-four years of existence. While this is merely annoying for some “oh gosh I’m so warm” or “I think I’m starting to sweat!” each time I go, this means for me that I’m, once again, facing my nemesis. I suppose the reason I return each time is in hopes that I’ll defeat it, or perhaps that we’ll simply pass each other by in peace: a truce. But of course it is always the same. I enter fresh, makeup done and in place, waves blow-dried and smoothed, and about half way through my stay, things start to go array. Sweat accumulates until the hair around my neck and forehead is darker, and curlier and decidedly wetter than the rest. If it isn’t sticking grossly to my skin, it decides to frizz out and away from me. And at about the same time my make-up starts to go, eyeliner rubs off, foundation shifts to reveal shiny, red cheeks. By the time I leave I look like Elaine Benes in the Festivus episode when she stakes out at a steam-filled bagel shop. Mascara everywhere. Yamahama.

by fabian perez

That night was no different. Washing my hands and looking in the mirror, pretty girls beside me, I absorbed my state and then calmly felt the disconnect.

I slipped away, grabbed my coat. “Bye Jeff,” sweet smile. He came out to get me a cab as I balanced on my tiptoes in the slush. When I was in I relaxed. “How’s your night going, sir?” He told me about his daughter until I asked him to drop me off in my neighborhood but not at my house, for although I had given up on making a fun night with strangers, I was not yet ready for sleep. I walked delicately on my toes through un-cleared sidewalks and finally ordered a nacho poutine. The regular: fries, gravy and cheese curds but topped with jalapenos, guacamole and sour cream.

Carrying my steaming take-out box, I tiptoed again all the way home, and once in my room stripped down. I propped a pillow against the headboard and, squirming into the sheets, got comfortable on my bed to feast. And amidst chewing and swallowing, I sent a voice message on Whatsapp to my friend living in Shanghai. When it’s 2:00 am here, it’s 5:00 pm there.

Samantha Nelson is the senior contributor to This Recording. She is a writer living in Calgary, Alberta. She last wrote in these pages about bonjour tristesse.

Paintings by Fabian Perez and Gwen John.

"Quiet Corners" - Chris Mills and the Distant Stars (mp3)

"Blooms" - Chris Mills and the Distant Stars (mp3)

In Which We Sort Of Anticipated This All Along

painting by Shannon Craig

Bonjour Tristesse

by SAMANTHA NELSON

Three months before I left to go back to my hometown, my default option of retreat should worse come to worst, April was sprouting into May. Exams were tapering and we began rustling our papers and shuffling our feet. And then suddenly, despite having anticipated it all along, everyone began parting ways. No summer-camp goodbyes: group hugs or hysterical crying sessions, promises to stay in touch. Elegant partings, excited at our next adventures. Last parties, last wine nights. Wilted but grown up farewells and I’ll see you soons. Almost everyone was leaving but me.

At first I tried sticking it out. But Victoria went to France, Lisa went to Toronto, Serena went to Napa Valley, and I went sideways. Depressed. Although of course I didn’t call it that at the time. I didn’t call it anything because I was too busy crying, sitting on a scarf in the grass, trying to finish Anna Karenina half-naked in the heat. And once or twice my eyes gave way at work in the back room; and once, I remember, at Memories, a European-inspired café hiding in the market: a few tables out front, fresh flowers on every table and an alluring display of cakes behind glass. Amber and I had lunch on the patio and for maybe the first time ever, I couldn’t quite stomach a meal. Amber kept her gaze on her plate and steadily ate, to let me act out my drama without attention or sympathy. She knew a thing or two because my self-pity could stand to go hungry.

painting by Shannon Craig

In March Nick had left. He didn’t give me a “maybe we should stop fucking”, and he didn’t give me an “I have a girlfriend now”. He gave me a vacuum of space and silence and increased nervous twitching, mornings with swollen eyelids. And on a night out, still high on MDMA after partying at an unexpectedly empty club, Serena and I laid on a hill, cold grass and night sky, by the National Gallery holding hands. The giant sculpted spider looming. I called him to confront him and yes he had found a girl. And Serena was lying with me, holding my hand.

When everyone was leaving, summer was coming. I worked reception at a spa, 10-6, Tuesday to Saturday. I strolled slowly up Bank Street sipping coffee, an hour to work. Slowly home eight hours later. Anna Karenina, Bonjour Tristesse, a biography of Brigitte Bardot.

On more ambitious days, I ran along the canal after work. A five minute walk down Carling to the park, a minute across to the water, and then a long stretch, jogging away and back again, sheltered by the trees that had the fatherly inclination to protect me and the sensitivity to try and cheer me up. By the time I was back, I was panting and sweating and it was the exercise that stirred up the luminous high but I suspect there was more. The overwhelming volume of leaves, flaunting themselves in their green glory, shielding me and loving me. The taste of the air. It was the blueness of the water. It was the ducks waddling and talking, the pavement, the sunrays, the music, the joggers, the cyclists, the shadows, the rhythm of shoes hitting pavement, the crunching of gravel. It was more than just exertion that made my heart beat faster, that shortened my breath and left me panting and drenched and hurting.

On other days I wore summer dresses. Pleated ones and draping ones, a navy silk strapless muu muu that I cinched at my waist with a peach and lavender strip of cotton. Once, I wore a silk, cream-coloured dress with small, black, imperfect polka-dots while walking down Bronson, holding a half-eaten gala. And as I was taking another bite, a car zoomed past and shouting from the window I heard the most romantic, albeit forward, catcall I had ever received: “wiiiiillll yooooouuuu maarrrrryyyyy meeeeeee?” And it lit me up.

painting by Shannon Craig

There’s a part in the book where I now slow down and breathe deeper, although I can’t remember if it had the same effect on me at the time. In an effort to clear his mind of conflict and his heart of despair after Kitty rejects his proposal, Levin works. He decides to mow the fields with his peasants the entire day long. And we are absorbed in the exhilarating process, the exhausting process. Levin working the scythe over and over, trying to perfect his movements, trying to keep up with his best workers. Tolstoy details the day over pages and as Levin is, we are caught up in the movements and activity of the day. The rhythmic and methodical movements of the body undoing confusion. Our minds are cleared.

But my understanding of the benefits of, say, steamed greens and meditation, hasn’t motivated me to eat less Häagen-Dazs. And I’m not Tolstoy’s fiction. I went for runs on hopeful days, but my predisposition for self-wallowing and laziness almost always blocked my way out the door. Crying in the grass. Calling my mom with nothing to say.

painting by Shannon Craig

It was not so much that worse came to worst as much as loneliness came to self-reproach, for I’m just fine at a distance, healthy like anyone. It wasn't his absence that hurt so much as the internal musings it triggered, or that ending school triggered, or that the dispersing of my community away from me ignited. The combination brought me back to myself so forcefully that pure shock and then horror at my own pathetic melodrama left me in paralyzed tears, compulsively rereading On Self-Respect as if the act alone would conjure it inside me.

I saved enough money, gathered myself and booked a flight home. I met a man two weeks before I left and we connected. I moved back to old places and old friends and went on slutty binges. I finally allowed myself to loosen my grip and then slowly unclench my hold. I allowed myself to consider abandoning my girlish despair. And like anything that’s a part of me, on some days it lays low but on others, of course, it’s back just as strong. It’s still there.

Samantha Nelson is a contributor to This Recording. She is a writer living in Calgary, Alberta. This is her first appearance in these pages.

Paintings by Shannon Craig.

 "Beat Beat" - Little Boots (mp3)

painting by Shannon Craig