by Radclyffe
To channel my gushing emotions, I took to writing haiku. Here is one of them:
Calm winter morning
Seeing me, she smiles and then—
A storm breaks inside.
Not exactly Matsuo Basho, I know.
I went through two weeks of waiting, each day growing more and more frustrated. I studied Japanese with fervor, breezing through the grammar and practicing lines I thought might come in useful in the future, like, “Watashi wa kimi no ha ga suki.” That means “I like your teeth.”
There was a brief respite at the graduation ceremony. As I took my place with the other foreign teachers, along the side of the gymnasium, I scanned the final-years for her. They were all up at the front, arranged in their homeroom classes. I was wearing glasses, which were deliberately a couple of prescriptions too weak while I tried to strengthen my eyes through exercise and rose water. So I had to tilt the frames diagonally to see the faces of the kids up front. Eventually I found her. She was standing in one of the back rows, wearing a black suit with a white collared shirt, the top buttons open. Most of the other girls wore expensive kimonos with fruit and flower decorations. I focused on her, peering through my skewed glasses for the entire ceremony.
As they filed out to tears, applause, and congratulations, I waited for her. As she passed me, I clapped extra loud. But she didn’t see me.
She finally came to the staffroom again on the day of the school festival. I was actually busy that day and wasn’t expecting her. I’d put on a three-piece suit for the occasion, so at least I looked decent—some might even say dashing. When I got to school, she was already there. She was wearing the flannel shirt and orange hoodie again. I wondered if she knew how lesbionic she looked, or if she even was gay. Some of the dykiest women I’d ever seen here were also some of the straightest.
We chatted a little about her entrance exams and her plans to buy a laptop for university. I was flustered, but tried to seem cool. I said “cool” so many times that she picked it up too and by the end of the conversation, she was even dropping it in. I gave her the mix CD. I’d been keeping it in my top drawer, anally checking that it was still there, twice a day. Just in case a snake carried it off or something.
When I gave it to her, she seemed really happy. She grinned more broadly than usual and opened the CD in front of me. I apologized for my bad handwriting, some of which was a scrawled attempt at Japanese, but she looked at me seriously, her eyes dancing, and said, “It’s beautiful.” I thought I would melt into a puddle on the floor.
She went into the adjacent room to fetch her bag, a black rucksack, and returned also carrying a small paper bag. It had some strange Engrish writing about animals on it. She hesitantly held it out, saying that she hoped it was all right. I thanked her profusely and then noticed the time. I had to moderate one of the festival debates, which would be starting in five minutes. The tea bowl would have to wait, but I was silently grateful for an exit excuse. I didn’t know how long I could have stayed composed, standing so close to her.
Waiting in the library for the debate to start, my heart felt like it was going to beat right out of my chest and leave me collapsed and bleeding on the floor. But I felt more alive than I had in many months. A roaring sound, like that of waves crashing on rocks at high tide, filled my ears. No one else seemed to hear it. I fought to regain some semblance of sanity and stability. I wanted to run up to the debate stage and tell the audience that my tea bowl had arrived. Instead, I sat down and focused on the clock behind the debaters, allowing myself to become absorbed in its ticking.
The debate was only an hour, but by my watch, it was an eternity. When it was eventually over, I went back to the staffroom and opened the packet. Inside was a thick cardboard box. I lifted it out, took off the lid, and carefully parted the protective tissue paper. Inside was the most beautiful handcrafted tea bowl. The upper half of the outside was a delicate white, with pictures of hares and tufty grass painted in blue around the outside. The inside was a swirling sky blue. The base was unpolished clay, which complemented the blue. It was like holding the sky and earth in the palm of your hand.
Also in the box was a small, polished shard of pottery with a blue pattern on it, and the kanji for her name. It was one of her bowls—she had made it herself with those small, strong hands. It was the best present I had ever received. I carried it home gingerly, and showed it off to my girlfriend.
It was then that she began to suspect something. The more I rambled on about the student, the lower her brows sank. When she eventually spoke, there was sadness and hurt in her eyes.
“So what you’re trying to say to me, is that you like this girl?” she asked. I sighed and confessed the whole truth. I could sense emotions brimming in her, but she kept cool and chose to repeat just one sentence: “Nothing can happen.” She said it would all pass with time. I wasn’t so sure, but I didn’t say that. The thought of not seeing her again was not one I could accept. My heart was heavy as I told her I at least wanted to become friends with the girl. My partner looked at me levelly, took my hand, and nodded.
The mixture of guilt, longing, and electric excitement flipped my insides out and, suddenly exhausted, I sank onto the bed. I apologized. I had not intended any of this to happen.
At school the next day, I wrote a thank-you note for the tea bowl. I asked another teacher to translate some phrases into natural Japanese for me. She was suspicious, but said nothing. “I’d like to treat you to dinner,” was not standard textbook stuff. But the wind girl had expressed interest in a guidebook to vegetarian restaurants in Japan I had, so I was going to lend it to her. I wrote that it was unfair to not do something in return for such a beautiful tea bowl, so, if she liked, I would buy her lunch at one of the restaurants sometime.
The next time she came in, I gave her the book. Waiting for her reply, I could hardly eat or sleep. I’d told her not to rush—she could return the book any time before spring vacation, I’d said. Even though I had no more classes, I kept coming to school, to wait for her. I berated myself for wasting time at work. It was cherry blossom season. I should be frolicking in the park, I thought.
In the last few days before the holidays officially started, she came to school for the last time. The heavy door to the staffroom slid open and she stepped inside, holding a bag of guitar books. She wanted to return these to my supervisor. But he wasn’t in. She said she’d come back later. She took my guidebook out of the bag and handed it to me, flipping open the cover to reveal her note back to me. Then she left.
My heart was thumping and my hands quivering as I unfolded the note. I felt like my body would burst, I had so much loving energy for her. I smelled the paper and traced her handwriting, imagining her writing it. The note said thanks for the book and the CD. She said she would e-mail me once she’d bought a laptop, to tell me which tracks she liked best. I checked both sides of the paper. But it didn’t say anything about my offer. My heart sank into the depths of my chest.
A few weeks later, as she had said she would, she e-mailed me. Her message didn’t say much. She thanked me for my kindness and told me which songs she liked on the CD. She used cute, simple, clear English, which only endeared her more to my heart.
I replied immediately, on the train back from a daytrip. I told her about the trip and wished her well, not expecting any further communication. To my surprise, my phone vibrated not even an hour later with her reply. She said that her hometown was near the area I’d visited and asked me one or two general questions. Encouraged by the communication, I sent a lengthy reply, asking her about her hometown, and why she’d chosen the name of a long-dead, famous artist for her e-mail address.
She never replied.
Months later, she e-mailed to ask if I was still working at the school. She told me what her name meant in Swahili. I sent a short, polite reply. It was time to let go. I couldn’t keep stoking this fire indefinitely. She would never take me up on my dinner offer. I didn’t know if she would ever date
women. She might even have already been dating a woman.
I don’t know if she had any idea what I felt, but I want to believe she had some notion. She was like another manifestation of my own soul, flowing gently through the universe. She opened up something inside me. The love that had raged for her had quieted, but it tore through some of my assumptions and ideas on its course, forging a new path forward. For one thing, I now understood why some people had affairs, or advocated polyamorous relationships.
I had been in love before; indeed, I still was, with my partner. But for the first time in my life, I really knew what it meant to fall in love; physically, unexpectedly, and with all of oneself. It’s a force more powerful than logic or social obligations. It turned me on my head and held me captive like a dominatrix, giving me pain and pleasure, but no safeword to stop the act from playing out.
I also know that if that girl, the child of the wind, was ever to come into my life again, I would fall right back into those feelings. No matter who I was with or where I was—if she made a move, I don’t know if I would be able to refuse. The weight of these words keeps me from uttering them. It’s a truth that I simultaneously hope and fear someday having to face.
Though I often use the tea bowl she gave me, I never drink out of it myself.
The Piano Player
Thomas Graziano
There was something about piano music that made me want to fall in love. The eloquent notes touched more than just my eardrums; I felt a connection to its rhythmic beauty that I had never felt to any other type of music. The sweet notes drifted through the air, sending images to my mind of flowery fields, kisses, and general happiness. That was one great thing about music, to my mind—it wasn’t just auditory, but visual as well. Some songs are just so beautiful you have to conjure images to go along with it. And it sure didn’t hurt when a cute boy was the one playing the piano.
Except when it was at your grandma’s funeral.
It seemed like the only time my entire family got together was for a funeral. Not for someone’s birthday, or even Christmas. But a fucking funeral. Goes to show how much we all loved each other.
I was sitting in the last row, weeping like everyone else. I wasn’t looking at anyone and wasn’t even listening to the pastor’s speech. Just thinking about the memories and crying. No more hugs from my grandma, no more of her amazing homemade ice cream sundaes, no more of her genuine love.
After the speech, a small piano performance was held to honor her favorite songs. As soon as the notes drifted through the air, I recognized the song. My grandma had heard it in some movie and had fallen in love with it. She would listen to this song while she cooked, while we played card games, while we would get ready for bed. I never got sick and tired of the song; it was just that beautiful. Midway through, I finally looked up for the first time. The boy who was playing it had his eyes closed, his body moving along with the music. He was young, my age, and had a swirl of blond hair that seemed so bold against his black sweater. I wanted to see his eyes, but they remained closed as he played the song with ease. He didn’t make any mistakes; it was as if his hands belonged to a professional with years of experience. My grandma would’ve been happy to see that we found someone as passionate for the song as she had been.
*
A week later, I was walking through my college campus when I spotted him alone in a single piano room. That’s the benefit (and curse, some would say) of going to a tiny school—you run into anyone and everyone eventually. His hands moved swiftly across the board; his body moved gently with the melody of the song. His eyes were closed, which was good since that meant he wouldn’t be able to see me drooling over him.
This had happened before. I’d spot a cute boy and then my wishful thinking would take total control over my mind. I wasn’t desperate on a superficial level—I was just desperate because I was a gay college student who had never even had his first kiss. But it’s the romantics that always get hurt in the end, isn’t it? They envision such a lush life with the perfect soul mate, which is ultimately destroyed by a little thing called reality.
But at that moment, I just wanted to admire him. He opened his eyes and his hands stilled over the keys. And then, without even looking at me, he asked, “Do you want to come in and listen?”
If this had happened in high school, I would’ve been too nervous to even talk to him and would be already fleeing to class. But in college, I’d learned that sometimes you needed to make your own miracles happen.
So I said yes and sat down beside the piano. Notes filled the air as his fingers struck key after key after key. He struck a few deep dramatic notes with a ferocity one would expect to see in a football game. I couldn’t help but smile in admiration.
When he was finished, I said, “Bravo, bravo.”
He stood up and bowed. “Thank you, thank you.” He extended his hand. “I’m Wesley.”
I shook his hand. Despite striking the piano keys with such force, his hand was gentle and smooth. I didn’t want to let go. “I’m Will.”
He pointed to a bracelet on my wrist, made up of thread and a rainbow pattern of beads. “Cool bracelet.”
“Thanks.”
That bracelet was my key to finding a boy. Sometimes, it’s really difficult to tell if a boy is gay or not. I remembered reading about how a boy’s hair whorl direction reveals their sexuality, so during class, I would sit behind a cute boy and sketch the direction of his hair, and then go home and see if it matched the gay one or not. And then I’d slapped myself and promised not to be so stupid. But I really wanted a kiss. Really wanted a boy. So if a gay boy saw my rainbow bracelet, he would then know I was gay and that it was safe to pursue me. All my stars would align and I would finally meet my Prince Charming. That’s how it always went in my head, anyway. I was cursed—or blessed—with a heart that was continually on the search for its match. I blamed the beating organ in my chest that took control over my brain and demanded to be fed with kisses and cuddling and love it had been deprived of for nineteen years.
His eyes twinkled. “So same time, same place tomorrow?”
I smiled. “That would be great.”
Later that day, I went on a hike with my best friend Tiffany. She always relied on nature to help her get through tough times in life. With my grandma’s recent passing, she decided that a hike would do me some good.
“He sounds wonderful,” she said after I told her about Wesley. We had reached a point where we could overlook a deep valley, with trees stretching on for miles and miles beneath us. “Are you nervous about tomorrow?”
“I thought I would be. But I’m not. He didn’t make me nervous like boys usually do.”
She laughed. “That’s a good sign. Little Will finally has a boyfriend!”
“Oh stop. He’s not my boyfriend…yet. Hell, I don’t even know if he’s gay or not!”
“If he liked your rainbow bracelet, he’s gay.”
“I know, but I still need to find out for sure. I can’t just ask him, ‘Hey, do you like boys?’”
“Sure you can,” she said. “And you’re long overdue for a boyfriend.”
“Tell me about it.”
I thought once I entered college, I would find someone. But every boy that I thought might just perhaps be gay turned out not to be. That was one good thing about social networking. You could stalk people and find out information about them without ever even talking to them in person. But as soon as I saw the word “straight” on their profiles, a long depression followed. Unfortunately, I couldn’t find Wesley’s profile. I could’ve sworn I heard the universe laughing at my misfortune.
“And will I be invited to the wedding?” Tiffany asked.
“Only if you promise to bring your signature homemade peanut butter cookies.”
“Anything for you, Will. Anything.”
“Hey, you know what I was thinking about? If I was straight, and you were straight, I’m pretty sure we’d be dating.”
“And planning
our wedding.” She winked.
*
The very next day, I practically ran to the piano room, where Wesley greeted me with “Hey, Will,” and a perfect, flawless smile the likes of which I never thought I’d receive.
I sat down. “Someone seems excited today.”
“I just love when someone is interested in my music.”
He then began to play his own composition, a balance of a romantic melody and a sad one. My gaze shifted from his hands, floating over the piano keys with such precision and focus, to Wesley himself. He bit his lip with focus, clearly determined to not make a mistake. He never met my eyes; he was focused on the piano. But as the notes concluded in a mellow finale, his eyes finally met mine as his hands fell to his lap.
“That was a beautiful piece. When did you write it?” I asked.
“I was thirteen,” he said. “I wanted to create a piece that would impact others the same way that other piano songs had impacted me. I wanted to provide an escape, a romantic escape.”
“You did a great job. But it also had a sad tone to it.”
“Romance isn’t always happy.”
I nodded. “In a way, sadness can be beautiful.”
“And it’s something everyone can relate to.”
For the next few days, we met in the same room, where he would play song after song. Some songs he composed himself, others were from famous musicians. And I never got the chance to bring up any way of asking about his sexuality.
“You know which composers I like the most?” he asked one day. “Film composers. Their songs are just filled with so much emotion that’s impossible to resist.”
“You would make a great film composer. You have the passion for it.”
“We’ll see. It’s such a long shot.”
“Don’t doubt yourself. You’ve already blown me away with all your original piano songs. Imagine what you could do with a full orchestra.”