Shh...Mine (This. Is. Not. Over.)

by Dianne, Shannon

  December 21st

  Creep. That’s what the Scala & Kolacny Brothers all girls’ choir is singing. Three weeks ago Jon told me it was over and so I came all the way to Belgium to the Wevelgem Theatre to hear them sing this. Creep. It’s a damn shame that Americans have to come all the way to Belgium to hear an angelic girls’ choir drop f-bomb after f-bomb as they sing the song made famous by Radiohead. There’s nothing like hearing Alternative music sang in a classical arrangement. Jon hates anything that isn’t rap or neo-soul. Give me a break. Neither rap nor neo-soul can explain your entire human experience. Sometimes you need to be right where I am right now: front row center, in a music hall, hearing the sounds of a girls’ choir with their piano accompaniment singing ‘you’re so fucking special, I wish I were special.’ Haunting. Sometimes one needs a haunting sound. But with me being a descendant of Louisiana Creoles, I am not a stranger to the haunting sounds of life.

  I am the product of a slave and the love of her life. Her master. Her owner. The haunting sounds of whips and lovemaking can be heard all throughout Louisiana. And for those of you who can’t hear those sounds, look into the faces of its people. Look into my face. See the tanned skin, the red hair, see auburn eyes, see the freckles along the bridge of my nose. Look at them. It’s the skin of the melody of slave and master, free and captive, love and lust. I close my eyes, ignoring the dimmed hall, the gothic crystal chandelier hanging just above the choir, the black tuxes, the evening gowns, the smell of Chanel, the dark wood of the hall. I ignore them all. They are pretty, they smell wonderful but to really be here, you must close your eyes. I am the haunting that these girls sing about. I am she. I exhale and think about my life, my marriage and my husband, whom I haven’t seen in a month, my son, whom my parents have right now in London where dad’s on business. Jon has a lover, I know he does. My parents have each other. Rena has her husband. Natalia has her husband. Jasmine has her fiancé. Everyone has each other. Everyone has another. Why did I lose my other? Was it me? Yes? Well he didn’t give me much to work with! He’s always working and when he’s home he’s so quiet. Fasting, yoga, meditating, yoga, meditating, fasting. Hush…quiet…don’t speak…I’m being deep here… I was left alone. I was made bitter. My mother is my only companion in Houston, but my husband should have been my companion. He should be here with me in Belgium listening to the haunting sounds of this choir. But do I want him here? No, because I don’t love him. But don’t you grow to love another? Is romantic love the most important factor in a relationship? Isn’t romantic love a troubadour concoction that’s only been around for about nine hundred years? What did people do before that? I don’t know. Oh God…I don’t know. What if I had it all wrong? What if I still have it wrong? What is love? What is it supposed to feel like? Is it supposed to be emotional? Is respect for a man enough? Oh, who am I kidding, it was never right between Jon and me. I started it off wrong with my manipulation. But why couldn’t it end up right?

  I open my eyes and wait for the last notes to be sung. This is the last song and though it’s been an hour and a half, the sounds of the voices have almost healed my ache. It has almost healed my embarrassment. Divorce. He wants a divorce. I smooth a hand over my hair. A divorce. A divorce…I’m twenty-seven and I’ll be divorced. This is not my fault. No it’s Jon. I stand and clap with the rest of the audience. It’s Jon fault. Marriage isn’t supposed to be for kicks. It’s supposed to be for order. People get married to give society order. They take lovers to fulfill their needs. Why can’t he just take a lover? It would help me from having to sleep with him and act like I enjoy it. Who enjoys sex anyways? I am miserable. I am completely miserable. Will I ever be happy? God, my mind is all over the place.

  I step out into the Belgium night, see the stars, feel the cold air, see the tourists in love, smell the fried dough and coffee in the air, hear bells chiming from a church nearby, nuzzle my coat collar tighter around my neck and immediately start to feel sorry for myself. Damn that man! How dare he want a divorce! Now what in the hell am I supposed to tell all of our friends? What a damn embarrassment. I hope he dies. That would be better than us divorcing. I’d rather be a widow than a divorcee. I bundle my scarf tighter around my neck. It’s cold as hell but I don’t want to go back to the hotel yet. Not yet. I’d rather be out here acting happy than in my hotel looking at the white walls. I hate white walls. No matter how many Thomas Kinkade portraits you hang on them, white walls never look good. Thomas Kinkade, that’s what this scene looks like now. You know how his prints look, the streets always look glossed over, the street lamps always look like they’re twinkling, the faces are always happy, everything looks so fucking perfect and picturesque. Ugh. I walk to a coffee stand. The streets are slick and shiny in the spots where feet treaded through three inches of snow. Children are still around running and laughing, some are crying in French, begging their mamans for another pastry. “Non,” their mothers say in their native French, “you’ll be as big as an American.” Hmm…in America we’d say you’ll be as big as a house. Who knew…

  I buy my coffee but don’t even look at the pastries.

  “Pastry?” The man with the salt and pepper hair says from behind the counter.

  “No.” I say. “We Americans don’t eat this late.” There. The French don’t eat dinner before eight p.m., Americans usually eat at six. We win. He scrunches his eyes in that way that all people who speak French do when they try to show expression without using words. I give him my best sly look. I’m on to him and his people. I attempt to turn from his stand but a Hello! Magazine catches my eye. I’m obsessed with European royalty so I take one out of the stand, toss the guy behind the counter some change and walk off with it. I actually get these mailed to my home. Jon always wondered why.

  “You log onto to the Hello! site every day, why get the magazine? It’s old news by now.”

  “Jon, if an obsession made since, it wouldn’t be an obsession. It would be a hobby.” But you’re an idiot and I’m not so why argue? I roll my eyes at him, grab my Hello! from the pile of mail and head to our bedroom. God, he’s annoying as hell.

  I turn around inside of my Thomas Kinkade painting to decide where to sit. So many people yet it’s so quiet. Now usually I don’t like to be in a crowd but tonight is different. No one seems to give a damn that I’m here, it’s dark and the streets are filled with children and lovers. Oh and did I mention that I’m alone? Damn, my marriage is over. I stop and look around, my eyes filling with tears, my throat burning. I take a few deep breaths. It’s too cold to cry. I turn to my left and notice a Catholic Church sitting on top of a hill of jagged steps. Hopefully I can find a seat that’s already dry and warm from a previous sitter. The steps are flooded with tourists asking their children to strike poses and smile. There are also some lovers with arms locked, drinking hot chocolate or, for my more romantic side, hot cocoa. They’re leaning into each other and nudging the other’s knees. Some are staring right into their lover’s eyes; others are gazing off into the distance as their lover whispers sweet nothings into their ear. I have never been that kind of lover. Jon hated outward display of emotions, wasn’t a kisser since it involved body fluid and would never travel to Belgium. He’s so damn boring. Why was I about to cry over this man? He doesn’t even appreciate a beautiful girls’ choir who sings Radiohead in a city where people nudge knees on church steps. I take a deep breath and head towards the hill.

  I spot a seat and immediately regret my decision to sit there. Why? Well I have brown skin and red hair, and there’s a child nearby. That’s never good. Another deep breath. Let the questions begin. He’s looking while his mother is chatting in French to another woman who’s holding a baby. The little boy’s holding his mother’s hand, his entire body twisted towards me, eyebrows scrunched.

  “Your hair is red.” He says to me. No shit. I try to grin.

  “It is.” I say to him in French.

  He turns his head slightly to the right.

  “Are you from here?
”

  “No. The States.” I soften my voice as I speak. This little boy has no idea that I want him to fuck off.

  “Louisiana?” He asks. Smart kid, he knows we’re distant cousins.

  “Boston.”

  “Oh.” He scrunches his eyes brows at me again. “When do you leave?” Why?

  “Early tomorrow morning.”

  “You speak French well.” I try to nod as tears come into my eyes. My marriage is over. How embarrassing… “What’s your name?”

  “Danielle.”

  “Danielle?”

  “Yes.” Be patient with him Danielle.

  “Your hair is red.” Didn’t we already cover this? “What’s your favorite color?”

  “Umm…melon.” Why didn’t I just say orange? Melon will open up a whole new can of worms.

  “Melon. It’s like pink and orange.” I nod and try to grin while I take another deep breath. I immediately smile at him after I do it. I don’t want him to think I’m exasperated with his questions, though I wish his mother would stop talking about the demise of the Spanish Monarchy and hush her child. That reminds me, I have a Hello! magazine in my hands. I contemplate reading it, hoping that will signal the end of our conversation.

  “Are you drinking hot chocolate?” The young boy asks someone sitting next to me. Whew…thank God. I open my Hello! and take a sip of my coffee. It’s black but I don’t need sugar this late anyways. I’m not a fat American. Bitch.

  “Coffee.” The voice says. My eyes drift up from my magazine and turned towards the voice as did everyone else within ear shot. The voice. A smooth dark chocolate voice spoke in the most eloquent sounding French I’ve ever heard. That voice…I look at the man and nearly pass the hell out. How did I not see him when I came to sit down? I glance around and see a handful of women turning to him…then away…then to him again. Wow. Damn. Wow. He takes a sip of his coffee and tries to give the boy a grin, just like the one I gave. How can I explain this man? Well, if he were a planet, he’d be Saturn- great and projecting, with rings around him, drawing attention to him while he sits there, oblivious to the marvelous aura that surrounds him. We women around him would be his moons. Saturn has sixty-two moons drifting around it, vying to brighten up its night. This doesn’t include the hundreds of moonlets within its rings. Yeah, he’s Saturn. But, if he were a nursery rhyme he’d be Billy Goat Gruff with his after-five shadow and square jaw. As if he can hear my thoughts, he scratches his jaw and then takes another sip of coffee. Billy Goat Gruff is a Norwegian fairytale. When the troll who lives under the bridge refused to let Billy Goat Gruff cross over it, Gruff said:

  Well, come along! I've got two spears,

  And I'll poke your eyeballs out at your ears;

  I've got besides two curling-stones,

  And I'll crush you to bits, body and bones.

  In other words: watch me bitch. Those tough ass Norwegians. Wait, the Norwegians are descendants of Vikings. Yes, he’s a Viking. No, he’s the king of the Vikings because he’s both rugged and polished with his black wool coat and his plaid scarf tucked around his neck. I look away feeling self-conscious. God, he’s beautiful.

  “Do you like hot chocolate?” The boy asks. I look at the boy and find another excuse to glance over to the voice again. He’s perfect. Dark cream skin…the kind that’s been slightly roasted, dark chocolate hair to match his dark chocolate voice, his eyes seem to gleam the color of milk chocolate. This white man is chocolate. I nearly laugh at the thought. My eyes scan his shoulders. His shoulders…spanning east to west. His jaw, his shoulders, his eyes, that after five shadow. This damn Viking! My. God.

  “Not really.” The man says as he gives the boy a light grin. “I prefer coffee instead.” He takes a sip of his coffee then he slowly drops his head and I see his chest raise and then lower. Recognition. You know I don’t drink hot chocolate. The phrase pops into my head as I watch him take a deep breath. Something’s wrong with him. We ladies are soaring around him, our eyes glued to this creature who has the nerve to call himself a mortal. He quickly checks his watch. Rolex. Money. What does a rich, perfect white guy have to be sad about? Marriage trouble? Oh God…don’t remind me. I close my eyes, pull my head back and place the Hello! magazine at my side. Just the thought that I will have to return to my college reunion and tell everyone that Jon and I are already divorced gives me a sick feeling.

  By the time I open my eyes, the little boy’s back is to me and he’s walking away, hand in hand with his mother. I take a sip of coffee as a breeze hits me. That’s when I smell it. Or should I say him. The Three Wise Men. That’s what he smells like. The Three Wise Men and fir trees. It’s a deep smell, musky, earthy. I look to my left. It’s his cologne. Wise Men…Orient Kings…no…couldn’t be. I’ve never seen this man before in my life. I take a deep smell and then run my eyes over him. He’s looking up now, staring off onto the streets with its lovers and children. Saturn shouldn’t look that sad.

  “Are you okay?” I say the words to him without even thinking and I immediately feel adrenaline bombard my entire body. Oh. My. God. Did I just ask that? He slowly brings his eyes over to me, as though he’s not sure if I’m talking to him. Then I see his chocolate eyes narrow a bit. Oh no. How embarrassing! He’s probably wondering why I felt comfortable enough to ask that question. Among French speaking countries, particularly in Europe, it’s not customary to impose on a stranger. It’s not like America where everyone spills their life story to their cabbie for a cable television special. European French speakers are reserved and private. I bite my bottom lip and then seep out a breath between a corner of my mouth. He looks to my mouth and then to my neck before looking into my eyes. His lips are full? Wow. The bottom one even has a small little dip in between them. His nose is Roman, his jaw is square. He. Is. Beautiful.

  “Two hot chocolates.” A woman says in American English, breaking our gazes. I look up to see a woman dressed in black with all of her hair swept into a black beret that it trimmed in black leather. Her makeup is light, her lips are bright red and the diamonds studs in her ear damn near blind me. She’s not pretty but she’s well put together…no, pretty she is not. He is the attractive of the two. Wait…hot cocoa? My eyes always betray me; they tell everyone what I’m thinking without my lips so much as moving. So, I look at the cups she’s holding through narrowed eyes and then my eyes trail to him again. Our gazes meet. You don’t like hot chocolate. I remember how my eyes reveal all my inner most thoughts and then relax them. I watch him take the hot chocolate from her hands and then place it between his feet. “I bought you a large,” I hear her say as I hold tight to my clutch and stand. I feel like I’m forgetting something but I’m too embarrassed to even turn back. I’ve got to go before I make another fool of myself. Saturn is nice to look at but Cocoa Lady is elegant. His eyes will be on her tonight.

  Snip, snap, snout.

  This tale's told out

  I walk down the steps and through the throngs of lovers until I hit the pavement and make the short trek to my hotel. I have to get up early tomorrow to catch the first flight out of here. But who can rest when their marriage is about to come to an end? Who can find peace within that reality? So I stay up all night, packing, double checking that I’ve got everything and then sitting in the hotel’s lobby, waiting for five a.m. to hit, which is when my town car arrives. There are people still up, children still running around and I’m in a hotel on a bench looking at them from the inside. I’m in a snow globe among all the smiling, beautifully airbrushed people around me and I’m the only one alone. The music is playing, the church is in the background, the snow is slightly falling, the kids are having snowball fights and the lovers have their arms linked. Yet if you look closely, very closely, I’m right inside of that fancy building with the Hotel sign trimmed in gold. I’m right behind that window, wiping away my tears.

  Here we go.

  “Pardon me.” My annoyed ass voice says it all.

  “Yes madam.”

  �
�My seat is back there but I can already tell that someone must be holding it, there’s something in it.”

  “Oh yes madam, I was asked by the pilot to put that on your seat.”

  “Okay…do you know what it is?”

  “A magazine madam.” What?

  I walk to my seat, readying myself for the hours long flight and narrow my eyes in on the item in my chair. A Hello! magazine rolled and held by a satin melon colored ribbon.

  February

  If you ever want to commit suicide, just put on a Feist cd. Any cd, any track, it’ll work. That’s what I have playing tonight while I’m home. Here I am in Houston again … alone.

  Nicky is bathed and in his bed. Jon has been away for two months and only Skypes Nicky instead of calling me. I wish I could say that I didn’t care but there’s something about rejection. Even if you don’t love a person, don’t enjoy a person, the mere fact that they feel the same way pisses you off. I look around the house. It’s off of Kirby Drive so of course everything in it is stainless, granite and perfect. Lonely, lonely plays on the radio in the kitchen window as I walk out of the kitchen and into the backyard. It isn’t cherry blossom season because if it was, I’d shake some from the tree and stomp on them. That’s how I feel right now. I wish it was cherry blossom seasons. Cherry blossoms…it’s been almost three years since I’ve received cherry blossoms. The last time was in the bridal suite at my wedding. He sent me a box full of them with a note that read: This is not over. Damn, I wonder if things were different…well no use of crying over spilled milk. There are no cherry blossom trees in Texas.