Who Was It?

Posted on April 28, 2003 in Book of Days College

Note: This is thirteenth in a series based on exercises from A Writer’s Book of Days. It’s something of a rebellion against the Friday Five and similar tupperware content memes.

Today’s topic: Write about a time when you wanted to leave, but couldn’t.

The question was coming. I knew it as soon as I wrote the blog. I wanted Lynn to hold her mouth, to keep the question in her throat. But the prompt “Once, with another woman….” set me up as soon as I answered it. I was on the fire, suspended on the grease and charcoal-blackened bars. Marinated and grilled. There was no escaping it once I made the commitment to tell the truth. Half truth. Half truth because I held back on one detail.

Yesterday, while the two of us dashed around the condominium, me chasing my writing projects and, she, her class assignment for Wednesday, we passed each other in the living room. She caught me, cornered me. “Who was that with you in the Sistine Chapel?” she asked.

Feral was the sound I made in response. A groan, a scream, a screech, and something with claws. Claws to defend and protect a soft place of secrecy and privilege, a burrow lined with rags torn from t-shirts where I kept truths untold, things she didn’t need to know. Then I made words “Don’t ask me that!” There was a moment’s silence. Then the soft grumble of confession: “Monique”.

Monique who sent me numerous postcards. I have them still, each addressed to my dorm in California. Each describing in minute, uncramped handwriting the wonders of Prague, Budapest, and other places. Monique who fell in love with the first German who fucked her and, because of her Catholicism, felt obligated to marry him. I found the cards just the other day, while I was selecting a set to take to the Wednesday writers group as prompts.

“I thought that’s who it was. Why did you yell at me?”

We separated. I ran down the hall to the kitchen table. She went to the loft. I opened my notebook and wrote words. As soon as I set myself to the task of the new prompt, I forgot about the exchange until I reached the end and wrote down the upcoming prompt. Then I knew that I would again be in an uncomfortable place, one which I couldn’t leave once I committed myself to putting pen to paper.

Now: will she leave me alone or want to know more? I won’t be surprised if I find her reading the postcards. No, on second thought, I will be surprised. She’s probably read them all. She’s the one who put them in the right place for me to find them again.

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Tomorrow’ topic/prompt: Write about secrets revealed.