EMPTY HOUSES

Baby It’s cold outside

“Are you around today?” Elizabeth texts him. “6 to 7ish?”

Her screen glows with the beat of him typing.

“I am,” he texts back. As she tries to hold back her smile, he adds: “Where should we meet?”.

She looks over her shoulder at her tall teen son slumped on the tufted, textured tobacco couch in front of the TV.

“Not my house.” She types, then hesitates for a moment, her thumb frozen, not quite ready to let go. The muscles on her face are pulling the corners of her mouth wide and upward. She feels excited. She feels like dancing, or something.

“And baby, it’s cold outside” she adds. She wonders if he’ll get it. And the truth is why would he? She barely gets it herself, besides the tune anchored in her head. Her feet feel so light on the hardwood floor.

And baby it’s cold outside.

            There’s something about this song. something about the masculine and the feminine braided back and forth, something that ignites her flintiness. There’s something about the lyrics that taps into that corner of her soul, the one that wants to be wanted, coerced, convinced out of her own resistance.

Baby it’s cold outside. Maybe it’s just the holidays… The promise of gifts and festivities, the seasonal hustle for joy. It fuels her drive to play, to go out and connect, to find joy, but in a pure way, just like when she was a kid. Do you remember running around, pink-cheeked, in the cold? Do you have this memory? Moms bundle up the kids. The kids, racing and leaping, in total abandonment, sweaty, consumed by their play, go on and ditch the acrylic hat, then much too long scarf, eventually leaving behind them all over the neighborhood yards a trail of winter jackets, lone gloves and sweaters, eventually.

Baby it’s cold outside.

The song goes well with her candle-burning every day. It adds a bit of flame when indeed, it is a little cold outside, even in this Southern California weather heaven. ‘Tis the season for sweets and buttery sweaters, for music that wraps you in molasses, and hopefully ‘this is the season for love: No matter how subtle, love boomerangs one way and back around the other way. She loves having people around her kitchen farm table. She loves cooking for people. She loves hugs and humor. And she loves cuddling in bed.

So she initiates. She texts. She feels like she’s making a power move—no, she hasn’t suffered ten thousands deaths already. She is controlling this one. She is the power player, even if his Wikipedia page is much too long, and hers doesn’t exist yet. She’s initiating, even if it’s driven by a song that encourages giving your power away. 

Baby it’s cold outside. Last season there was a husband there. She loved her family so much. She loved being a family. She loved knowing they were all cozy under one roof. She loved making the house fragrant with rotating edible smells emanating from the dual oven,  six burners stove. “It smells good in here!” people would say, walking in, their noses up slightly, in an attempt to label the diffuse aroma, their eyes exploration-wide. She liked the coziness extra sweet. Above all, she loved cuddling in bed with her hubby.

“And baby, it’s cold, outside….” This song has been haunting her, moving her, lifting her. She wants to jump up and down, like the clipped wing muscles on her upper scapula, still tied to the heavens, are lifting her up, up, up, down, and up and up again, bungee-cord style. Her head drives forward as she dances to it: move ahead, seek the heat, missile missing, M.I.A., missing in action, warmth, tear, war, go and conquer, missile on a mission, heat-seeking missile, search and rescue, bounce, and baby it’s cold outside—

Do you get it?

…

There is joy, and there is the anxiety. Up. Up. Up – Up is more exciting than down. She feels down sometimes. Holidays are not easy.

He must have his kids this weekend. “How about Fairfield?” He texts. He has another house, on another street, where it sits uninhabited, unused. She’s been there before. That house. A perfect, empty, neutral enough territory, for their battle of the body and the heart.  How convenient it is to live next door to your lover! How fun to sneak around the block, to look over your shoulder and make sure you’re not being followed. Not that a mafia’s after her—unless she considers the web of polite and genuine attachment crafted within the neighborhood. That’s a mafia of sorts.

The neon streetlamps hit the pavement with a crude, surreal light. It gets dark early this time of year, but it may still be enough for the few people walking their dogs to see them. So she strives for a state of incognito, pretending to walk this way—or maybe over there—to then take a furtive leap sideways to the front walkway where her clandestine life can start unfolding. She’s already hidden under some high shrub canopy. It adds some zest, and she isn’t hurting anyone. Except maybe herself. You’ll see.

The house is a perfectly scaled building, not too big and not too small, two stories tall, just a smidge narrower than it is tall to give it a cozy feeling, like it is being hugged tight. Like her house, It is a historic beach cottage, like so many others in the neighborhood. They are all a bit different. This one’s base is American Foursquare. Both floors on the facade are wrapped around with tall windows. There are these cute wooden openings near the roof that all the beach bungalow have, an ornate way to bring ventilation to the attic space. This house is cute and simple. The clapboard is painted white, and it sits snuggled in tall green shrubs. It’s very well maintained, except for some bluish paint chips peeling off the concrete front steps, showing an older congealed-blood red color beneath.

The gate clicks behind Elizabeth, shutting the outside world out. A dark outline against the side window betrays his presence the entry space, the mud room you might call it. She sees him standing up as he sees her. She is drawn to the pace at which he unfolds the supple length of his body as he stands. They both open the front door. This is the in-between land, defined by the front door’s thick wood and heavy metal hardware. On the other side, a lighter door gives access to the main room. It’s the second airlock from the street, before the safety of the interior. 

In one motion, fluid with quiet anticipation, they sway to the next layer of the house, into its privacy. Their moves are efficient and synchronized, like dancers, or line cooks.

It’s almost dark in there. One columnar floor lamp is turned on in the near corner. Its glow is low and amber like. There is a wide oval-shaped archway over an oversized dining table in the back of the living room, but no chairs surround it. He’s put on some music, something sexy, although Elizabeth can’t tell what makes it sexy.

“We’re together now,” she thinks. “Aren’t we? I am with him. She needs to talk herself through this: “This is happening.” She tells herself. She can tell that he’s happy to see her. He seems spring-loaded towards her. A ray of angular light, backlighting him, shows his face, wide, his grin, wide, and his eyes, also wide, and shiny. His chest seems soft, even on the inside, underneath the navy, fuzzy worn sweater. His skin smells good under the cashmere. She wouldn’t let herself feel overwhelmed by her own heart beating, but he is holding her head into his hands, and they are cupped around her gaze on him ever so gently.

It’s kind of too much really, and she has to shut it down somewhat. “Ok, I am here,” Elizabeth tells herself, “and I am doing this. I am here to have sex, and I am not going to get attached”.  She tries to give herself a linear focus, in an attempt to mitigate how vulnerable she feels. Day after day -her own little slice of hell-- she has been missing feeling soft with and for someone, loved. But this thirst is too much to handle right now. It’s just better if she convinces herself that she doesn’t needs it more than she knows.

It’s sweet, beyond that. It’s beautiful. It’s what she wants, even with the bag of stones weighting on her beating heart.

And it happens.

He kisses her. His kisses are so soft, and so strong. It drives Elizabeth crazy. She barely stepped into the house, and she is already his for the taking. She has already hurtled away from the everyday reality world, with its familiar signature consciousness and sense of one’s own body.  She is orbiting the other realm now, the sensual realm, that gives the brain a pass to go somewhere else, that gives the body the space to move–oh-so differently-- at last. It’s the place where all things invisible get to show up, even the naked body. There’s the promise of a shake, an occasion to hurricane together, and it’s fun, if you do it right, fun, if the chemistry is there. It’s fun.

How do you teach a lover that?

In movies, people leave a trail of clothes behind them as they inch towards the bed. These two love birds don’t peel off clothing on their way to the second floor, but they do the scripted twirling and kissing, occasionally laughing and gripping the said clothing when their compromised balance throws them on or away from each other at a missed step or a sharp turn. It’s funny, how dark and cold this empty house is. It is beautiful and so quiet. It’s an abandoned home really. It went from being an abandoned home to being an abandoned house. And they waltz through this very empty space, too full of each other in this very moment to mind or notice.

And this is a side note. Eric’s houses are so empty when the kids go away, including the main house. They have the feel of a deserted cathedral, a cemetery, a graveyard. He sits in there with his own pain and sadness, his reluctant face off with how powerless he is to make her do what he would like her to do, her being his ex, legally still his wife. He would like her to not have gone away, not be taking the kids away. His life was on track with her staying, and taking care of the house and the kids. Elizabeth does appreciate that about him. He stands erect in the pain so far. He doesn’t spaz. He doesn’t overflow. And he has managed to stay connected a bit, even to her. Unless she is making this up, to feel better about her attachment to him. Could be, really. And, sure, there has been a couple of occasions when she really needed to talk to him, and on these two counts he has been solid. Two glorious counts within a whole lot of nothing, a whole lot of waiting. Waiting for a text, for a sign, for some time spent together. It has been painful. Tens of thousands of little deaths. Stones and pebbles piling up –up-up-up.

Isn’t it funny, how we find each other in this world?

The truth is, she feels connected to him in the emptiness. She understands it. Fuck. She doesn’t even know herself how much she can relate to that empty space. She has been alone too, for eternity.  And more recently, she has lost something really big too, on top of it.

They are in one of the bedrooms upstairs now, the one with a bed. It’s sparse. It is perfect. His kisses keep on showering her with tenderness and play, which, in this very moment, she chooses to read as love. It’s a love she is thirsty for. There isn’t enough written about being a woman. Or I haven’t read it. A woman’s soul feeds on tenderness and sensuality, on interconnectedness. Elizabeth feels so much like a woman in his arms. The archetypes are fitting together like two pieces of a puzzle. He is the king of sword: Mature and in full command. She is clay, she is a vessel, she is creativity Itself. She becomes the artist, creating a time-space out of vibrations and harmony. She is a dancer, her whole body is her instrument. The colors blend right. They are on time with each other. His pitch complements her. The stage is open and lit. Am I missing an art form? Yes, I am.

But this is just the general mood, or the brain waves generated inside Elizabeth’s own guts.

He peels off her coat and it falls to the ground. He kisses her some more but she kisses him too. Full kisses, his tongue is nimble and assertive enough, without getting intrusive. He just holds that razor’s edge, where Elizabeth feels both taken and safe.

How do you teach guys that?

His hands are on her neck, naked, her shoulders, bound by fabric, her back, bound by fabric, her waist, bound by the green stretchy belt matching the dark forest green fabric of the dress. There is a mutual decision point and the dress comes off. They are both smiling, laughing maybe. It’s hard to keep track of what is going on when you are in the moment. They are happy. They are in a flow. Laughing. Smiling, wide. Playing. Riding it

Elizabeth meanwhile is happy. Yes! This is a dance, and a battle, and a tender moment, and she willfully shines her utmost femininity through it. Even if it is scary somehow.

Do I need to continue? If you were there, if you were them, you wouldn’t really know what comes after. You would know the collision of limbs and flesh, sometimes awkward due to the limited range of motion most joints display in these situations. You would know it would get hot and humid. You would know that it doesn’t matter because you are giving your body a pass: Free range to get sexual, and animal some, and creative in a different way. You would know that there would be a building up of, what is it? Tension? And that this tension would be released. And while it is not always released in perfect synchronicity, it does flow outwards in a sweaty instinct driven by mutual kindness, by this wanting and needing, to give back, to feed the loop.

Eric, in his own selfish and at time controlling way, is incredibly generous. Elizabeth comes, and comes, and comes, and yes, comes again. I don’t know that much about other women, really. But I have learned this about her. She is sensual. Are these official climaxes? Are some smaller? Where would you draw the line, between a full climax and one that is half-way there, just building potency for the next one, or the next wave of ones? Elizabeth is not sure of it herself. But she knows that eventually, he will drain it out of her.  Her eyes are wide and wet almost. In this moment, she loves him, loves him raw. She wants to kiss him, kiss him everywhere. Give back.

It’s getting darker in this small little bedroom. Soon it is going to be cold, again. The silence will become audible, again. Not everything is perfect, ever. The truth is that for all the freedom that beautifully unwound them, they can’t let go entirely: And he more than her. There are cringeworthy realities that cannot be dodged. How silly that would be, at their age, dealing with an unwanted pregnancy. She understands and manages the risk better than he does. He feels irresponsible. This is dangerous. They are not in integrity with themselves. And that is just the palpable risk, the measurable one. Bags of rocks and pebbles are weighting on them both.

When two heads hit the pillow, when the bodies fall back into gravity and the mattress, so does everything else. It lands. Unspoken things, unbalanced things, anything that carries tension, becomes real again, as a rock or a pebble. He knows. He knows he doesn’t have it to give. He knows he doesn’t have the bandwidth. He knows she needs more. He knows she is not able to accept it. If she was less desperate to nest within the safety of perceived love, and the habit of having a husband by her side, if she was less confused, she might be able to see him for how wounded he is right now. Maybe he always was like that. Maybe that is why she left him, his wife. But It will take Elizabeth months to purge her system of that dependency, that belief she needs the protection of another man.

Sex is designed to escalate into a high point, and then release. And everything that goes high must come down. It’s an inevitable rule of nature.

They will go home. She will be euphoric for a few hours, a day at best, and then she will land and she will probably break up with him, probably by text, one more time, while fully aware of the irony, the irony that there was nothing to break in the first place. They will keep on finding and loosing each other that way, but it will dwindle down, eventually. A year from now, maybe, they will be friends. Who know? Maybe she will be less vulnerable, and he’ll have more space. Maybe she will be stronger and he will be more open. Maybe she’ll be calmer, and he won’t need to prove to himself that he can, can pleasure and satisfy another woman. Maybe, a year from now, they will be on their way to a budding friendship. Who knows?

They are fond of each other, after all. And what is Love but an ability to stay connected, to nurture the fondness alive. Can we stay tender? Can we stay tender without expecting more than is meant to be? Children grow. Everything passes eventually. Can we just connect? Can we just stay a little open? Can we just feed the benevolence, more than we feed the fear. Who knows what will be In a year, in two, or even tomorrow… We hardly know what is happening right now, don’t we? We know when it’s cold outside. Do we know when we need human warmth, and just that?