Not What It Looks Like

I left the stage twelve hours ago; I go back on tonight.  Am I frightened?  Mortified?  Exhausted?  I am a void—personified!

Except you can no longer tell from the outside.  My almighty, anonymous needs still rage. The shop’s closed, the kitchen’s gutted.  All those tarts and strudels, cheesecakes, brownies and donuts don’t exist at the moment.  And maybe because I wear the muslin gown as much as he wants (or else I was so easy he lost interest), Carlos has no renewed interest in what I eat or drink.

[This post is an excerpt from Diary of a Heretic, the novel. Click here to read the first episode, or here to read the previous one.]

And my routine has changed.  I take long walks alone.  This morning as I crossed the Plaza del Lago shopping mall, Carlos appeared, silently, coolly in sync with me.  We traversed the small terrace and he stroked my left side.  We leaned into a brick corner and he hoisted me a bit in the air.  Reeling with desire and distaste, I writhed, resisted, and succumbed.  All the while inadvertently catching the eye of a woman loading groceries into a green Volvo.  She shrugged and smiled. 

I twisted my head and wiggled my hands, signaling her:  this is not what it looks like.  The woman slammed her car door and comically saluted.  Was she saying, “I know; I’ve been there”?  Or, was it more, “What do I care?”

And then it hit me—that’s my perennial question:  what do I care?  Anytime anyone misunderstands me, I’m ready to die.  My life seems to depend on getting the population at large to take my side.

(To Be Continued.)

Comments

[Dan Leo]

Ah, good old Malcolm...the neurotic messiah. I want to rescue him, or at least advise him to rescue himself...

[Mimi Lenox]

Quite a revelation at the end. I love the way your words wind through tarts and strudels to muslin gowns and back again to revelation.

Very nice.

[Kathleen]

Dan and Mimi, Again, it's so sweet to learn that other people can understand this poor guy. Most don't. I'm not bragging when I say that, either. Every writer wants people to understand his/her protagonist. That's the goal.

[Bosco]

How much of Malcolm is you? He also wants people to understand him--desperately so, it seems.

[Kathleen]

Bosco, So good at guessing! Was it the photographic resemblance that tipped you off? Or just the desperation.

[Bosco]

Definitely not the photo. Maybe desperation is the wrong word... yearning, starving? I think of the beautiful first paragraph of the first episode in this story. (I paraphrase: "For years I have adhered to the hope...that one day I would be invited to speak my mind.") Malcolm is an orator, but a writer too.

[Kathleen]

Bosco, I was teasing you but your answer is so heartening--thanks.