Yvonne rushes in carrying a bag of Chinese takeout from Chi Dynasty. She drops her work satchel in the service porch, and enters the spare and modern kitchen. It is 8 o’clock and, regretfully, Collin has beaten her home. Still in his work clothes, his shirtsleeves rolled up, he is busy checking his email on the kitchen computer. Beside him is an opened bottle of Chardonnay and a full glass of wine.“Sorry, I’m late,” Yvonne apologizes, “I had a deadline.”
Collin grunts but does not look up from the computer screen. Yvonne sets the table with handpainted Italian dishes, opens the takeout cartons and gets out serving utensils. She pours herself a glass of wine from the open bottle. “Dinner,” she announces.
“Great.” Collin responds as he clicks the SEND button and comes to the table, “What are we having?”
“Orange Chicken, Sweet and Sour Shrimp and Kung Pao Beef,” she answers.
“Same as Monday, “ he retorts in a flat voice.
Yvonne tenses at his reaction and busies herself serving the food. Collin is in one of his moods. He opens the wrapper on his chopsticks, and begins to eat. They eat in silence. After a few minutes he looks up at Yvonne and speaks, “Look at us. Two roommates eating Chinese takeout for the second time this week.” Collin eats a bite of steamed rice and continues, “This isn’t the life that I expected.” Collin eats more rice, then speaks again. “We are boring each other to death. You have your career; I have mine. We have no children. No sex. No life. All we share are takeout meals.”
The truth of this statement makes Yvonne cringe. “Yvonne,” he says almost tenderly, “I’m a man. I need a woman.” Yvonne’s eyes fill with tears and her heart tenses. She feels a pain deep in her solarplexus and inhales deeply.
“I don’t want a roommate. I want a family. A wife. A sex life. I want children.” Collin catches Yvonne off guard. He isn’t his mean or arrogant self. He is quiet and calm.
Agreement, silently Yvonne coaches herself. Avoid an argument tonight with agreement. “You’re right. We need to improve the quality of our life," she answers. “We were supposed to go to Hawaii last month, remember? Then your trial got moved. How’s your schedule next month? I think I can get off after the 18th.”
Collin shakes his head. “A week in Hawaii can’t help us. It’s too late.”
Yvonne’s body fills with nausea as Collin’s words sink into her consciousness. It is too late. Too late for a romantic week in Hawaii. Too late to revitalize their sex life.
“It’s time Yvonne, time to move on….” Collin takes a swig of his wine, puts down his chopsticks and leaves the table. A few minutes later, the garage door opens and Yvonne hears the hum of his Porsche as he backs out of the garage and drives away.
Collin is right. I’m an idiot! she scolds herself. They had this exact same meal just two nights ago. Chi Dynasty was one of their favorite places, an upscale Chinese restaurant in Los Feliz less than ten minutes from their home. Working on automatic pilot, and concerned about her deadline, she had picked up food without even thinking. On her drive home, Yvonne speed dialed on her cell and ordered the first things that came to her mind. Unfortunately, they were the same three things that came into her mind two days ago.
Yvonne takes the bottle of wine into the living room and sits alone in the darkness. She gazes out of the large plate glass window at the view of Silver Lake below. As she drinks, Yvonne cries and feels sorry for herself.
“All I do is work. Nobody loves me. I’m boring…and I’m not sexy!” she screams out. Her nose begins to run and she wipes up the snot with her napkin. She drinks and cries, finishes off the bottle of wine, then takes a shower. Then she does what she always does when she is upset. She goes to bed. To sleep. To escape.
Collin returns late that night, but when Yvonne wakes up at seven, he is long gone. The morning coffee that he brews daily is still in the pot, but Collin isn’t there. Sadness, loneliness and failure swim in Yvonne’s head. At 7:30 Yvonne picks up the phone and calls her boss at home.
“Mel…” she says evenly.
“What’s up?” Melanie answers.
“I can’t make it to work today,” she says simply.
“Sick?”
“No. Collin.”
“What’s up with Collin?”
“I can’t get into it now,” says Yvonne.
“OK. I gotta go. I have a breakfast meeting…I’ll call you later.” Click. The sound of the dial tone vibrates in Yvonne’s ear.
***
“Motherfuck,” whispers Yvonne under her breath. Strawberry soda. The pink sticky liquid drips down her hair and all over her white wool sweater.
The woman across the table grins and smiles, rather pleased with herself, “Thought you needed something to cool yourself off. It’s hot today. Ninety eight degrees according to the weather channel.”
She is clueless these days and it makes Yvonne profoundly sad. Yvonne is pissed at her yet needs to hide it. She had planned a quick visit, but now she must go home to shower and change. Yvonne takes off her glasses and wipes them with her ruined sweater.
“Mother, please don’t ever do that again,” Yvonne says calmly. But Mother isn’t listening. She is busy drawing on a white paper place mat. It is a picture of a man with his fly open. Hanging out is an enormous penis.
“I dated a singer once who had a cock that looked just like this one. The head of his cock looked just like this, too. It was curved on top just like this.” Mother taps the place mat with the top of her pencil to emphasize her point. Yvonne glances around feeling like a prude. The two of them are sitting in the corner of a small dining area that is filled with walkers and wheelchairs. Thankfully, no one seems to notice her wet, sticky hair and now pink sweater. Yvonne is embarrassed. Her mother embarrasses her a lot these days. She never knows what to expect. She isn’t angry about these outbursts anymore, but she resents them. Her mom is an 82-year-old sex fiend. She is also hard of hearing, so her embarrassing comments are always spoken in a loud megaphone voice for all to hear. They also scare the shit out of Yvonne. Alzheimer's is hereditary…perhaps her time will come, too.
***
Yvonne is sitting alone at The Coffee Table. It is early May, and she has decided to take a caffeine break after visiting her mom. The Coffee Table is a local coffee house in Silver Lake. Besides the requisite lattes, chais, cappuccinos and pastries, it also serves food. Breakfast, lunch and dinners. Good soups, fresh salads, generous sandwiches, and fluffy omelets. It is a large place where one can spend hours without management giving customers “the stink eye” because they are anxious to turn over tables.
As Yvonne lifts the large earthenware cup and sips her cappuccino, she remembers a recent article she’d read. “Put It in Writing and Make It Happen!” What the hell, she thinks. And so it begins. In a tattered purple spiral notebook, the one that contained notes on possible plumbing companies to re-pipe her mother’s house, she starts her “Make it Happen Journal.”
Using her own name is too inhibiting for Yvonne. She doesn’t feel free enough to express herself. Her first act of creativity is to create a new identity. For no particular reason, she calls herself Marlena.
***
Marlena is 34-years-old and feels horny today. What makes a woman horny? Some men have the theory that women get horny when they’re ovulating. Marlena doesn’t give a shit why she is horny. She just knows that she is, and that is that. It is a simple fact. On days like this, she doesn’t want the constraint of bra or panties. She enjoys the feeling of smooth slick fabric on her nipples. She likes the wetness between her legs. Panties would absorb the wetness, and she wants to feel it.
Being a woman of culture, Marlena knows it is a perfect Sunday afternoon to visit LACMA. The Los Angeles Museum of Art on Wilshire. But first, she needs to pick a dress to wear. Demure? Maybe. Something flowing, not too short. Soft, yes. Clingy, definitely.
In the shower, Marlena soaps her breasts until her nipples harden. She is an Aquarian; water is always sensuous to her. Next, she takes care of business. Shaves her underarms and legs….silky smooth. In her bedroom, she anoints her body with vanilla scented lotion. She chooses a red rayon dress, and slips it over her naked body. It is a pure, deep red. Medium weight. Scoop necked with a hemline skimming a few inches above her knees. Marlena knows she looks striking in red, and to lengthen her legs she puts on a pair of high, strappy wedge sandals. Dress and sandals. Two items and she is completely dressed. She takes a look in the mirror and likes what she sees. Simple and understated, but bright and noticeable. Lip gloss and mascara complete her look.
She drives down Vine, which turns into Rossmore. The houses are big on Rossmore with thick green lawns. When Marlena hits Wilshire, she turns right, and drives the two miles on Wilshire to the museum.
As she climbs the stairs up to the ticket booth a whirl of wind drifts down the stairs. For a fraction of a second Marlena feels her dress fly up exposing her ass. Whoever is behind her--and paying attention-- just got an eyeful. The thought excites her, her muscles below contract, and she is moist between her legs. She needs to relax. She is getting herself all wound up and needs to chill.
Instead of heading toward the box office for a ticket, she makes her way across the courtyard to the beverage cart. “I’ll have a glass of Chardonnay,” she says to the bartender. He is tall, and she can feel his eyes on her chest. Towering above her, he has a perfect bird’s eye view down the front of her dress. Marlena smiles innocently, hands him a five, and puts the dollar change into his tip jar.
She finds an empty table under an umbrella and sits to enjoy her drink. The wine is icy cold with little condensation bubbles on the outside of the glass. She takes a long slow drink. It hits the spot. As she is licking her lips in enjoyment, she looks up and notices that the bartender is staring at her. She smiles and chuckles to herself. “I’ve got good tits. He likes my tits.” Though she wants to chill and relax, this damn guy is making her feel horny again. She rubs her hand softly and unconsciously across her breasts, her nipples harden even more. Then she gingerly strokes her thighs. It is both soothing and sensual to her. The wine is working. She feels a gentle buzz coming on…Marlena is feeling free and relaxed.
Once inside the museum she heads toward the impressionist section. She likes the paintings by Lucien Freud. Paintings of partially nude women, doing private things…grooming, taking baths. These are intimate. A glimpse into the woman’s personal world. Sometimes Marlena fantasizes that she is the model. She would have loved being a painter’s model….their muse. Paris. Immortality. Sex with great artists. It is heady stuff for Marlena. She sits on a bench and stares at a painting of a woman stroking herself. Is she masturbating? Or just relaxing? Whatever, it is sexy, and Marlena feels a surge rushing to her lower torso. At times like this, she experiences an internal struggle. She wants to lift her dress and rub exactly the place that she knows will ease these feelings. Marlena exhales deeply. Instead, she crosses her legs tightly, right over left, and sways. She is throbbing between her legs.
Marlena feels helpless at times like this. What can she do? She needs to cool off. And that’s exactly what she does. She uncrosses her legs, lifts her dress to mid-thigh, and spreads her legs. Little girls are still free and often spread their legs when wearing dresses. After a certain age, knees are supposed to be kept together. This is an act of rebellion. Marlena can actually feel, or thinks she can feel, the cool air from the air-conditioning vent coming up her dress. Yes, she is cooling off.
***
When Mike enters The Coffee Table, he’s decided today is the day to order something different. Since September, when his daughter left for college, he’s taken to spending leisurely mornings at The Coffee Table. The usual is a latte, a muffin and the New York Times. But today, strangely enough, he wants a change. He decides on a Green Tea Latte. He’s been fascinated by the musty green colored drink topped with whipped cream. Today is his day to try one. Mike sits at his usual table, opens up his paper, then takes a sip of his green drink. “Interesting,” he thinks.
As he is spooning a dollop of whipped cream into his mouth, he notices a woman across the room. She is dressed in a pair of jeans and a black vee-necked t-shirt. She isn’t wearing makeup, but her toes are painted a bright metallic red. Mike watches this woman writing fast and furiously into a purple spiraled notebook. He enjoys watching her--she is so focused. Every so often she takes a break and comes up for air. Mike watches as still holding her pen, she shifts her body around, closes her eyes, and takes a long, deep breath. “Damn,” he thinks, “she is sexy!” Yet he can’t figure out why he is so turned on. There is nothing special about her. She is slender and fit, looks about 36 or 37. Shiny brown hair frames her face. Good bones, blue eyes. Quite ordinary, nothing special. The woman puts down her pen, and nibbles on an oatmeal cookie. She licks her lips, closes her eyes and appears to be thinking.
***
The following week Mike sees her at The Coffee Table two or three times. Sometimes she’s dressed in jeans, and other times she’s wearing a business suit, but she always carries her purple spiraled notebook.
***
Yvonne sits at Hard Times Pizza sipping a Peroni. It refreshes, relaxes and hits the spot. This local mini-mall favorite attracts an eclectic clientele. Yvonne enjoys people watching as she waits for her eggplant parmesan sandwich. The sandwiches here are huge, and she knows this meal will be enough for dinner tonight and lunch tomorrow. Just as Yvonne finishes her beer, they call her name. Her order is ready; she takes her bag and heads to her car.
At home Yvonne eats out of the aluminum to-go container. She doesn’t bother using real plates anymore. For her, the worst part of living alone is eating alone. She wonders what Collin is eating tonight. Is he eating alone, too? Or is he having a nice meal in a restaurant? Is he with a friend? she wonders. Shut up, Yvonne coaches herself. Don’t do this.
Yvonne promises to take herself to breakfast tomorrow at The Coffee Table. Mornings are tough. She misses their ritual of coffee and newspapers. Collin served her coffee each morning. He was a news junkie, and he enjoyed summarizing the important stories and giving his editorial comments as she worked the crossword puzzle. Yvonne was comfortable; she didn’t realize she was boring Collin to death.
***
As Yvonne leans on the trunk of a blue Prius and heaves, she feels eyes watching her. She has no idea how she can be so aware given her current state of nausea. Yvonne feels blessed that nothing is coming out. Thank God, these are only dry heaves…at least so far. Yvonne is more than a little “throw up phobic” and has frequently willed herself not to vomit. She heaves again….and feels a trickle of vomit emerging at the back of her throat…fortunately it reverses its course and goes back the way it came. As the nausea subsides for a few brief seconds, she looks up and sees a pair of eyes staring at her. Blue eyes, surprised and concerned. Her next look is a wider shot and includes the face. Yvonne is mortified…it is…a familiar face….she can not attach a name to the face, but all the same…she knows him and he knows her. In a flash she realizes how. The Coffee Table. She’s seen him several times at The Coffee Table. She lowers her head between her outstretched arms hoping he won’t recognize her. But it is no use…he is walking directly toward the blue Prius.
He stands behind the car and stares. Then, “Are you okay?” he asks gently. Yvonne looks up, wiping the sweat from her forehead and temples. Shit, how fucking embarrassing…..I think it’s his car. Thank God I didn’t barf on it. But she can’t speak, all she can do is shake her head “no”. Do I look like I’m okay? she thinks sarcastically. He opens the car door (so it is his car) and takes out a bottle of Crystal Geyser. He takes off the lid and hands the water to her.
“Drink this,” he says gently. The cool water is refreshing and just what she needs. Out of control, within seconds, she guzzles most of the water in the bottle. Ah…water… her body knows instantly what it needs. She drinks more. Yvonne motions with her head at the storefront behind her. The sign reads “Bikram Yoga.” “Hot yoga. It’s a hundred and twelve degrees in there. I thought I was going to pass out…so I came outside….” A dazed look crosses her face, “I got the dry heaves, but I didn’t vomit on your car….” Her voice weakens and trails off, “I didn’t vomit on your car….” He catches her just as she begins to lose consciousness. When Yvonne comes to, she is lying on her back in the lobby of the yoga studio; the nice man from The Coffee Table is sitting on the carpet next to her.
“I’ll drive you home,” he offers.
“I can manage,” says Yvonne.
“After what just happened, I’d feel a whole lot better if you let me drive you. Drink another quart of water and get some rest. Call me when you wake up and we can get your car.”
He hands her his card. It reads:
Mike Boritizer
Boritzer/Grey Gallery
Bergamont station.
“Thank you, Mike,” says Yvonne. She is feeling a little woozy again and does not resist. He takes her home, and she promises to call him when she wakes up.
At six o’clock Yvonne is enjoying a light dinner with her Good Samaritan at The Coffee Table. When Mike found out that she hadn’t eaten, he insisted they stop for food. Yvonne enjoys talking to Mike about art and hearing about his gallery. It is a conversation that fuels her long lost passion.
“How do you know so much about art?” he finally asks.
Busted, she thinks. A second later, she surprises herself, as she spills out her life story. “I wanted to be a painter. I have a B.A. in painting. Then I wanted to get a job, so I got a Masters in Art History. But that didn’t help me get a job. When I came to LA I really needed work, and ended up in PR. It turned out to be a career. I’ve worked my way up in PR, but my life as an artist is mostly forgotten. It’s only memories now….wrapped up in plastic in my garage.”
“Perhaps one day, if you want, we can go ‘treasure hunting’ in your garage,” smiles Mike.
“Perhaps...” laughs Yvonne.
***
“Your husband is a putz!” screams her mother.
“Mother, please lower your voice,” whispers Yvonne patiently.
“Hell no, I will not lower my voice. He’s a putz! A putz! P-U-T-Z” and she spells it out for extra emphasis. Thankfully, no one in the nursing home dining room seems to notice or care.
“Collin took a six month lease at the Oakwood Apartments near his office, ” volunteers Yvonne.
Her mother switches gears. For a moment she’s the solid-rock mother Yvonne knew growing up. “I’m so sorry to hear that, honey.” Yvonne misses her old mom, the non-crazy with Alzheimer's mom, and her eyes fill with tears. “Don’t get your hopes up. He wouldn’t have moved out if he wanted to stay together.”
“I know, Mom.” Her mom pats her on the shoulder, and Yvonne can see her mind switch gears again.
“Don’t worry about his tiny, sorry-assed, limp dick. This is your chance. Move on sister, move on.”
***
When Mike invited Yvonne to the Friday night members-only opening reception at LACMA, she immediately said “yes”. She said “yes” without even thinking. What fun to see an exhibit with a fellow art-lover, she thought. After she hung up the phone she started freaking out.
A date. Shit. I think I’m going on a date. I am going on a date--Oh God, a date. A date? What shall I wear?
It is a warm, balmy, summer LA night. When Mike rings Yvonne’s doorbell, she answers wearing her Marlena outfit. She looks sensational in the clingy, free-flowing red dress and tall wedge sandals. She knows her legs look good, and she feels confident and energized.
“Wow! You look great in red!” exclaims Mike.
As they descend her stairs a slight breeze blows her dress up, but Mike doesn’t see anything. Not yet.
