The Rose Window by Alexandra Isacson
“…She had tucked away all the letters Joe sent, sealed and unread…”
______________
Colette spun around on a chair beneath a Sol neon sign, contouring her in gold light. Listening to hand- drumming, the edges of her body exuded the soft smolder of primal hues. Her midnight blue hair braided down her back, sprinkled with flour. She saw the blonde Louisa parking in front of the restaurant. Bongo drumming and waves of color faded inside Colette. She ran her tongue across the zigzag of her braces and bands, tightening like a vise. She untied her apron, tossed it in the back by some pizza boxes and imported beer bottles, and brushed off her shirt and jeans. She dusted off her thrift-store skull Doc’s.
Louisa slipped a triangle maze in her palm. “Joe misses you,” his sister said. Louisa’s streaked blonde on blonde- layered hair caught the light. They talked some about old times, and Colette hugged her goodbye.
Colette felt her heart pounding, and she smoothed some stranded blue hair out of her eyes. The edges of the triangle dug into her palm and knotted tat wrist. She had tucked away all the letters Joe sent, sealed and unread. She hid them in forgotten places, and did not have the heart to throw them out. She was afraid the voice of his words would open her to him again. She slid the letter in her front jeans’ pocket, and thought about Roberto. Roberto would be picking her up to go out dancing with friends. She and Roberto attended Arizona State and first met off campus at a dancing dive. That night, beneath black lights, Roberto’s deep v-neck t-shirt flashed over his muscular body and dark denim jeans. She had danced primal in the lisp of her flowing boho dress and laced- leather ankle boots. Later, they made art in his studio, and they had recently broken and leaded glass together for a beveled window.
Now Colette locked the front door, clicked on the closed neon green sign, and grabbed a washcloth. In a furry, she scrubbed all the vinyl tablecloths down and filled and cleaned condiments. Her blue braid swung around, and the letter burned in her pocket. Colette wanted a cigarette, took a deep breath, and sat at one of the tables. With her fingertip, she traced her knotted Celt tat, feeling the pulse in her wrist. She unfolded the labyrinth, and smoothed the letter out like a map. Touching Joe’s words, she lightly traced the peak and valley creases of the ubiquitous triangles.
Hey Baby . . . . Come live with me by the beach after I get out . . . .
I love you.
Colette felt Joe in the trace oceanic memory layers of her body. She closed her eyes, took a slow breath, and his presence enveloped her in a soft crash of waves. She held on tight. With him, she had been adrift, lost in the blue of his eyes, and caught in the tangle of his blonde, curly hair. She coughed and came up for breath, folded the letter, and tucked it away. She felt warm, rushed in the back bathroom, and splashed cold water on her face. In the mirror, electric blue circled her. She dried her face and stinging hazel eyes, tasting bitterness. Her heart was safe while Joe was locked up in Cali. She grabbed her stale smokes, opened and slammed the torn, screen door. The alley stench of garbage hit her. She leaned up against a brick wall, lit a broken cigarette, and inhaled harsh smoke. Joe’s words spoke to her as she traced her edgy scar beneath her beautifully tatted wrist. She felt desperate and hated loving two men. Her cell rang. Roberto was at the door.
Hugging Roberto, she felt the stipple of his pencil sideburns on her cheek. She could smell spice, and he was totally ripped from working out. She lightly touched his mouth and dark, wavy hair.
“I love being with you,” he said. He playfully ran his hand down her sinuous braid, and his forearm washed with a colorful tat of the Virgin of Guadalupe. He rubbed her shoulders. “You’re tense,” Roberto said. “Relax.”
“…He broke the thin skin of the glassy flask of dusk and rose petals spilled out into the bath…”
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She wanted to relax into his hands. He had helped her color her hair, and by candlelight, he had first washed it. He had lightly applied pressure to her temples and behind her ears, massaging her neck and shoulders. Then the rest of her body. He broke the thin skin of the glassy flask of dusk and rose petals spilled out into the bath. Colette surfaced from her memory. The triangle dug into her hip pocket. She did not feel like going out, so Roberto drove her home beneath the moon slick night.
Inside alone, the faint smell of rose incense powdered Colette’s home. Her braces felt tighter than ever. She ran her tongue across her teeth, wanting to snap the rubber bands off. Colette wanted to be free of the entanglements of Joe. She opened the door of her bedroom and threw Joe’s letter on velvet spreading across her bed. She turned on drumming. The bare skin of her psyche hummed, and she shed her clothes. She slipped a rubber band off her serpentine braid, loosened the three-strand weave, infusing herself in blue.
Beneath her shower, midnight blue washed from the crown of her head, flowing over her body. She stepped out of herself into the pulse of the bare drums and robed herself in the trance of naked light. A full-length mirror reflected her blue vision, and she rummaged through her bath, looking for body colors. She painted her face and the contours of her body in bright primordial strokes.
Colette cranked open her leaded-bedroom window and lit rose incense in a large terracotta bowl. She followed the rhythm of the drums. Working from her center, she lifted the liquid smoke, spiraling inside the chant of her body. She held the letter and carefully unfolded the triangulation of herself. She embodied the labyrinthine textures of the words in the negative spaces of the shadowed phonemes and morphemes, and the letters altered into mystical numbers. She took a deep breath, centered her vessel, and smoldering triangle. She struck a match, the words flashed, and burnt to ash. In the agony and grace of a modern dancer, she released and gave direction her emotions, singeing the edges of her psyche in the wide eye of light.
___________________
Alexandra lives and works in the Phoenix area. She is currently captivated by the African butterflies at the Tucson Botanical Gardens. Her work appears or is forthcoming in DOGZPLOT, Emprise Review, Medulla Review, PANK, Writers’ Bloc (Rutgers), and elsewhere. Visit her at alexandraisacson.com.
© 2010, Metazen. All rights reserved.
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This article had been a very good read! I couldn’t have said things better myself.