We finished two small bottles of sake and had moved onto a twelve year old Glenfiddich. We were unusually chatty--for us, at least. I do not recall how our conversation got there, but I found myself saying these words:
"If I had been born a man...."
Before I could finish the sentence, he chimed in.
"...you would have made many girls cry."
"What makes you say that?" I questioned in protest.
"Because only one person gets to be a free bird in a relationship," he replied.
I knew exactly what he meant without having to read through many lines in between. The surprise was in that he knew me that well. I changed the direction our conversation was headed.
"As I was saying, if I were born a man, I would have become a priest."
He gave me a look. That was enough to put me on a defense, citing differences between priests and nuns. But he, too, grew up a Catholic. I knew my argument was the losing one but stood by it nonetheless.
* * * * *
Of many of our childhood plays, one remained in my memory bank more vividly than others. There was a big mound of left over sand from construction at one corner of his yard. I would gather rocks and use them to reinforce the mound of sand. He would bring over a bucket of water to wash it all down. I knew my attempts were futile but refused to give up, gathering the sand and bringing more rocks to build a bigger, stronger mound. All he had to do, he knew, was to keep pouring water over it. We would be at it for a long time, neither of us relenting, until his mother called us back to the house for dinner.
* * * * *
I had on my white linen dress, a favorite of mine on those extremely hot summer days. I stood up from where I was sitting and looked down. There was a little red dot. On my dress. The dot grew and grew into a coagulating mess of my own blood.
* * * * *
It was early morning hours but my east facing bedroom was already filled with bright morning sunlight. I drifted in and out of sleep through his snores. It was a lazy Sunday morning.
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