One Day in Drapes R Us

I first see you through the screen of our store-brand tissue-like curtain; its gauze a virginal white. I feel a halo rising above your head. Yet when you open your mouth, your mustache floating above the word, I wonder about all the places on my body where you could put that mouth. “Fuck,” you say, and I know you tripped over the cord we trailed across the floor to hook up the tiny but robust fan, so we can survive another day working in this hellhole.

The clash between the holy and the dirty runs right through me. And you are dirty. Like, literally. Through the sheer drape that looks like a wedding veil, I can see mud caked on your arms. I’m not usually this animal. But I want to lick it all off.

You saunter through the stages of curtains. I follow as sometimes you float, seeing your beard through the semi-sheer, brightly patterned yellow fabric, your hand trailing to feel the soft material. Like you tentatively touching my dress at the hip, then tugging, then ripping it while lifting me away from the windowsill. Good drapes to billow in the soft wind of a tropical honeymoon getaway.

You reach for the grommet-top, as I knew you would—those openings for the curtain rod to slide through, keeping the rod exposed—it’s our most manly, I mean modern, option. That’s why the grommet tops come in blue and grey patterns, or dark solids, appropriate for a bachelor pad or law office. Discretion.

Behind the navy grommet-top, you’re close to me—I could reach out and touch your cheek, your stubble—but your face is shadowed and I feel air has solidified between us. Our breaths don’t mingle. You have secrets from me, and I keep secrets from you. Curtains cut both ways.

I’m almost afraid to echo your steps to the back of the store, where I lose track of which drapes are blackout or max blackout. I will no longer see your face. But I wonder: even in darkness, will we touch? Or will you roll to face the wall, your back like a mountain? What becomes of us? Your face becoming more impenetrable as you go.

My coworker interrupts. “Do you want this extra banana? It’s on its last day.”

I feel cautious when taking the fruit. He seems eager; I hadn’t noticed before.

The mystery man is leaving, passing back through our lanes of dark to light drapery, his face veiled by each curtain he passes. This time, with a strong stride that tells us he’s certain what he wants is elsewhere. I’d like to walk that strong in another direction, too. I see what’s appealing about a cowboy, how even if he’s going to the wrong place, he’ll get there by riding off into the sunset. We’ll fade back into this life where we don’t know each other.

Leaving is romantic, too, if it’s done right.