Dancing Naked at the Edge of Dawn by Kris Radish
Authors: Kris Radish
Tags: Fiction, General, Psychological, Psychological fiction, Adultery, Middle-Aged Women, Married Women, Self-actualization (Psychology), Chicago (Ill.), Separation (Psychology)
Ads: Link
single day has something written on it. My life planned out by everyone but me.
Elizabeth holds my hand when I begin crying. She tells me that the color of my tears has changed and that she can tell these are now new tears.
“This is new anguish,” she says, tasting one of the tears. “Fresh salt. Now you tell me.”
It is perhaps remarkable to remember the moment when you wake up. It is perhaps remarkable to be able to step outside of your mind and body and see your flaws and missteps and yearnings. It is remarkable to be able to put your finger on your own pulse and to say that you suddenly understand that unhappiness is a choice and that everyone, even you, can change direction, or better yet, find direction at any moment in your life.
“I have to remember the color of everything, Elizabeth, don't I?”
“You can, but what is important, I think, is to remember that something remarkable happened and that something remarkable can happen at any moment for the rest of your life.”
Jane is taking silent notes. She has not moved but she is listening.
She is good, this Elizabeth, who wears a brightly patterned piece of Mexican cloth draped around her and tucked into the narrow of her breasts to keep it from slipping off. She is already stunningly beautiful because of the power over her own life that she has always seemed to possess. For the first time in weeks I want to hold her in my arms instead of having her hold me, but I am certain I am not ready to hold the weight of anyone by myself—not yet. I can hold a small part of Jane, but I cannot hold all of her either.
Jane has turned to watch me and her hand, slow at first, has moved to touch my leg. She has not seen me cry. I have been the weight to tie her down, and this is my moment. If she can learn from it and lean into me even more, that is fine, and the strength I get from simply knowing that I need this moment this time washes over both of us.
“Everything has to change, doesn't it, Elizabeth?” I say.
She is smiling, and I can see her eyes crinkle up when her sunglasses slip down just a bit.
“What do you think, sweetheart? Does everything have to change?”
“Here is that moment,” I say to myself, “that moment I will always remember not for what I see with my eyes but for what I know is the necessary ingredient for my survival.” I take the moment and I hold it cupped in my hands not so gently. My grip is firm and smooth and kind, but it is also solid—because I know. I think I really know.
“Everything has to change.”
When I say it, I see a brigade of dancing Mexican women twirling past me with their skirts flying. Dolphins leap from the sea. Little brown-skinned boys and girls laugh in unison. The sand sifts itself into dozens of castles. The sky twirls itself into the shape of clapping hands, and Elizabeth sails from the wharf and slides across the gentle waves of the ocean, totally naked while she jumps rope with the cloth that was once her dress.
Linda is driving a Jeep that is so old, portions of the back floor are missing, there is no tailgate, and if there ever was a top it was destroyed long before the Second World War. Elizabeth is in the back end, wearing a jogging bra—thank God—with one leg on one side of the largest hole and the other leg on the other side of the hole. Jane sits next to her, holding on to the roll bar with both hands, and her eyes are open so wide, I am certain they'll pop out. I am in the front seat with a bandanna wrapped around my head in do-rag style, hanging on to what there is of the dashboard while we fly down what appears to be the only main highway between here and Houston, Texas. We are in the heart of the Yucatan Peninsula, in search of the wild dancing dogs, men and women who will yip and holler like the doggies without giving such action a second thought and any kind of memory scent my Auntie Marcia may have left in this hot, dusty and terribly exotic country.
The
Elizabeth holds my hand when I begin crying. She tells me that the color of my tears has changed and that she can tell these are now new tears.
“This is new anguish,” she says, tasting one of the tears. “Fresh salt. Now you tell me.”
It is perhaps remarkable to remember the moment when you wake up. It is perhaps remarkable to be able to step outside of your mind and body and see your flaws and missteps and yearnings. It is remarkable to be able to put your finger on your own pulse and to say that you suddenly understand that unhappiness is a choice and that everyone, even you, can change direction, or better yet, find direction at any moment in your life.
“I have to remember the color of everything, Elizabeth, don't I?”
“You can, but what is important, I think, is to remember that something remarkable happened and that something remarkable can happen at any moment for the rest of your life.”
Jane is taking silent notes. She has not moved but she is listening.
She is good, this Elizabeth, who wears a brightly patterned piece of Mexican cloth draped around her and tucked into the narrow of her breasts to keep it from slipping off. She is already stunningly beautiful because of the power over her own life that she has always seemed to possess. For the first time in weeks I want to hold her in my arms instead of having her hold me, but I am certain I am not ready to hold the weight of anyone by myself—not yet. I can hold a small part of Jane, but I cannot hold all of her either.
Jane has turned to watch me and her hand, slow at first, has moved to touch my leg. She has not seen me cry. I have been the weight to tie her down, and this is my moment. If she can learn from it and lean into me even more, that is fine, and the strength I get from simply knowing that I need this moment this time washes over both of us.
“Everything has to change, doesn't it, Elizabeth?” I say.
She is smiling, and I can see her eyes crinkle up when her sunglasses slip down just a bit.
“What do you think, sweetheart? Does everything have to change?”
“Here is that moment,” I say to myself, “that moment I will always remember not for what I see with my eyes but for what I know is the necessary ingredient for my survival.” I take the moment and I hold it cupped in my hands not so gently. My grip is firm and smooth and kind, but it is also solid—because I know. I think I really know.
“Everything has to change.”
When I say it, I see a brigade of dancing Mexican women twirling past me with their skirts flying. Dolphins leap from the sea. Little brown-skinned boys and girls laugh in unison. The sand sifts itself into dozens of castles. The sky twirls itself into the shape of clapping hands, and Elizabeth sails from the wharf and slides across the gentle waves of the ocean, totally naked while she jumps rope with the cloth that was once her dress.
Linda is driving a Jeep that is so old, portions of the back floor are missing, there is no tailgate, and if there ever was a top it was destroyed long before the Second World War. Elizabeth is in the back end, wearing a jogging bra—thank God—with one leg on one side of the largest hole and the other leg on the other side of the hole. Jane sits next to her, holding on to the roll bar with both hands, and her eyes are open so wide, I am certain they'll pop out. I am in the front seat with a bandanna wrapped around my head in do-rag style, hanging on to what there is of the dashboard while we fly down what appears to be the only main highway between here and Houston, Texas. We are in the heart of the Yucatan Peninsula, in search of the wild dancing dogs, men and women who will yip and holler like the doggies without giving such action a second thought and any kind of memory scent my Auntie Marcia may have left in this hot, dusty and terribly exotic country.
The
Similar Books
