Sinister: late spring and you're drifting off to sleep

[lindsey baker]

hello sinister.

i handed the envelope over to the postman today, reaching across the 
counter, my arm stretcing over the taped-down signs showcasing reduced 
postage and postal insurance rates. the people on the advert were smiling 
widely, showing teeth, and the postman told me i smelled nice.

i handed over my two dollars, deciding not to tell him that i actually 
didn't wear any bath and body works frangrances, and said thank you.

i left then, walking through the slow, spinning door, revolving out and into 
the thick humidity. my body cut a path in the air to my car, where i stepped 
inside and sat back down, closing the door to everything outside and turning 
up the song i never realized i had owned before this afternoon.

***

standing in the middle of my room, my wet hair dripping water down my back 
and onto the bare, wood floors, i flipped open cd cases absently, looking 
for something to listen to while getting ready to leave the apartment. i 
couldn't find anything i really wanted.

after five minutes of kid a, i remembered i had the cd.

i have had it for months, sitting in a little cupboard attached to my 
sister's old desk, the one i have now, overtaken by an ancient computer and 
the awards i won for writing and saying silly things at this spring's daily 
nebraskan banquet.

i walked over to the desk, opened the door, and took the little square out. 
i looked at the burned cd, the things written on it. the little row of x's 
and o's, and i stopped for a moment, hefting the weight of the disc and the 
mourning i felt for it. i opened the case, took the cd out and put it in the 
player.

it was the first time i played it.

i went about the business at hand, then, carefully separating chunks of 
hair, rolling each around a big, blue velcro roller. heating them up with 
the hair dryer, then moving to the next task while waiting for my hair to 
curl. i spread the thin layer of fine, white powder over my face, and 
started really listening to what i had chosen for the afternoon.

i stopped to look at the playlist, the description of each song. belle and 
sebastian. hefner. others i didn't know. and one i was interested in, 
because of a different boy. because he said it was lovely.

when the song started, i knew it was r.e.m. i hadn't known that about it. 
and i hadn't known the words, or the subject matter of the song, save for 
the words of the title. (i have always liked r.e.m., you see, but i don't 
own any. i wouldn't even say i am an avid listener, really, and it has only 
been lately the i listened to them again, after borrowing someone else's 
automatic for the people to use a song for a mix tape. i wondered, that 
night i made the tape, why i didn't have any r.e.m. silly girl, i thought. 
shame, shame.)

but the song.

i hadn't known, until 2:30 on a sleepy monday afternoon that the song had 
been quoted to me, written to me, in the last week.

i had read the words when they were written, and i remember the slow 
trembling of my bottom lip, the resonance of shallow breath, the beating of 
my heart. i remember those things. and then. i felt them again.

i heard the words, sung, and they were the band's and they were the boy's 
and they were mine and they were his. above all else, they were his, and he 
had given them to me last week.

there, still in the middle of my room, still half-ready for the world, my 
comb in my mouth, my hairbrush in hand, i started crying. i watched the 
tears roll streaks into the fresh blush of my cheeks, and i smiled. i took 
the comb out of my mouth, and laughed, last night's hardy spring rain 
transferred from window sill pools to the upturned corners of my mouth.

***

i received news today.

big news.

good news.

news that means i get to come to the show after all. someone found my barbie 
jacket at the bottom of the toy box, i guess, and decided i could have 
another go at hanging on to the thing properly.

alice munro has a book. the beggar maid. in canada, the title is different. 
who do you think you are?

who do i think i am?

i think i may be one of the luckiest girls to tumble down a set of stairs.

xxx l. lou




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