Elements of Play
by Teresa Tumminello Brader
Sipping from a water fountain, I hear my name and look up to see you in an open doorway. I glance around, thinking I misheard and that you were calling to someone else. I’m surprised you remember me, and I say so. For two weeks we were together every day, but it was ten years ago. And then you say, “I could never forget eyes like those,” as you stare into them.
I’m glad I have on a flattering dress, mid-thigh length with three undone buttons at the top. It’s olive green, same as the silky outfit I wore the night we dressed up and went to Cannon’s Restaurant. We sat at the long bar, sampling wines, and as we charmed the bartender, you ran your hand up my bare leg under my skirt.
I speculate on what you might’ve observed as I leaned over the drinking fountain, and I refrain from smoothing my dress down over my hips and belly, all slightly wider now. Your prematurely receding hairline has surrendered to baldness. I tell you I recently married, gesturing to my husband who stands some distance away, his back to us, on the phone. He and I have come to see a matinee of The Tempest even though he’s on-call. You say you’re in rehearsals in the Lower Depths Theatre for a play you’ve written. Back then you read to me an excerpt of a play you’d started working on before we met. Though you didn’t read any of her scenes, you said one of your characters shared my name and perhaps you’d been prescient. I wonder what became of that girl.
Your initial advances were swift, and I soon understood that was due to your being two weeks away from taking the train back to your MFA program. I’d gone to the supply room to pick up sticky notes and staples, and Jerry introduced you as his summer help. Ten minutes later you appeared in front of my desk, your lengthy frame slouched against the doorjamb. Hearing of my Irish heritage, you wooed me with tales of Cúchulainn and the Morrígan. You were impressed that my favorite play was Pinter’s Betrayal. That evening you came over and I timed “Birdhouse in Your Soul” to be playing on the stereo as you rang the doorbell. You knew the song, and it was my turn to be impressed. Sitting in Madigan’s Bar shortly afterwards, the electricity wavered and while we sat in the dark for a few minutes, you attributed the power surge to our combined chemistry.
The heat and humidity didn’t bother us as we walked from the CBD to Canal Street and into the French Quarter for lunch every day. You came over every evening, kissing me at the door as if you’d missed me over the intervening hours. Your lips were on mine, but your eyes drifted up and away and I tried to follow them but I needed a crane.
One night you brought over Tequila Sunrise, not my kind of movie, but I didn’t see it anyway. You unbuttoned my gauzy blouse down to my navel, looking up from your fumbling fingers to the small screen to watch a favorite scene. My eyes were unfocused, barely registering the orange sky behind Kurt Russell and Mel Gibson as I submerged under your hands and lips.
You said you’d call when you got to school in Austin, and you did, eventually, once. When I figured you should be home for Christmas, I rang your house and your brother gave you the telephone. Our conversation was polite, but I cut it short when I realized you’d been home for days, maybe weeks.
Near the end of our fortnight, you’d stood in my living room, gazing down at me, and said you’d never ever had the feeling that the man sings of in “The Lady in Red” and that’s what you wanted. I imagined a blue-eyed, tall blonde in a slinky cocktail dress. My hair and eyes were the color of coffee grounds, and I never wore red. I remembered you were younger than I was, though you didn’t look it at all, and I liked you less because you identified with such a cheesy song.
Someone behind you calls your name and my husband hangs up the phone. We smile good-bye, and I wonder when you’d ever noticed my eyes.
