Suicide Blonde by Darcey Steinke Page B

the place was already bizarre, the Bible opened to the Easter story and a mazelike drawing tacked up over the bed. The sheets on the futon were tangled. I hoped it meant Bell had slept badly, but to me they implied passion as well. With Bell there was always this OTHER. We never spoke of it, but I knew he was more excited with me after he saw someone dancing at a club or when he saw a man or a woman on the street he admired. And when he encouraged me to wear lingerie or get my hair cut short like a boy's it really wasn't so I would look sexy, but so I would resemble this other, an erotic abstraction in his head.
    I broke the seal of the pint I had bought across the street and drank. There was something sustaining about the cold glass lip and the hot taste of bourbon. It was harder to break down the apartment than it had been to leave, there was something torturous about initiating the ritual of MINE and YOURS . I got the packing tape from the odds-and-ends drawer in the kitchen and put together the boxes. Loading quickly, I packed my shoes, several ratty sweaters and a blanket. I got the tiny wooden treasure chest my grandfather had made me and the paperweight with the white rose inside. I took my lithograph of the angel, my old felt hat and the tea strainer from the kitchen. Sorting through the silverware drawer for my favorite spoon I felt my heart beating hysterically. I got in the closet, sat against the far wall looking out into the room. Remembered how Bell had once lured me out of here, from what he called my poodle bed, by putting a cream puff on a plate on the floor. And how my parents had divided their belongings: my father left first, then asked my mother formally in letters to send a certain photo, his suit with the cuffed pants, his old jazz records. Sitting in Bell's aroma, rubbing his materials against my cheek, I decided that all this was my fault because I was the worst kind of person; a pretty girl with high expectations who wanted more, but couldn't define more and prayed it wasn't just a matter of marrying money. I heard the incessant traffic on Bush Street, thought of heroines in novels. They were always optimistic and naive whether they were old women or whores. They were always beautiful, as if only the lovely had courage enough to go out into the world. They were smart in a dumb way, that inarticulate intelligence men seemed to like. They did crazy things because of love and in the end always realized something stupid that was obvious all along.
    I skimmed every inch of the twisted sheets for sperm stains, worried that Bell had already taken a lover. Was it true that a man who really loved you would wait before he took new lovers? Or would the more desperate man seek a new lover immediately? Lately, I didn't trust the typical maxims of love, I know I sometimes loved men I cheated on more than ones I'd been true to. And besides, what did it mean that I didn't want him sleeping with anyone. It seemed territorial, had more to do with my will than any feeling for him. But that's the way it was with Bell from the beginning. It was his old girlfriend that started my obsession. I decided I wanted him once I'd heard about her: that she was five years older, had bleached blond hair, could speak French, that her father beat her and probably, most importantly, that she still wanted Bell. It was around these ridiculous facts my obsession with him flowered. But that wasn't really true, because when I thought of his lovely genitals, his narrow face, how he smiled with pleasure when I talked, how his body was warm, how it seemed to love me, I knew that I loved Bell, not only the mystery that surrounded him.
    I spotted Kevin's wedding invitation lying under the table and crawled out of the closet. The envelope was worn fuzzy along the opening. I found a picture of Bell I liked and stuck both into my cardboard box. The two boxes and a green trash bag were all I had. It pleased me, I was like a monk or a disciple, I