Big Fish, Small Pond

My internal alarm clock eased me out of my sleep, as it did every single morning, even if I had just blacked out three hours prior. I went through the rehearsed motion of rolling over onto whomever was next to me, or rolling out of bed, depending on what the moment called for. This morning there was no one there to roll onto, but the crumpled sheets were still warm. I could remember parts of who had been there at some point, in the darkest part of the night. Soft lips, shrouded by a thick beard, a deep sensual voice that felt familiar even though I had only heard it for the first time hours ago, and a back almost too wide to wrap my arms around. I remembered how he felt, but would be lying if I said I knew what the face entering my bedroom, from my tiny kitchen, looked like.

I had rehearsed every Saturday morning, how not to seem startled by who I had chosen to bring home in my least sober state. I scolded myself simultaneously for, “doing this bullshit again”. And yet, here I was once again preparing to greet a stranger who had seen and felt too much of me to not even know that my favorite color was red, or that I hated sleeping with the tv on, or that my name wasn’t whatever I had said it was when we met.

“Do you want some water? Do you mind if I turn on the fan? Do you care if I crash here for the rest of the night?” The man with the beard hit me with a barrage of questions as he hovered in my doorway. I slowly sat up on my elbows, with only parts of my body exposed, “No thanks, sure, and there is still night left?”

He chuckled out his response, I shrugged and waved him over as I laid back down and turned my back towards him. He seemed nice, or as nice as one would need to be to convince a woman he doesn’t know to share intimacy with him. So there was no way for me to tell if I was the little spoon because he was a nice guy who liked me, or just another misfit who craved touch, regardless of who it came from.

Morning came, and he went, I lingered in my apartment, scouring every inch of it for my phone. I knew there was probably damage control that needed to be done for whatever inebriated thoughts had escaped from my mind and found refuge in my fingertips. When I found it, the damage wasn’t nearly as bad as I expected. But just as I let out a sigh of relief, a text from Mel came through, Mel was fabulous, to sum it up. A statuesque woman, with long chocolate brown hair, big brown brown eyes and cappuccino brown skin to match. Very slightly shaped, but her clothing always draped perfectly on her body, she was a sight to see, and one I had not seen in ages. Mel and I had gone to college together and were roommates, we both studied English and graduated with degrees in journalism. During our friendship, I learned many things from Mel, how to network, how to draw on the perfect cat eye and how to seduce a man. None of those lessons ever taught me what to do with one when I had him, or how to keep him. Mel aged out of her "heaux phase" when we graduated and I seemed to just be getting my footing. She moved to a big city, for a big job, and a big condo, to keep company with big names and I stayed back, in a smaller city, with a smaller job and a smaller loft, and kept company with names we already knew. I was a big fish in a small pond, but she was always the bigger fish. I didn’t mind being smaller than her, I liked even being mentioned in the same sentence.

We stayed close for a while, visiting each other once or twice a year, until I got tired of maxing out my credit card to keep up with her Jones’. She’d text me often and I’d quickly reply , only to wait for her to resume the conversation weeks later. She did this during every exchange, but I never learned my lesson, always racing to text back, thinking there was no way she could become preoccupied in moments. I swore that the next time, I would wait to text back, or better yet, not respond at all. Until she texted this morning and I couldn’t resist.

Mel was in town and had invited me to a charity event, at an art gallery. My editor had told me about the event weeks ago, and asked me to cover it, but I was “too busy”. Too busy feeling like I would stick out like a sore thumb in that space, I didn’t know art or that scene, I felt like an imposter. Everyone expected me to know how to navigate in those spaces, because of how confident I sounded on paper, but that was on paper. Confidence was easy to emit using words, some of which people never used on a daily basis, anyone could sound confident with a thesaurus in hand, to exchange “fun” with “convivial’. My true identity was awkward and constantly unnerved, unless I was cloaked in the dimness of bedroom lighting. Nonetheless, I simply replied, ‘text me the details”.

Everyone in this place was fancy as fuck and sober and I was just sober. I wanted to give the impression that I was fancy and polished and knew what the hell was so moving about this art. All I knew was that I spent too much money trying to look the part, to partake in any charity. I looked good enough to distract from the fact that I wasn’t placing my bid on anything, until I found myself standing in front of a large white canvas, eye to eye with the portrait of a large black bull that occupied the middle of it. It’s horns practically searing through the material, it’s glassy eyes confronting me in some way. My gaze was fixed on it, I don't even know if I was blinking, or breathing for that matter, what little breath I did have to negotiate, as my shapewear had monopolized most of it. A voice so rich and commanding, that it almost seemed tangible made its way into my atmosphere, “It traps you, doesn’t it?” Before I could respond, he spoke again, “It’s almost accusatory”. I tried to determine what his face might look like before I set my eyes on him. As I met his gaze, I couldn’t help but to continuously shift to the familiarity of his mouth, he smiled as he noticed and rubbed his chin. “I almost didn’t recognize you”, I muttered out.

We stayed locked on each other for a moment, standing apart just enough for Mel to glide in between us, wrapping her arms around my waist and squeezing me tightly then stepping back to examine me with a smile so wide and beautiful and naïve. She reached back to grab the beardless man's hand and pull him beside her, “You two have met, how wonderful and serendipitous.” She was beaming, “James, this is my dear friend Amelia”. “Amelia,” he questioned. I nodded then quickly looked away. Mel smiled and looped her arm into mine, kissing James on the cheek as she guided me away.

We spent what felt like hours on the terrace, catching up on things. She swooned over James, it was so unlike her. She was typically the one being swooned over, illustrated in such a fantastic way. The woman I had fawned over for years, seemed smaller somehow, making me feel microscopic. She had given up her big career, and big condo, big life, to return to this small town for a big ring and a now beardless and insincere man.

As the bidding concluded and winners were announced, I kissed her on the cheek and slipped away through the crowd of philanthropists, before she could obligate me to brunch, where under the duress of a mimosa, I might break her heart. I kicked off my shoes and locked my door behind me, and ran to rip the sheets off of my bed before I even undressed for the night. I glared at the piled sheets on my floor before retreating to sleep on the couch with my gown still on, and my flawless cat eye smudging onto my favorite throw pillow.

I had only found sleep briefly before I heard a tap at my door, almost too faint to acknowledge. I sat for a moment, straining my eyes and ears for another noise indicating that it was in fact a knock and not just my imagination. I slowly rose from the couch, gently placing one foot in front of the other, and finally perching on my toes once I reached the door. I didn’t know who I would see on the other side of the clouded glass of my peephole, fortunately there was no one, just a canvas propped against the parallel wall. I cracked the door to get a closer look, and found myself breathless again, confronted even. I dragged the canvas inside and placed it on my entry table almost squaring off with it, like a matador. What was I to make of this gift? What was it to represent? Was it for Amelia or whomever I had named myself the night before? I’m sure the note would offer some clarity, but not tonight.