Perfidia and the Return of the Night Owl

He loved her hair. He loved how it felt, so fine and smooth against his fingertips. But mostly he loved how she was naturally blonde, a raw untouched beauty. Which is why Perfidia had been sitting in the hairdresser’s chair for the last two hours having her hair dyed with L’Oréal. It took a lot of time and money to look this natural.

Perfidia sat mesmerized as Anne Marie the hairstylist performed her art. She took the back of her comb, meticulously wove it through the strands of Perfidia’s hair, painted each section with her small, plastic paintbrush then wrapped it in slices of silver tin foil.

Section by section, strip by strip. Weaving, painting, wrapping. Golden Blonde, Honey Blonde, Dark Blonde. It had taken a long time and many visits to the hair salon to find the correct color combination, but with these three shades and Anne Marie's artistry, Perfidia had finally struck her desired gold.

*******

I'm on my way home from the hairdressers, striding down the gray footpath with yellow, silk threads swooshing down my back. It’s not long before an oversized truck rambles past, taking up too many lanes. The driver leans out of the window leering my way, bellows something inaudible and blasts his horn. A quick glance confirms what I already know - he is sturdy and robust, eyes too small and salivating. I feel repulsed, but I know too, that I wield the power.

All they see is the hair, golden and captivating. They cannot dominate me because they are consumed, intoxicated and swept up under my spell; their senses nullified.

There is only one man who sees through the veil. Rafferty and I are two halves of a whole, sometimes clashing but mostly sliding together in synchronicity.

Rafferty is a vague and nebulous music producer, a prodigiously gifted creative genius and domestic dunce. I love him and loathe him at once. He is notoriously late, perennially lost in the moment, absorbed by the task before him yet strangely absent. His world is a whirlwind of bands, recording schedules and musical equipment. And of course, there are the leads.

Leads are Raff's currency, his source of interconnection and power. There are myriad gray electrical leads that are plugged into double adapters in the loungeroom, hooked up to guitars, amps, wah wah pedals and drum kits. And herein lies the irony; Raff is sloppy and careless beyond all measure but fanatical with his leads.

I observe him as he collects his leads before heading out, picking them off the floor and meticulously coiling them into perfect, round loops. Traveling with him, forever by his side, waiting to be unrolled and plugged in at any moment, a life line of electricity ready to capture his internal beat. Swirling, gray spaghetti swallowing up our house, devouring all that is Us; his umbilical cord to the world outside, the world away from me.

Sometimes I wonder if Raff loves his leads even more than he loves me.

It’s evening and I’m almost home from the hairdressers, my chest feeling light, yearning for Raff. Five years on and I am still excited to see him, like a new lover waiting to be doused with a wave of love chemicals. We have a routine. When Raff sees me, he walks over and holds me tight, encasing me with his arms and clutching me close so I can hear the beating of his heart inside. He bends down and kisses the top of my head and I close my eyes. It feels so safe, a haven. I am protected.

When I am with Raff I never want him to let me go. It's in these moments that I am happiest, not wanting to be anywhere else, with anyone else. All my needs are met and I wish life could be one long embrace. I'm especially eager for Raff to see me today with my hair all polished and clean.

When I'm at the front door, I insert the key into the lock and hold my breath, longing for the closeness.

I walk into the dark abyss of the house. Empty. He's late again, forever the owl of the night. The romantic night owl that only has one partner for life.

But then consider the warnings of the Old English poets, like Wordsworth who believed night owls to be harbingers of doom. I shudder with the acknowledgement that perhaps they were right.

My stomach feels dead and I swallow hard. I check my phone, he has not even bothered to call.  

I walk into the bathroom, switch on the light, stand in front of the mirror and study my reflection. I routinely take the brown handled hairbrush from the cupboard and unconsciously pull at my hair. It's so long now that my arm motions are quite dramatic, swooping down in long arcs so I can reach the tips.

My hair is longer now than it's ever been, splaying against my hips; a long, golden sheen encasing my body like a halo. I love Rafferty brushing my hair, coaxing the brush through the strands, making it shiny and smooth. He's captivated with it's color, silkiness and it's apple smell that comes in a bottle.

I gaze in the mirror and admire Anne Marie's work. If you look closely you can see the different shades, intertwining and forming a magnificent myriad of yellows. The angelic reflection represents all that I wanted to be when I was a girl with a dark brown pudding bowl haircut and bangs too short.  

I have grown what some might consider beautiful; blonde, ethereal and thin to the point of skeletal. Hungry and yearning. I am often surprised when I catch my reflection by chance and am no longer the clumsy girl with the chubby face and friendly eyes.

If I’m honest, it’s the eyes that unnerve me as they are not the masterful eyes I imagine I have. They hold a vulnerability I cannot stand to see, holding my stories and reminding me of relinquished dreams and what could have been...

I see the vulnerability now that I'm missing Raff. I pull away from the mirror angrily and remind myself I am in control.

It’s dinner time and I'm hungry but I refrain from eating. I know it's going to take more than food to fill me up. Right now, looking in the mirror and seeing those eyes I want to be with Raff more than anything.

I want Raff more than I want thin thighs.

It's after midnight when I revisit the bathroom mirror. Outside the rain is pelting down, whipping hard against the frosted glass window pane. At any moment I feel the glass will crack, shards caving in, the rain having won.

The bathroom light is unkind and I feel old and decrepit. My reflection is sorrowful with dark, red lines under my eyes and skin the color of clouds. I am wretched, like a small scraggly bird that has fallen out of it's nest, left for dead on the footpath waiting for the Night Owl to devour me live...  

It's torture this twilight zone, land of perpetual anticipation. My nights are always like this, wondering if he'll be home when he says he will. Waiting for him to call, waiting for a sign Raff loves me.

My guts are tangled and in motion, churning around, not wanting to let me believe. A python of anger rises up inside, hissing and telling me to give in, to be alone.

It's 2am when the phone rings in my ear. I've fallen asleep with it on the pillow, like a phantom partner keeping me company in the night.

Rafferty talks excitedly down the line, lightly apologizing for his lateness. It's been a long recording day but they have been productive apparently. I nod silently into the darkness. My heart is motionless. I am powerless. Raff's world swallows him up to the point where he is oblivious and forgetful of everything, including me.

I end the call, turn my face into the pillow and heave. The salt tears slide down my face as the white cotton pillow slip becomes saturated. I am strangled, smothered by frustration, yearning to breathe.

I am Perfidia and I am invisible to those who matter.

There was a time when it was different, when I used to write with my passion flowing onto paper. Vibrant word rainbows; the sun shining out through my body, warmth in my arms, my hands, the pen and the page. Ironically, it was my writing that attracted Rafferty in the first place -expression of the colors inside illuminating all that I am, telling my stories and the things I've seen.

I no longer write. The words are now stuck, squashed, jumbled and torn. Buried down deep, wanting air, needing release. I've lost my rhythm, my pattern of things. Swallowed up by this hole, this big, gray aching void.

Now there is a star in my sky and it's Rafferty, shining loudly, burning brightly. Rafferty's world obscures my world, his talent eclipsing mine.

And so I relent and give way to the genius. Propping up, praising and powering the prodigy. Collapsing to my knees under the sun.

But I am weary and the shadows I cast are long.

                                                      *******

There is a hand on my cheek in the darkness. Rafferty bows down beside me, inhaling my apple scented hair. I feel his breath on my skin as he moves closer, drawing me in until I am weak. Then he collapses on the bed, turning away.

I am unsatisfied. My appetite whetted, left alone in the night with my craving. I prop myself up on one elbow and watch the outline of his shoulders start to rise and fall with regularity as he moves into sleep.

It's dark but I see Rafferty still wears the black t shirt he pulled on in the morning. His jeans lay on the floor where he has absent mindedly kicked them off. And beside the jeans I view the outline of his guitar case and myriad leads. There is a sting I my heart as I see the plastic spaghetti. Suddenly I am a crystal cathedral in winter. Cold. White.

I remind myself that Rafferty loves me more than his other world and the leads, yet here we are again. In competition.

I'm crippled by my desire to have Raff here with me always but I know that in morning he will be gone again. Outside the night is dying. The silver light of dawn filters through the window, dancing up the length of the bed and nearing Rafferty's sleeping head; the day crawling in to take him away.

I lean over and place my hand over his, conveying my affection and intrinsic desire to be close. Rafferty shifts slightly as my long hair limps over my shoulder falling about his face and neck. And there it is. The silky threads singing my solution.

I gently lift Rafferty’s sleeping head and wind the golden strands of hair around and around his neck. I give a little tug, tightening the strands around him. I tug a little more as Rafferty opens his eyes and pulls at the cord around his neck. I urge him not to resist and pull the string tighter, watching it release the life.

And then it's done.

Rafferty lies in my arms, his chest neither rising or falling, but still. Not wanting or needing to leave. At once I am serene, divinely guided and at peace. My heart is cool, calm, turquoise; aqua like the sea.

I can finally breathe.

I gaze down at Rafferty’s face and he looks so peaceful, like he's asleep. Perfection as a new dawn breaks and everything is as it should be.

Now Rafferty the Night Owl is here. Always with me.