Venus

Aquarelle ( and since)

1.

When I saw her for the first time, it was next to the entrance of our city library. Nothing surprising about that, because that’s where we agreed to meet, she was taking the train from Grand Central you see, and the library, kind of, was in the middle-train station, our apartment building, a dot on the way from one to another, a pretty one at that, libraries usually are, and even if not-they hold special charm just because, you know, libraries.

I was very anxious, to tell you the truth, I thought hard about what to wear and picked something black, I remember very well all the black details of that black outfit: the trousers, the top, and a very light summer jacket, and how it all made me slim even though I was slim in any case. 

I was bold before, I swear- first time I was bold was when I was in high school, one just gets bold because one loses hope and goes “I’d rather lose face than hope, if things go south”, and then it might be that you’ll lose both, and maybe not, and I was bold many times since, so. 

Still, one gets awfully anxious. 

She was already sitting there, on that bench next to the library entrance, and you know how your heart starts beating crazily like some mad bird against the glass, that confuses vastness of the sky with reflection of that vastness in your window, so that’s how it was when I caught a glimpse of her. 

Also, I became briefly blinded, so beautiful she was, I mean I saw the photo before, but it still caught me unprepared, she was too radiant, just too radiant, and everybody would stare at her, because it was impossible not to.

She wore a mini-dress, aquarelle green it was, some semi-sheer number, and high heels, and she had a purse and a big tote, and when she got up, upon seeing me, this tote made a strange melodical sound, like if some kid would be trying a key on a piano, “cling”, it went. 

Later, it turned out, those were perfume bottles. Rattling inside.

She dragged them with her everywhere, she was into perfumes, probably had 5 or 6 different bottles full or half full of perfumes of various scents. Maybe she also was a bit anxious and didn’t know which ones to choose, or she just liked having them with her, it was hard to assume somebody so fucking beautiful might get anxious too before meeting me, you know.

The purse, among other things, housed a couple books she was reading back then, and she read mostly non-fiction, which strangely was either philosophy-or self-help stuff. 
That first evening, one of the books was by Nietzsche, and I don’t recall what were the other ones, but something along these lines as well. 

She obviously didn’t want to part with those either, even though she came just for a day or two, was it a weekend?  

She was younger than me, maybe eight years younger, which at our age still could matter a lot, big gap, you know, you’re already all grown-up, and somebody so young as she can be too “what-ya-gonna-talk-about-for-two days”. 

Only with her it was never the case, she was so smart like you wouldn’t believe it. Actually, now I realize she was highly gifted. If somebody would take trouble measuring her IQ she’d be in fucking Mensa or something. She wouldn’t be interested one bit in being there, that’s another matter. 

She was batshit crazy too, of course I wasn’t aware of how much yet, and then even if I was- I am myself batshit crazy. Only she could give me a run for my money, there’s my batshit crazy, and there’s hers. Next to her I was a shining beacon of stability. 

I didn’t read Nietzsche and didn’t want to, and I’m not into self-help books, I can write them if you care to know, I’d be a hoot, I just hate preaching. Do this, don’t do that. Don’t do this, rather do that.  Why do you cry? Smile! Why do you smile? Cry! I exaggerate of course, there are exceptions, but. Flat as cardboard, most of these are, what she found in them, and what it has to do with all the philosophers she devoured? 

Never understood her dislike of fiction, even though she did try to explain it to me, years later. I’m left with questions still, but no one to answer them. 

But, when she was especially kind, I mean kinder than usual - she would read to me a story sometimes. She read very well. I prefer reading myself; it just felt like something a sane person doesn’t pass up- listening to her reading a story to you, to you only. 

I don’t recall much of that first evening, only that we probably walked at some point to our place because I know we ended up being there.

We stayed talking into the night after everybody else fell asleep, and it became late, and I got so awfully nervous, I just didn’t know what to do, and decided to lose hope rather than face, I guess. And she saw how tormented became my face, in that attempt to save itself - and she smiled, she smiled at me so reassuringly, like it was she who was bold, she smiled, and she took my hand. 



                                    *******

2.
  
I still look like Venus, give or take the face, 
Only beaten up.

Dimple here, imperfection there,
Slightly broken, but arms intact
Yet. Useless, of course, like the rest of me, but isn’t all art
Quite useless?

People pass me by in a hurry. Some wonder
What’s all the fuss about.
I can’t do anything, anything, anything,
But continue to stand.

Between Motherland, Otherland, and Anotherland,
They decided – and put me in Neverland.
I don’t live; I dwell. 

Still, didn’t I visit Venus of Milo twice, 
When in Paris? Didn’t I go there, full of anticipation, 
Like a secret lover, 
Longing for another look?

See, if one stares long enough, I whispered,
She reminds a boy, did you notice?
Did you notice? 
Just like me, dear. 
Just like me. 

 
*****