I fell in love for the first time in Texas, one of the most dangerous places in the world. Minds are blank and solid; bodies are fat and languid.
Where the the skies make clouds make beasts with big walrus teeth, heavy and grey and jaws too big; and yellow grass that meets rainbows who undulate, and the pavement behind it (oh consistently pavement, raining pavement) and stained sometimes with new rain right after it got hot for the first time and the smell is like planting your knees in wet soil; when there is a breeze in the autumn that just lifts up the hair on your knees, in the sun, and wildflowers line each truckstop street; the very first streets where I made myself see a Mondrian tree.
I had a boyfriend in Texas.
I could lift the faces of people off their heads like fossils from sand, could turn them around and figure with my finger every fraction of them of their smile of their grimace, turn each one upside down. I began to wonder if a person could be too happy, too happy, if there was a limit and remembered, maybe, a person could go crazy - and wondered, why not?
I could feel the points of a star meeting at the ends of my limbs; I could feel a depth like a lily pad, boeing my bottom. I placated no one -- except him, of course, over and over.
I met david stalking through the aisles of a shop, one day when I was a shopgirl and had yellow hair in curls, and fleshy arms, and an *** like a pillow under a turquoise skirt. He wears shorts and looks like a dork, walks short and slightly hunched, and he doesn’t look in your eyes, and you could think it was from shyness -- until he does look, and they’re so bright, you could tilt into going blind. (He’s averse to the image of all the people toppling over around him.) He has golden hair on his arms and sturdy wrists built by elegant, competent lines, pointing its hands into indicating something of art, maybe, or deeper than that, or this.
“Is for horses”
He tells me, seriousness straightening his brow.