Group Home Blues - A Dream
Group Home Blues
I joke with her in the dining hall about going solo in the game of love. She smiles like I’ve said the funniest thing she’s ever heard. Our group living affords us little privacy but much laughter. She is a redhead with big blue eyes which if you stare into long enough become hypnotist crystals. Tall as a girl who grew up on homegrown corn, fresh milk from the cow, and where tomatoes are eaten straight off the vine, she is a down on her luck farm girl.
I find myself alone in my room stripping down for a shower. I hear a knock on the door and upon opening it am greeted by her smiling face. She is clad in only a bathrobe as she takes the initiative to step in without the usual, “May I come in?”
She says, “Hey, you silly boy, as your female friend it would be cruel of me to tease you and leave you to your own devices. So if your emotional weather permits, let me be your break in the clouds of this Seattle rain.”
She slips out of her terry cloth robe and strips me of the last vestige of my modesty. We sink to the floor together and my left hand plucks the strings of her Sitar while my right hand adjusts that tuning peg which is unique to women to the desired pitch. Then her voice vibrates with the classic chords of a woman deep in pleasure. We struggle like wrestlers in a love match. Her moans deepen into those of a Tibetan monk’s chant. Then she catches her breath until the door swings open. We are caught. She throws her caftan on and darts out like an escapee on the run.
Her assigned seat at the table is occupied by a different resident that night and her absence is like an open wound. I seek her in the room she called home but now must leave. In my hand is a silver dollar with Valentino’s image engraved on one side. When I approach her she is shaken almost crying. I hand her the coin which she takes but my gift does little to assuage her anger.
I tell her, “I haven’t felt such passion with a woman since my wife.”
She replies, “Wow, so I was that good? Thank
God, something good came out of this in spite of
me having to return to my dysfunctional family.”
I reply, “What other kind of family is there?”
She says, “How could you make a joke out of my predicament? You took advantage of my naiveté. Do you really think your token gestures will make a difference at this point? I have to pack now.”
I reply, “This was consensual.”
She replies, “I can’t believe we’re having this conversation now. Can’t you see I’m shocked? Can’t this wait until the hurt is less fresh?”
I say, “I love you.”
She replies, “Here is my yoga doll. Take this to remember me by.” I accept her gift of the figurine with legs in the full lotus pose. Then she smiles like the sun coming out from behind the clouds. She says, “But I want Mr. Yoga back when we get into those supervised apartments where what goes on in other folk’s apartments is their business and we will have real queen-sized beds instead of these single ones. That carpet chafed my bottom.”
Then her balding father steps in and looks at us from across the bed. “Why didn’t you two do it on the bed instead of the floor?”
When her father carries her TV to the car she tells me, “Now, do you see what I mean by a dysfunctional family? What kind of father says something like that to his daughter?”
I reply, “He was probably just concerned about you getting rug burn.”
She says, “You men always stick together.”
She blows me a kiss and totes a suitcase out the door and into a future where we will surely meet again.