Ships, Passing

Palms flat on the front door of her apartment, her ear hovering close to the painted wood, her soft grey eyes--encircled with lines that crinkled when she was concerned or laughing--were unfixed and wandering.

From the opposite end of the long corridor, her across-the-hall neighbour, Harvey, approached. He smiled, inwardly; the sight of Celica was sweet recompense for a difficult day. He was fond of his neighbour -- too fond, in fact, but he hid it well.

They met on the first day of school, on exchange in Rotterdam. They both lived in the student apartments on campus -- a dormitory for grown-ups. Having only arrived the night before the first day of classes, Harvey had returned from his first day exhausted and loathe to begin unpacking. Celica returned to find the long-closed across-the-hall door finally opened, with the promise of life within. She walked into the apartment. Harvey heard her voice and turned around.

"Hi," she had said.

Harvey was on his knees surrounded with bric-a-brac, seemingly embarrassed for owning it.

"The mess..." he winced, "er, this stuff isn't really mine. I hate it all. I only bring it with me because I love luggage."

Celica laughed. She had settled in month ago and was an experienced veteran compared to Harvey. Though she was a complete stranger, she made him feel comfortable in his new surroundings. He remembered standing up to greet her, and offering his hand. But Celica had a warmth that made the gesture seem awkward and unnecessarily formal. They had clasped hands amused at the distinguished action.

Harvey was disgusted with his pile. "I hate all this stuff," he said. "the only thing I actually need is a stereo and that's the one thing I didn't have room for in my luggage.

And Celica's eyes ignited with inspiration. "I'll be right back".

Celica disappeared through the front door of Harvey's apartment. Before Harvey could process that she had left, she quickly reappeared with a large grey radio in her arms, its power cord dragging along the carpet behind her.

"Now, the CD player doesn't work. The tape player does, but I'm sure you don't have any. But you can use the radio. The radio stations here are pretty wild."

"Thanks," said Harvey taking the large radio from her arms. He placed it gingerly near his mountain of belongings. "I'm Harvey."

"Celica." The she heard someone call her name from outside the apartment.

"I'll talk to you later," she said, and flitted away.

Harvey continued down the Hall, still thinking about the day he met Celica. Celica stood in the hallway braced against her apartment door. Perhaps she had forgotten her keys. He tried again to catch her glance; to get her attention. He said her name,

"Celica,"

With a half-whispered shout down the hall. She didn't hear. He grasped for her wandering gaze, but she looked instead to the ceiling; her fingers tensed against the surface of her apartment door. Then strangely, she echoed dryly,

"Celica,"

Quite matter-of-fact. And Harvey, nearing, and confused, repeated,

"Celica?"

His voice inquisitive and softer. He slowed his advance, slightly, as if to elongate the corridor along which he walked.

Celica leaned her head against the door, as though trying to hear inside. While she listened, at last, her eyes met Harvey's. She smiled.

It would turn out that Celica and Harvey would have a few classes together. She was a year older than Harvey and hailed from Indiana. She thought Harvey's Canadian accent was intriguing and was forever exhorting him to say "about". He certainly hated this, but liked just about everything else about Celica. She was blond, and wise, and warm.

Back in the hallway, she spoke again,

"Celica!"

Loudly. Harvey's confusion further slowed his pace. She pronounced again,

"Celica!"

Even louder. And her eyes rolled to the door, anticipating. As Harvey neared, he spoke in a normal voice. He began to ask,

"Isn't that your name?"

But Celica, startled, moved a step back from the opening door. A tall and drowsy man swayed in the doorway. Frank looked down at Celica with a blurry gaze.

"Hey, you," and after pausing to rub his half-closed eyes, "I was sleeping."

He yawned for a long time. And in the time it took for Frank to exhale, Harvey had traversed the remainder of the long corridor. Harvey found himself standing across from Celica and Frank, fumbling with the keys to his flat.

Celica sighed and chuckled slightly at the oafish Frank drowsily teetering in her threshold. "Go back to bed," she said with a sigh, and gave his big chest a gentle push. Frank retreated into the darkened apartment. Celica turned around to face Harvey, and smiled at him in the afternoon light.

And Harvey, with his keys in his lock, smiled back sheepishly. He was fond of Celica, though he hid it well.

* * *

I got a postcard from her about a year after that. She and Frank were teaching in a village of about 1 000 people. I wrote back. And so did she. And thus began a correspondence that would pull me between the wings of a plane, into the jaws of Texas, through the arms of Celica and on to my legs in retreat.

It seems the power of correspondence is also its fatal flaw: the interlocking of dialogue and ideas, like the teeth of a zipper, is nothing but the blueprint of a beautiful ship. It's ether. In reality, when all is said and built, we suffer the creaking hull and frown at the sails sagging in the weak wind, and wonder what the hell happened.

It turned out we were on different ships altogether. And when they passed, they passed closely, the hulls nudging gently with a dull watery thud that cracked every surface of my vessel. She waved goodbye as her ship shrunk in the horizon, but I stood arms-folded, my legs growing cold with the rising water.

Christmas in your mouth

It can be really, really difficult talking to my friend Darryl:

Darryl: Have you ever tried to... you know?
Harvey: What?
Darryl: You know...
Harvey: Hm. Nope. I think you have to be more specific.
Darryl: Go down...
Harvey: Yes?
Darryl: On... yourself?
Harvey: Christ. No, not ever.
Darryl:: Bullshit, you obviously have.
Harvey: What? How common is this practice?
Darryl: C'mon; you wouldn't suck your own dick if you could?
Harvey: I would not.
Darryl: Once again, bullshit. You give yourself handjobs don't you?
Harvey: No, Darryl. Those aren’t handjobs. No more than looking at yourself in a mirror is voyeurism.
Darryl: What if you could just suck your own dick – just once. Would you?
Harvey: That doesn't sweeten the deal, Darryl. What are you getting at?
Darryl: I did it.
Harvey: Christ in heaven.
Darryl: Last night, I finally did it.
Harvey: Well, congratulations. Was it everything you hoped it would be?
Darryl: In fact--
Harvey: Actually: shut up, dude.
Darryl: Don’t you wanna know what happened?
Harvey: You twisted your body to allow your penis to enter your mouth. Anything further--
Darryl: No, man. It's so much more than that.
Harvey: Please don't elaborate.
Darryl: It was like landing on the moon.
Harvey: I'm sure that's an apt comparison.
Darryl: No really, the thrill of just barely getting it in--
Harvey: You have to stop talking.
Darryl: Well, I'm sorry if the idea of being able to blow myself makes you uncomfortable.
Harvey: Christ.
Darryl: It was skydiving from the top of Mount Everest.
Harvey: Really.
Darryl: It was like Christmas, man. Like Christmas fucking Day.
Harvey: I don’t really celebrate—
Darryl: It was like when your mom brings you breakfast in bed when you’re sick from school.
Harvey: Dear God.
Darryl: Um.
Harvey: I gotta go, Darryl.