[Content warning: mention of gender-based violence]
Rosalie says, ‘I miss my lover, my former lover, my lover before that, and my ex-husband.’
I think she’s crazy – none of them have ever treated her very well, and, being the bestie, I’ve had to hear all about it, over wine, over tea, over coffee, over marijuana, and mojitos and margaritas, over years, at her place, at my place, assorted restaurants and bars, parks with benches, up climbable trees, and even in ‘their’ places, all one, two, three? Four of them? I’m sure the number is bigger than that. Maybe she forgot a few.
We’re going around a Saturday market, one that calls itself Bohemian. We go to markets again, now that lockdown is over, always looking, looking, looking. Endlessly hungry for ocarinas, paper dolls, pashminas, anything – an effect of pandemic sensory deprivation.
She goes on, ‘I don’t know if I ever really loved them properly until they were gone.’
Earrings. Body piercings! The girl selling them has some interesting ones. And a fairy tattooed forever flying above her cleavage. ‘Do you think any of them loved me?’
I don’t know what to say. There are silver star signs. Gemini looks promising. Virgo, not so much.
‘Beth?’
‘I’m sure they did.’ I pick up some jade studs. So green.
‘Really.’ She looks hopeful, her eyebrows raised, her dark eyes searching.
I hook the earrings back onto the stand, ‘Except, maybe, Ryan. And, well, I’m sure Harry didn’t, not with the way he pushed you out of that window.’
‘He didn’t! Oh well, sort of. You make it sound so violent.’
‘I don’t know about Todd either. I think I was the only friend of yours he didn’t fuck. Not that he didn’t proposition me. Several times.’
‘Don’t talk about Todd.’
‘And as for Krish, and that other one from the Monsoon Wedding phase …’
‘Don’t remind me.’
‘And your ex-husband hit you.’
‘For God’s sake, Beth-Anne, it was only once or twice. And not very hard.’
‘He burst your eardrum.’
‘I know what I told you, but I was exaggerating. I was young and melodramatic.’ She’s miffed at me for remembering. Wounded even. She feels judged, no doubt, although I didn’t mean it that way. Or maybe I did. I’m tired.
She wanders away from me now, her shoulders slightly hunched, and starts flipping through the paperbacks at a bookstall. I pretend to be fascinated by some windchimes for a while, but then I suss her out. How can I stay angry? She has two large angel wings in applique on the back of her denim jacket. They would look ridiculous on most people, but, even with her nearly bald chemo head, and pushing fifty, she looks seraphic. Lanky lovely.
I feel like my name should be Djuna, or Radclyffe.
‘Found any good ones?’ I touch her arm.
‘Look! Neruda!’ she says beaming and I know I’ve been forgiven. ‘And Lorca! My poor, poor Lorca. Do you remember the poem D.M. Thomas wrote about him?’
‘I do.’ Nothing belongs to anyone.
Linda Ann Strang is the author of the poetry collections Wedding Underwear for Mermaids (2011) and Star Reverse (2022). Her poetry and short stories have appeared in Hunger Mountain, The Malahat Review, Gone Lawn, and elsewhere. Linda teaches at the Nelson Mandela University in Port Elizabeth, South Africa. You can find Linda on Twitter as @LindaAnnStrang.
Photo by Freddie Marriage on Unsplash.
What a thought-provoking piece. I know I’ve had conversations like this before… but never in such exotic locations. Really riveting work.