The Fruits of Our Labor

A woman of Italian heritage is careful to be busy at a party, lest their mother think them lazy and unleash the guilt hounds. After everyone arrives, I busy myself keeping bowls of snacks full, running to get drinks and putting away coats. I’m very happy to meet everyone, don’t get me wrong. The project has been an amazing success, and the communication of the team members is vital to that success. But irrationally I feel it’s better to prevent saying something stupid by avoiding conversations. I work the room, hospitality my main concern. These people who act as if I am in high regard, I can’t lose that. Sure, I stop to giggle with Rosemary, I quickly squeal when Desiree arrives, like the nicest celebrity in the world. The best bear hug ever comes from Frank. And even though I am very close to these people in our letters, I keep myself protected. But Daniel is here.

I am conscious that he is watching me. I am careful to stand up straight. I keep moving, no sitting so all my imperfections remain in motion, hard to pin down and elusive. Am I moving around to dodge conversation with him? He whom I have felt the closest to, yet couldn’t admit it because of his obvious relationship with Rosemary? She has dibs. Dibs are serious, just like in childhood.

Eventually, my time will be up. He knows my tricks; my tendency to hide and push people away. When we work together, our ideas gel quickly. We click. He knows I have to be drawn out and encouraged. He knows how to lead me there. And unlike other men, his game playing is limited, so I don’t have very long without the inevitable contact.

Rosemary is now getting loud and happier with drink, she and Desiree along with many other chatty women are settled in a square of couches, and the men are weaving in and out, some loud over books and a baseball game, some with notebooks, some playing poker and smoking cigars on the all-season porch. Daniel is seated at the table; looking silly holding an unlit cigar and casually dealing with cards and women who approach and hang on his words. His genius is known, his ways attract many, male or female, like a sweet elixir. He is a nice man, and makes it a point to give them all the attention they need, but I can feel his eyes on me as I do not join the line, the crowd of admirers to his lap. The youngest of all the aggressive women, the most outspoken and yet shy in real life, the combination must appeal to him. Rosemary has practically fallen to her knees, Desiree is all, hands on his shoulders, hands on his knees. Again, his casual nature keeps them at a distance without discouraging or hurting feelings. And his pile of chips grows. How can a man win at cards and women? I think. Giggling, shouldn’t it be one or the other?

And his eyes catch mine, again and again and he doesn’t beckon. Why doesn’t he? Why don’t I approach? I don’t, but again, continue making sure the party is a success. Everyone else can be more important than me, I can rest at the end of the night.

Rosemary pulls me down onto a love seat to chat. A few people tease me and ask questions about my contributions to the project. I make small talk, but these people know it all. I never held back. So in person, I have none of the detached stature one does with people in a new situation. Rosemary becomes distracted with her energy focused on a new person and I excuse myself and head towards the kitchen. Before I enter the hallway, I look towards the card table and he is not in his chair. Then I feel hands on my waist and I am being pulled into the hall.

“You are not going to be able to avoid me this whole party.” I only resist slightly with a nervous smile on my face and he pulls me into a closet in the hall. Once inside, his courage fails him a bit and he withdraws slightly, although his fingertips seem glued to me, as if they are the last thing holding us from floating apart in the airy suspension of virgin interaction. I know I must be bold and I lean forward, allowing his hands to slide fully onto my waist again.

“I wasn’t avoiding, I was keeping busy. As were you.” He chuckles, the same chuckle I know from the moment he finishes. Yes, we went there many times.

“I have to keep everyone happy. Each relationship separate, no? But I can’t keep my eyes off you, my secret girl.”

“Is that so?” In this peculiar place I know he is both lying and telling the truth. We can exist in multiple places, multiple dimensions at the same time, even if it’s in the same great room of this house, this lovely house of design, celebration and completion.

“Yes. You told me you give me what you want because you want to, not to get anything back. Is that still true?”

I nod and we kiss, but I know where I am going. It’s where I promised this whole time.

“You are so beautiful. I will never be sad because I have you.” He says. As the moment gets more and more fevered, I wonder if he was here before, I wonder if he was here tonight, I wonder if he was here with others. And I can’t go where I promised this whole time.

“I can’t be your one and only.” He had told me that time, the third discussion of the rules, me drowsy and weak in the moment where I fall asleep. Was I hoping all this time to change that? Am I happy when he seems to prefer me and do I maintain it by holding myself at a distance? Aloof and ephemeral wins the race. Some men prefer the chase, the shy interloper of spaces not held by perfumed slits of dresses and mature cha cha clicking of high heel shoes. I am bare feet and clean soap smell, ready to get dirty and down to work. Can they say the same? Will your clothes smell like them when they leave? Instead with me, surely I would leave my smell on the sheets, and there alone. I know I can’t go where I promised. I don’t lie or break promises; the tearing inside me feels real and immense. The breathing is accelerating so I pull away.

“I need to keep things going out there. I organized this you know.” I feel his body stiffen and my whole soul cries out that he mustn’t think I am rejecting him. He has never once or would in a million years leave me rejected. However he has his fan club out there and I can’t be just a number. It could be the worse ever, they could all be doing the same as me, or I would be the only one doing it and that would be my identity. “I only know how to fall in love, you know? And none of this is real.”

He kisses the tip of my nose and my neck and we almost start again, but he pulls away.

“Me too. There are a million lives out there. But how many in this closet?”

I giggle and the tension is broken.

“I have to keep you happy.” He says. And the chuckle again, I recognize.

“You do. I am this way because of you.”

“This isn’t over. No one knows what goes on behind closed closet doors,” He takes one last opportunity to touch what he can, then pushes me out the door. I head towards the kitchen. I turn back to see what he is doing and he is paused with his hand on the wall, steadying himself to watch me go. As if he knew I would turn to look. “We aren’t done.”

“I know. There isn’t just this life.” I say with a smile and I reach up for the necklace I wear, with the girls’ names on them. Then my fingers find my lips, still moist.

“I’ll talk to you later ok?” He heads back to the table.

I bring out another tray of snacks, already knowing my coat would be on in moments.

Then, I will head home in the snow