“Have you ever had Maya’s samosas?”
We’re in front of a food cart in the middle of the market. “I don’t think so.”
“Oh my god—so good!” Ebony buys a plateful of vegetarian samosas.
We sit side by side on a bench. She holds the paper plate between us. “Careful,” she says, biting off two corners of a samosa. She blows gently into one hole, forcing steam out the second. “Hot!” she says, bugging her eyes out.
“These are good,” I agree. I love samosas, but Maya’s are amazing. Potatoes, onions, peas, cilantro, a bit of curry, something peppery…“Oh, yum!”
Ebony carefully nibbles her way into the hot filling. “So, you going to tell me about this David boy?”
“Not so much to tell, really.”
“How did you meet?”
I blush. “It’s kind of a lame story.”
“No such thing as a lame story when it comes to looove.”
“You haven’t heard it yet…”
“So tell me.”
“Everybody at my school knew David. He’s a really good soccer player and he’s also smart and funny—and, you know, self-confident.”
Ebony grins. “Sounds like Mr. Perfect.”
“Almost.”
“Have another one before I eat them all. So he went to your school and you and every other girl thought he was amazing. How did you—?”
“We were at this dance. A group of us girls—we were all dancing together. Then about four of the soccer players joined us—and somehow David and I started dancing.”
Ebony waits for me to go on.
“This is going to sound so bad—”
“I doubt it. We’ve all been there.”
“It was hot, so after three dances we went outside to cool off. He said he liked the way I moved—”
“Oooh…”
“And he asked me if I needed a drink—”
“I bet you did—”
“Well, yeah. So we went back to his car and I gulped this beer down way too fast and then…”
Ebony giggles. “Okay, I get it.”
“I don’t. Not really. I always thought I was the kind of girl who wanted to have a conversation first—Shut up! It’s not that funny!”
“Sorry. So you guys did it in the parking lot?”
My head feels like it’s going to fall off. What am I doing telling her all this? “Well, more or less.”
“And?”
“What, and?”
“You must have liked more-or-lessing with him—you kept seeing him, right?”
“Yeah. We were together two years.”
“That’s a lot of more-or-lessing!”
She’s right. We spent a lot of time more-or-lessing.
“Did you like it?”
Oh god. Why did I let her start down this path? Yes, I liked it. A lot. It was the best part of our relationship. It wasn’t like he was into poetry, and I don’t think I ever watched a whole soccer game. How sad is that?
Ebony ignores my failure to answer and keeps right on going.
“Because there’s nothing wrong with enjoying yourself. Why should guys have all the fun?” She chomps down on another samosa. “Oh. My. God. These are so good. We should try to make them sometime.”
“Really? Do you really think that?” I ask.
“What—that we should make samosas? Or that girls can like sex as much as boys? I’m not going to speak for everyone, but sure—I mean, as long as you’re careful and everybody plays nice and you both want to…”
I can’t believe we’re having this conversation sitting on a Camden park bench. Mom would be horrified.
“Not everybody agrees,” I say.
“Who cares? You’re not trying to make other people happy. That’s the fast road to hell, if you ask me.”
“Split the last one?”
We tear the last samosa down the middle and sit side by side, chewing.
“It’s not fair what some people say about girls like us,” Ebony says, wiping her fingers on her jeans.
I know exactly what she means. “There’s a difference between lusty and wicked—”
“Stop! You should write that down!”
“I’ve wanted to do a poem about this forever,” I confess.
“Say it again.”
“There’s a difference between lusty and wicked…”
“How about this—Who says that lusty implies some kind of wicked? Is it better when you start with a question?”
“What do you think?”
“Maybe. Then you could go on with something like, are lusty women lewd or—”
“Lascivious,” I suggest.
“Lascivious?”
“Too hot for your own good.”
“Hang on. Let’s write this down.”
I pull my notebook from my bag and open it on my lap.
We work together for almost an hour, throwing ideas back and forth. Ebony takes the page and writes; I take it back and write. When we’re done we have a long poem in two voices about— well, all kinds of things.
“We could perform this at Nationals,” Ebony says. “If we both make the team. God, I really hope we both do.”
“Me too.”
“Let’s do it one more time,” she suggests. “Then I have to go.”
I have no idea who hears our poem, and I don’t care. We read through it together as if we’ve been practicing for years. Sometimes she reads alone, sometimes I do. Then, somehow, we both know when we need to deliver a line together.
Who says that lusty implies
some kind of wicked?
that women are lewd
or lascivious
when, in fact, exuberant
is not lawless
extravagant
not the same as careless.
Immoral, or frolicsome?
Unchaste, or playful?
We choose playful and yet
we see how they look at us when
when my hand slides under his
shirt
rests gently against the warm
skin of his back.
when I slip my hand in his
in the lobby of the Grand Plaza
Hotel.
Your lover is a boy
mine is a man
gentle and sophisticated.
He knows his wines
cars
cruise lines
and corporate logos.
My boy knows my body.
Whatever electric pulses
hormones
or destiny
were at work on the dance floor
at the high school gym
left us sweating in the backseat
of his car.
Three years ago
it seemed that fate
had delivered my boy
into my lap
his curly hair tickling my chin
as he nuzzled his way
into cleavage
and I sighed my way into
oblivion.
My gentleman friend
understands the language of
chocolates
roses shipped by the dozen.
My boy understands the
language of soccer
shoots to score
leaves his cleats
on the floor by the bed
and whoops when he should
whisper.
There’s no way to speak of this
without moaning
the pleasure of memory
the way the windows fogged
the way the springs heaved us
back and forth
the way he had to move the
umbrella
before someone got hurt.
Lace and small buttons
soccer cleats and hockey jerseys
snaps and scarves
jeans so tight you can’t help
but squeeze
Always a drink before
Always a drink after
The hostess greets him by name
Good evening, Mr. Charmante…
wine list
specials.
I am special
his lovely girl
elegant in pearls
and pumps
and a simple black dress
he will peel off
as I loosen his tie.
It was all so easy, remember?
Of course you remember
the line in the sand
the very minute when
it stopped being easy
the evening I
picked up the cell phone
and heard his wife’s voice
the day we didn’t answer our
phones
and kept on playing.
You remember when we started being
something else:
an obligation
born not of pleasure
but of shared guilt
knowing that the world
divides
into two kinds of people
those who know
those who have wives
and those who don’t
those who have killed
and those who haven’t
those who tell the truth
and those who make love with
lies
those who know what it is to be left
and those who believe
that leaving is easy.