poetry

Monday morning, Trev wants a full report with his Ensure.

“So, did you give her a Moroccan Meatball?”

“Nope.”

“Fishhook?”

“Nope.”

“Pasadena Mudslide?”

“Hey now,” I caution. “She’s a classy girl.”

“C’mon,” he persists. “What’d you give her?”

“I really shouldn’t kiss and tell.”

“Disappearing Panda?”

“No condom.”

“Pittsburgh Platter?”

“No coffee table.”

“Change Machine?”

“Only had bills.”

“C’mon, I give up. I know you gave her something.”

“Okay, okay,” I relent. “I gave her a Minivan. I would’ve given her a Snowmobile, but she lives on the bottom floor.”

“But seriously, did you bang her?”

“Of course.” But I’m too slow to answer.

“Did you even come close?”

“Yeah,” I say, lamely. “Pretty close.”

The truth, of course, is that I didn’t even get so much as a Raspberry Beret out of the deal, but I’d be lying if I said I haven’t been clinging to a certain desperate hope in the thirty-six hours since Katya’s trapeze act swung into my life. That this crazy-haired girl with her clown shoes and her leotard and her love of a dead dog invited me into her sad little apartment, if only to pity me, means that there is still hope for me.

While Trev was sleeping this morning, I Googled the name Katya down many a blind alley, without so much as a last name. I Googled dinner theaters in Tacoma, trapeze acts in the greater Puget Sound region. I learned about straight jumps and bullet drops and whip-to-saddle swings, about inverse double suicides and half turns, along with a dizzying array of departures. With the cat curled in my lap, I was even moved to write Katya a little note of gratitude, a poem of sorts, really.

Adorable Katya,

May you live your life like a trapeze artist, by letting go and describing your graceful arc with confidence and ease, knowing that your grip will not fail you on the other side.

Yours,

Ben

While composing this little missive, I begin to mist over at the nobility of my own gesture, knowing, even before it’s finished, that after work I will drive to Bremerton and slide the note under the door of her apartment, and Katya will see that I’m worth loving.