Peaches

I have more than one association with peaches:

Thelma and Louise and the nickname “Peaches” that Jimmy gives as the supposed code word for a wire transfer pickup, only for her to discover he’s there in person, with the money.

T.S. Eliot’s “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” and “Do I dare to eat a peach?”

The Steve Miller Band’s “Joker” lyrics, “You’re the cutest thing I ever did see. Really love your peaches, wanna shake your tree.”

Down to The Presidents of the United States of America’s track, “Peaches.”

I also have an ex of sorts, who once asserted that all girls taste like peaches. That’s why, in Mystery Train, Molly at the bar, whom Haven had fed from, tasted like peaches, when they kissed.

I’m not sure where I stand on the girl-kiss-flavor vote, but they can’t all taste the same. It’s been a bit, but that still feels like something I would have recalled. Investigating in order, maybe? For science?

I’d been thinking about Los Angeles recently, but hadn’t spared much thought to Illinois, or my varied youthful adventures in Chicago. Then, I saw that, for the second time, a mutual connection had tagged her in a post on social media.

The first time, one of my high school besties and former unrequited crushes, who’d years before travelled to visit me and my daughter and stayed with us awhile, had posted a photo, and shared memories of their friendship.

It was an uncanny time for me. Literally everyone from my past whom I mentioned to my long-distance bestie suddenly popped back up into my life, in one form or another.

I even saw a reel that later seemed spooky, where people at a crowded party were trying to pass a message on to “K____,” until the final speaker said, “K____’s not here.” Shortly after that, I saw a dating profile that reminded me of him; no photo, however. That seemed to warrant a Google search. Had he come back from overseas? That’s when I found his obituary. So, he really wasn’t “here,” or anywhere. Long-distance bestie had said of my coming across that reel in my feed, “The universe already knew.”

I don’t recall who else returned from obscurity over the course of those three or four days, but it was definitely more than just the two of them. Enough that it felt like a trend in synchronicity.

Going back to that initial post tagging my girlie ex’s profile. I was curious what she was up to, and wanted to catch up. A lot had happened in my life, and probably, in hers, since high school, and early college (we attended different universities, but I think we also caught up after I had graduated high school and was visiting friends… maybe down from Wisconsin? I don’t think it was over break when I was living in Los Angeles).

She acknowledged that she was, indeed, who I thought she was. Was her last name already different at that point, by marriage? Possibly. But her replies were abrupt and clipped, and she pretty quickly said she had to get offline, to feed her kids. She told me barebones facts about them, and received my compliment that I bet she was a great mom, politely enough. But she also didn’t really acknowledge that she remembered me.

We’d worked together at my very first job, and I’d been her first girl kiss. She’d been my first kiss, period. Maybe it’s arrogant to assume, but I would think that kind of thing might stand out in your mind. As I said, she later took me out to dinner, long after high school was over. I’d picked a nice French restaurant that had a tapestry of the Birth of Venus painting on the wall.

We attended a Tori Amos concert together, and where I bought a ball-chain style necklace, with a flattened disc pendant, “Raspberry Swirl Girl” engraved upon it. For the longest time, I wore that everywhere, along with a lapis lazuli ring that had become too small for my fingers.

After the concert, we walked to Little Italy. Chicago is a great place for late night cuisine. Apparently, you can get any kind of ethnic food you could possibly want, any time of day or night. At least, that was the case, back then. Not sure if Covid changed that.

She had a glass of wine with her fake ID, and tried to get one for me, but the server refused. I was nonetheless perfectly happy to just enjoy the food, the ambiance, and her presence.

This was back when she was living in an off-campus apartment downtown, no air-conditioning, beyond the portable one her roommate’s father had purchased just for her, that she kept in her own room. It was summer, and the upstairs apartment was sweltering, even with the windows open to catch errant breezes. I spent the night, sleeping on the couch.

That was also when she demonstrated something scientific to me. I don’t remember quite how she explained it. Something about how once you’ve kissed someone, your molecules and theirs co-mingle, on your lips, and you’re more likely to find their lips again, even in the dark, or with your eyes closed, because of some sort of pull back toward the molecular source? It sounds like BS now, but at the time, I was very impressed.

We kissed in their shared bathroom, once with the door open and light on, then again, with the door closed, in the dark. Sure enough, she found my mouth, no problem, without being able to see me.

Other assorted memories: all the times she drove me home, pulling up far enough into the driveway so the cab of her beat-up pickup couldn’t be seen from the front window, so we could kiss goodnight. The truck had bench-style seating, so it was easy to slide across, toward her.

One such trip, I remember “Lola” by The Kinks playing on the radio.

AH I DO have a kiss-flavor memory. I think she tasted more like either Dr. Pepper, or like the aftertaste of the white cherry slushies from work. Not sure if we had Dr. Pepper in the soda machines? We could help ourselves to free drinks, all shift.

There was a night I was sure that if I just poured everything I felt for her into a kiss, that surely, surely, she’d take me more seriously. She’d commented that I was really getting good at kissing, but said nothing more.

Side note: I assert that kissing women, and (much later) very experienced player-dater musicians, does quite a bit to up your game. The musician, interestingly, kissed like a woman, even though the taste of his mouth and his base scent were musky and masculine; at times, he was more aggressive about it, which I guess is something I associate with men. And he wasn’t always smooth-shaven, which, when he was, definitely created a more androgynous sensory experience.

I’d wanted to exchange Christmas gifts with her one season, and had seen a t-shirt I really wanted, at a comic book shop within walking distance of the high school, and my neighborhood. Would I still consider it walking distance now? Blocks away. We were kids. We walked a lot. And they had a tee I thought she would really dig, as well. Might have been a graphic of Han Solo.

I don’t think she was especially thrilled about the gift exchange, in retrospect, but it had felt like getting the shirt from her, even without it being a surprise, would make it more meaningful.

Even then, I was teetering on the fine edge of plus-size. She was a former competitive swimmer and gymnast, and even after quitting and gaining some curves, still smaller than me in build. She bought my tee too small, and I bought hers too big, the both of us maybe projecting the size we would have gotten for ourselves.

There was a fella she started dating around the time we were seeing each other. When she left for college, she forwarded him her contact info at school, so they could keep in touch, but didn’t do the same for me.

He’d asked if I wanted her number or email, but I was bitter about the slight, and declined– only to later ask a friend from Gifted, and my various accelerated classes, to do some digging, and find her campus email address. That was how we later reconnected.

But yeah… a couple fancy dinners, and a concert. Kissing in the dark. Me, sweating and frustrated on her living room couch in the city, unaccustomed to sleeping without central air, at that point. I remember walking to her bedroom and peering inside, wondering if she was already asleep. I wrestled with insomnia often, those days, and the heat hadn’t helped.

She was stretched out, face down, above the covers, in a pair of black silk boxers, in deference to the temperature. The froth of her blonde spiral curls spilled over the sweep of her bare back.

I was miffed about being all wound up and left unsatisfied, after we’d engaged in light foreplay on the couch. Maybe unfair, but I could only think back to the laundry list of places she’d “made love” with various men, even if by and large it sounded much more casual than the phrase “making love” connotes– including (if I recall) the top of the desk at one of her parents’ offices. And she owned a black rubber dress. All that, she could do, for men, but not for me.

That jealousy may have stuck with me enough that I kept my distance, after that visit.

The exact timeline is lost to me.

We’d also seen each other from a distance at a Nine Inch Nails concert, during high school, having gone with different friends. Was she seeing that guy already, at that point?

I must have felt we weren’t exclusive somehow, because nothing stopped me from flirting hardcore with a guy out front, boldly walking up and asking if he’d mind if I wrapped my arms around him, inside his coat, since I’d taken my jacket off and left it in the car. My bare arms were freezing.

But I’d figured better to freeze outside than have to wrangle a coat in the auditorium. I’d worn a blaze-orange shirt that read “This is my costume” in spooky font– the only one in orange apart from security.

Wrote a poem about that whole experience, which I have drafted and redrafted many times.

I just needed to reminisce and vent. And I know she’ll never see this. It’s doubtful any of our mutual contacts will, either. Which is fine. I did this, for me.

Millions of peaches.

Too much social media, maybe, or time to dive into the dating apps more seriously, and leave the past behind. It’s to the point where my wilder days feel like they happened to someone else, entirely.

Perhaps in a sense, that’s true.

Trying to keep my own spark alive, day by day.

It do be rough, out there, at times.

I just want to thrill about someone again.

Surely, even stabler and on a better meds combo, I’m still capable of that kind of emotion?

For someone apart from fictional characters or celebrities.

In the meantime, as I have said before, I will keep adding chapters to my own mythology.

Stories to tell, adventures to share.

Grateful for the days I’ve had.

Doing my best to live fully, in the present.

Hopeful, for the future.

Edit to add… I was a bit of a selfish, over-confident dick, back in my younger days, but I definitely didn’t want to quietly date anyone, totally under the radar. I didn’t care if our parents didn’t know. That was one thing. But not telling anyone at all?!

I told my friends. She did not.

And I don’t think anyone at work would’ve ever found out, were it not for something that happened when we all went out to breakfast. She’d asked me to pass the butter pack that was on my plate. But it had gotten a bit of egg or something on it, so I licked the wrapper clean and gave it to her.

“Great, now that you’ve slobbered all over it,” she said.

At this point, she was on the fence if we should even consider continuing to kiss goodnight, which was as far as our “dating” ever went… I once tried to give her a Hershey’s Kiss at school, with the sappy statement that it was one kind of kiss I could give her there, but she looked very uncomfortable and said she was on a diet.

“You’ve swallowed my spit before,” I answered, at the restaurant. “What’s the difference?”

AAAAAND that was how our coworkers found out.

I wasn’t subtle before anything happened, either. There was a night where I think someone was making a food run or something? Someone asked me if I wanted anything. I looked at her and said, “I’m looking right at it.”

After the breakfast incident, I successfully argued that there was no sense in both of us being lonely, when we could be together. She agreed. And we carried on, in our way.

I would HOPE there’s a middle ground between how I acted then, and my reluctance, now, apart from online flirtations which should ostensibly lead to dates. But my standards are redonkulous, and the internet is wild.

I may not have been ideal. But I was a teenager. A very angsty one. And somewhat chauvinistic.

These days, I like to say lingering teen angst and hair dye keep me young. But I suppose I really ought to resolve some of that. In related news, I rediscovered my DBT handbook while vacuuming my room, and so on. My therapist would be so proud. For real, she suggested reviewing the bits on effective communication, for help with some recent conflicts.

And I made ample Butter Chicken and some Basmati rice today, and still have some herbal sweet tea from a few days ago. The chicken and sauce were part of my very economical recent grocery haul. I’ve discovered a brand of chicken tenderloins that give you a TON of them for not a lot of money, and they seem to be still pretty decent quality. Browned some, sauteed, and froze the remainder. Still some Butter Chicken left, but I may need to make more rice.

I’m makin’ things, and downsizing my wardrobe, and cleaning up a little.

I also toyed with Mystery Train earlier. Read a suggestion about using actions to tag dialogue rather than “he said,” etc. I had already done that in a few places but am consciously incorporating it more often.

Maybe I’ll skip ahead to the last part I wrote and try to continue the story thread from there, tonight? I ALSO read a suggestion to ask yourself, what would be the most FUN thing that could possibly happen next? Whether or not you decide to keep any of the scene, it gets you writing again. I may try that.

Peace!