Chapter 9 Bran and Beth: Motown blues

We go to the cafe/club. The place is crowded and noisy. There are two floors and we go to the next level. Already I feel claustrophobic as we get lost weaving through the crowd.... I am thinking about his mouth on mine. I am thinking about his kiss.

My head is exploding. I am dizzy.

The music is loud and deafening and then I feel Bran's hand reach out from bodies and grab me by the arm. He pulls me through a sea. And I stumble through. The smell of weed is in the air and I am getting a contact high. There is a corner table that he is pulling me towards, it is in the back but in clear view of the stage from the side. It is an interesting view, I like the perspective. I sit and stare and feel him brush against me, he sits next to me at the table as we overlook the stage. There is an intimacy of being in a crowd. We are hidden.

He says, bending his head down to me against the noise,

“Beth.... I had to see you again.”

His voice comes through deep and husky, the warmth of his voice makes me shudder.... I wonder if I am descending into hell, but I find I want to go. But it does not feel wrong even though it is. I am being tempted to go. I should resist. Only the truth is, I knew I had to see him again too. There had been that sense as soon as we met of.... what if....that feeling that.... I have to know.

Only I feel guilty. I have never done anything deceptive like this. And as I sit there silently thinking about what he has just said to me, I think about what Vera said. Her absolving me from my attraction to this person who has suddenly entered my life by suggesting that my marriage is practically a farce. But it is a betrayal. I shouldn't be here.

Bran seems able to read my mind because now he says,

“does your husband read your blog?”

Because of the noise, it feels anonymous when I say,

“he says he will one day. But that was a few years ago.”

And then he says,

“tell me about Electra.”

But I shake my head. I look at the stage, they are changing acts. I watch a sitar and a standing base seem to float across the stage, a blue light glows. We are drinking. I don't know what. It is the second one he has ordered for me and it is making me forget my guilt. I realize that I am drunk. I let him see that I am staring at him and in my mind I know that I am flirting with him. In this light he looks like some kind of god, the shadows of his face and beard, they contour and the angles distract me as I stare. I am aware of my attraction to him and without the shields up there is something primal in how he is making me feel.

I say,

“talk to me in your language.”

He smiles at me. He smiles that smile,

“What do you want me to say?”he asks me. But I don't care, I just want to hear his voice and so I tell him this. And then he starts slowly. He hesitates as he considers what to say and then smiles and goes into monologue. As he speaks, he watches me and moves closer and then my hand goes out to touch him. I touch his lips as he speaks, touch his beard, his hair. And then I kiss him on the lips. I lean into it and kiss him deeper, feel him kiss me back. I feel the stimulation of his facial hair on my lips and face and breath in his scent. It is the pounding in my head that warns me.... I stop myself and move away.

I cover my face. I am beginning to panic. I say,

“I have to get out of here.”

And then I jump up and start to run. I can't breath. I get to the door and push through, run out into the street.

When he finds me he says,

“are you OK?”

I nod my head. I tell him that I'm sorry.

“Let's walk,” he says.

We walk silently for awhile. We walk past shops, past their windows.

He says,

“you feel guilty.”

“Yes. Don't you?”

We walk more in silence. After awhile he says,

“Yes, I do.... but there is something about you.... it made me curious. I guess I was drawn to something about you. First it was your art and …. your thoughts that you write about. ”

But this is still bothering me. I watch the ground now as we walk. I ignore the fact that, despite his height, we walk in pace easily, as if we have done this all our lives.

I finally force myself to say,

“you have read it then....”

He makes a sound in his mouth. A sound that I am not sure how to translate,

“I read parts of it, not all of it..... you say your husband never read it..... but isn't that who you are, Beth? Do you really think he knows who you are?”

I stop at a shop window to look at something. Also as a ploy to not answer his question. He is coming in too close. And then he says,

“I'm only going to be here until Thursday.... let's get something to eat.”

He takes my hand. We walk until we find a twenty-four hour place to eat. We go in. We begin to talk about our past. As we talk, he tells me that both his parents are deceased too. We talk about what this is like for us. There is relief in this, in being able to share these kinds of thoughts and feelings about life. And we talk about other things. I find myself having more in common with him than I do with Dean the more he reveals of himself.... and as we sit there talking, the emptiness of my Wavegirl seems to fill.... as if I am a little more full from just being with him. And it makes me feel.... I cannot let this go.

There is something more happening between us as we sit there talking. Something more than just the words we say. I ask him more about his work. He tells me stories of his life. I want to know all of it and we talk for hours, long after our food has gone cold and has been removed from the table.

He asks me,

“what do you want to do with your work?”

His question surprises me.

“It's hard to describe....” I am not prepared to explain, so I hesitate, “I hate the idea of being made into a product by some mass market company.... do you understand that? – I don't want to define myself by attaching myself to a category.... ” I try to figure out how to explain. “You know, my mother always looked down her nose at my art. She was a classical artist....She was a brilliant artist. She told me I wasn't really a painter because my work was more like illustration and she compared me to Lichtenstein. She was trying to insult me by telling me it was like comic book art, but I guess I liked the comparison because it was rebellious. I wanted to rebel. Artistically.” I try to explain it more, “that is how I write too. I break rules, I like altering things, perverting things.... because I am trying to get something out; it is personal. I use distortion. To confuse what I need to say. What I need to say is my form of exorcism.... I like beauty that is mixed with a kind of horror. Some of my words get lost. Sometimes only the visual says what I mean. So I want to put my words with my visuals. I want to make them move, suggest, and say the ugly while making it beautiful. If I paint like cartoon, then why not make my diary like a comic strip? So, I thought....” but now I feel the alcohol wearing off and I feel that I have already said too much. I feel my face burn and then I shrug, “it's stupid, I know.... but I can't seem to let it go, so I keep working at it.”

Usually, by now, Dean's eyes would be glazed over, he can never follow this much conversation from me. And I look at Bran now to see if he looks as bored as my husband usually does. But he is smiling. Encouraging me, telling me that I should do it and as he says this he is studying my face.

Bran says,

“let me....” I start to pull back when I realize what he means. He is reaching for my glasses. I shrink into the seat and turn my head away. He says, “let me....” I move further away. But he moves closer and does it anyway. He takes my glasses from my face and everything's a blur. He lifts my head up by my chin and whispers, “look at me....” and when I do, I have to squint. He moves closer into frame absorbing me into the moss of his eyes, they stare into me. He says,

“you are so beautiful .... Let me make love to you.”

This makes me shiver. I push him back and move away,

“no....”

We pay and leave. We are quiet in the car. I drive him back to his hotel and stop by the entrance but then we are sitting there in silence staring in front of us. He makes no move to get out.

I get a text from my daughter: are you OK? When are you coming home?

Bran watches me. I answer: Is Dean mad at me for being out late?

She replies: he went to sleep hours ago.

So I write: You should too. I'll be home soon.

When I stop texting, I say,

“I should get going.”

“Did you bring the memory stick?” he asks me.

“Oh....” I dig into my bag and take it out. It contains more of my images. I go to hand it to him.

“Show it to me,” he says and doesn't take it from me. “Come in with me.”

“No.”

“I won't touch you.”

“No.”

“Can I see you tomorrow?”

“I don't know.”

He takes the stick from me and then he gets out. I let him walk away. I watch him disappear.

But after I am home I miss him. The place is still and everyone has gone to bed. And I feel sad and empty.