Friday's Whims of the Time Traveler 19.1: May 9th, 2010
"Caramel Kisses" is an unfinished novel I began to write back in 2009 and stopped working on in 2010. The two main characters - Adriana Maguire Reynard and Emma Burking - would ultimately be revised for my later completed novella, "The Liffey Is Half-Asleep," in 2011. Several elements of "Liffey" can be found in their original forms in "Caramel Kisses," such as the characters' names, the haiku scene, and Adriana's penchant for writing.
Because of its influence on my later writing, I figured that this story, though incomplete, was worth sharing.
Caramel Kisses: Chapter Five
by Belinda Roddie
One night we decided to get Indian food. We drove up to Novato, that strange little suburb. Oh, how I had missed thee. The night before it had been take-home Chinese and we had eaten it in my cramped living room because I had been at your condo the week before, and while we were downing chow mein and Mongolian beef, we thought that maybe we could watch a DVD but we had already seen a movie only three hours earlier, and we thought of making spaghetti but you reminded me, no, we had that last time we saw each other, and you were tired of Italian food. And there I was with an Italian name, I was an Italian mutt, and I didn’t understand how you could say that and you laughed. Oh keep laughing, I told you, I will never get tired of a heavy plate of penne with marinara and parmesan cheese.
We went to a little place called Anokha. Chicken saag, spicy spinach with naan, so good. You were right, Adriana, you told me, this is a good place. I know, right? I remember saying. I remembered first going here when I was nineteen years old, when it first opened and I went with my mom and dad and it was wonderful, all the smells and the colors. Don’t you love the color scheme, all the earthy tones, oranges and yellows, so soft and gentle? Don’t you agree?
I couldn’t believe I had known you for so long now and it had felt so brief. November had become December and December had jumped straight to February and I remembered buying you your Christmas present and you shrieked with glee after tearing the wrapping paper away. It was just a wristwatch to me but to you it was the best gift in the world. Oh, how you loved your hyperbole. I thought I was the writer here, Emma, don’t steal all of my poetic license.
But you were a poet, too, even if you didn’t spend time writing sonnets or villanelles. You were a poet in what you said, in what you did. You had a practical degree, a degree in economics, but God damn were you a poet, one of the best. Every time we saw each other over the months you amazed me every time. Your words shone like your hair in the light of the ceiling lamp. Your words were as beautiful as you were.
That night I paid the bill like I always did and you protested but I didn’t care. There was Indian food in my belly and seasoning on my lips and that swollen feeling in my chest again, but it was like a balloon filling up with air this time. It was hot and it was powerful and it was overwhelming and I thought back on when it felt like a bruise in my chest to look at you.
Emma Burking, you looked beautiful that night. Then again, you looked beautiful every night. Let’s go, Emma, I said. Let’s drive to my parents’ house. I’ll introduce you to them. I’ll show you my old room where I still have Pink Floyd and Watchmen posters peeling like they’re part of the wallpaper. I’ll show you all the old photos in the hallway, and please don’t say I look cute as a five-year-old. Really, I look like a boy with that short hair. Look at that short hair! I look like a boy!
But you looked like such a pretty boy, you told me, and I couldn’t help grinning like an idiot and my mom appeared at the top of the staircase and told me we could have a cup of coffee now. And I reminded her that I didn’t like coffee and you giggled and said, I’ll take some, Mrs. Reynard, I’ll drink enough coffee for the two of us.
We sat at that dining room table, with my father on one side and my mother on the other, respectively drinking their cream-filled coffee and spiced tea and making those stern faces with creased foreheads like it was the only way they could look like capable parents. We were side by side, and I remembered, oh wait, there’s hot chocolate I can make in the kitchen, I’ll do that. And I did make that hot chocolate, stirring in sugar and a bit of milk and bringing it back to the dining room steaming in my hands, the closest to a cafe-style cocoa I could get. I sipped that powdered confection and I thought to myself, this is so much bitterer than I imagined it would be. And then I saw my brother at the corner of the table, his eyes on you, focused on your face. Oh, don’t you get too close, sir, I mentally ordered him from where I sat. Don’t you cross into my territory.
We sipped our drinks and we talked about politics and the cynicism leaked in slowly, like a thin rivulet of water from the kitchen faucet. And I rolled my eyes and looked at you for approval but you were fascinated by it all, your warm fingers curled around that festive coffee mug while the February air sucked the heat into its mouth and swallowed it greedily. And so I swallowed my cocoa and I got up to wash out my cup, letting the remaining soggy powder drift into the tap water as I let my thoughts settle.
Stop worrying about your family and stop worrying about impressions, I told myself. You don’t even know what she wants. God damn it, you don’t even know what she’s looking for in life, and you don’t know if this whole friendship is more than just a chain to the hip, a handshake, the occasional restaurant dinner and generous bill payment. My back was stiffening and so were my expectations, suspended in those never-ending questions, and I suddenly heard your laughter and I rushed back in to see what was going on and what my mother must have said to get you going.
But I returned to the dining room table and saw that it was my brother being allegedly assaulted by the cat, as that big old tabby bolted under the table and tried to jump into the opposing human’s lap. And the bulging eyes of that gray feline and my brother’s exclamations made me laugh too, and we had to excuse ourselves from the table. It was all so ridiculous and not that funny but we couldn’t stop laughing anyhow, scrambling up those stairs, the rug chafing our bare feet. The door to my room closed behind us and we sank against the wood, gasping for breath with open o-shaped mouths and watering eyes.
And then the calm came, and you nestled your head against my shoulder, your hair bunching up on the nape of my neck, auburn against the collar of my blue shirt. My whole body throbbed and my throat constricted. I could barely breathe and there you were, looking at me expectantly, waiting for me to say something but I couldn’t. I couldn’t say a word as you sat propped against me, your fingers moving to hold my wrist.
You asked me a pertinent question, slowly, softly: Now what?
I pulled myself to my feet and you moved with me in a strange choreography. We approached the center of the room in our trance, in our assigned stage positions. I waited for the playwright to give out script prompts but I was the playwright and I was the actor and my fingers twitched for a stage direction to jot down or a line to say. And you stared intently back at me and we couldn’t speak and our breath mixed together, the smell of chocolate and coffee, and I couldn’t hold myself back from improvising.
I closed the distance between you and me. There was the cue. I kissed you softly, intently, waiting for a struggle, but you stuck to me like sweet, sweet caramel. I couldn’t pull away too soon, holding onto your lower lip for just a bit longer. Don’t let go, I thought desperately, please don’t. Not yet, anyway. I wanted to see your stage reaction. I wanted to see the lines unfurl.
But you kissed me back and we were against a cushion, a mattress holding us up from the earth. Your hand was on my chest, and I panicked. I thought, oh, God, please don’t feel the swollen part. My buttons were becoming undone and my jeans were twisting around my hips and I was terrified, but at the same time I didn’t want your lips to pull away from my neck, my eyes, my forehead. I waited for the curtain to fall on this act, on this trick. I felt your hands, your nose, your lips, and I wondered if it was all a dream. The curtain never dropped. The show had to go on. It would never end.
Because of its influence on my later writing, I figured that this story, though incomplete, was worth sharing.
Caramel Kisses: Chapter Five
by Belinda Roddie
One night we decided to get Indian food. We drove up to Novato, that strange little suburb. Oh, how I had missed thee. The night before it had been take-home Chinese and we had eaten it in my cramped living room because I had been at your condo the week before, and while we were downing chow mein and Mongolian beef, we thought that maybe we could watch a DVD but we had already seen a movie only three hours earlier, and we thought of making spaghetti but you reminded me, no, we had that last time we saw each other, and you were tired of Italian food. And there I was with an Italian name, I was an Italian mutt, and I didn’t understand how you could say that and you laughed. Oh keep laughing, I told you, I will never get tired of a heavy plate of penne with marinara and parmesan cheese.
We went to a little place called Anokha. Chicken saag, spicy spinach with naan, so good. You were right, Adriana, you told me, this is a good place. I know, right? I remember saying. I remembered first going here when I was nineteen years old, when it first opened and I went with my mom and dad and it was wonderful, all the smells and the colors. Don’t you love the color scheme, all the earthy tones, oranges and yellows, so soft and gentle? Don’t you agree?
I couldn’t believe I had known you for so long now and it had felt so brief. November had become December and December had jumped straight to February and I remembered buying you your Christmas present and you shrieked with glee after tearing the wrapping paper away. It was just a wristwatch to me but to you it was the best gift in the world. Oh, how you loved your hyperbole. I thought I was the writer here, Emma, don’t steal all of my poetic license.
But you were a poet, too, even if you didn’t spend time writing sonnets or villanelles. You were a poet in what you said, in what you did. You had a practical degree, a degree in economics, but God damn were you a poet, one of the best. Every time we saw each other over the months you amazed me every time. Your words shone like your hair in the light of the ceiling lamp. Your words were as beautiful as you were.
That night I paid the bill like I always did and you protested but I didn’t care. There was Indian food in my belly and seasoning on my lips and that swollen feeling in my chest again, but it was like a balloon filling up with air this time. It was hot and it was powerful and it was overwhelming and I thought back on when it felt like a bruise in my chest to look at you.
Emma Burking, you looked beautiful that night. Then again, you looked beautiful every night. Let’s go, Emma, I said. Let’s drive to my parents’ house. I’ll introduce you to them. I’ll show you my old room where I still have Pink Floyd and Watchmen posters peeling like they’re part of the wallpaper. I’ll show you all the old photos in the hallway, and please don’t say I look cute as a five-year-old. Really, I look like a boy with that short hair. Look at that short hair! I look like a boy!
But you looked like such a pretty boy, you told me, and I couldn’t help grinning like an idiot and my mom appeared at the top of the staircase and told me we could have a cup of coffee now. And I reminded her that I didn’t like coffee and you giggled and said, I’ll take some, Mrs. Reynard, I’ll drink enough coffee for the two of us.
We sat at that dining room table, with my father on one side and my mother on the other, respectively drinking their cream-filled coffee and spiced tea and making those stern faces with creased foreheads like it was the only way they could look like capable parents. We were side by side, and I remembered, oh wait, there’s hot chocolate I can make in the kitchen, I’ll do that. And I did make that hot chocolate, stirring in sugar and a bit of milk and bringing it back to the dining room steaming in my hands, the closest to a cafe-style cocoa I could get. I sipped that powdered confection and I thought to myself, this is so much bitterer than I imagined it would be. And then I saw my brother at the corner of the table, his eyes on you, focused on your face. Oh, don’t you get too close, sir, I mentally ordered him from where I sat. Don’t you cross into my territory.
We sipped our drinks and we talked about politics and the cynicism leaked in slowly, like a thin rivulet of water from the kitchen faucet. And I rolled my eyes and looked at you for approval but you were fascinated by it all, your warm fingers curled around that festive coffee mug while the February air sucked the heat into its mouth and swallowed it greedily. And so I swallowed my cocoa and I got up to wash out my cup, letting the remaining soggy powder drift into the tap water as I let my thoughts settle.
Stop worrying about your family and stop worrying about impressions, I told myself. You don’t even know what she wants. God damn it, you don’t even know what she’s looking for in life, and you don’t know if this whole friendship is more than just a chain to the hip, a handshake, the occasional restaurant dinner and generous bill payment. My back was stiffening and so were my expectations, suspended in those never-ending questions, and I suddenly heard your laughter and I rushed back in to see what was going on and what my mother must have said to get you going.
But I returned to the dining room table and saw that it was my brother being allegedly assaulted by the cat, as that big old tabby bolted under the table and tried to jump into the opposing human’s lap. And the bulging eyes of that gray feline and my brother’s exclamations made me laugh too, and we had to excuse ourselves from the table. It was all so ridiculous and not that funny but we couldn’t stop laughing anyhow, scrambling up those stairs, the rug chafing our bare feet. The door to my room closed behind us and we sank against the wood, gasping for breath with open o-shaped mouths and watering eyes.
And then the calm came, and you nestled your head against my shoulder, your hair bunching up on the nape of my neck, auburn against the collar of my blue shirt. My whole body throbbed and my throat constricted. I could barely breathe and there you were, looking at me expectantly, waiting for me to say something but I couldn’t. I couldn’t say a word as you sat propped against me, your fingers moving to hold my wrist.
You asked me a pertinent question, slowly, softly: Now what?
I pulled myself to my feet and you moved with me in a strange choreography. We approached the center of the room in our trance, in our assigned stage positions. I waited for the playwright to give out script prompts but I was the playwright and I was the actor and my fingers twitched for a stage direction to jot down or a line to say. And you stared intently back at me and we couldn’t speak and our breath mixed together, the smell of chocolate and coffee, and I couldn’t hold myself back from improvising.
I closed the distance between you and me. There was the cue. I kissed you softly, intently, waiting for a struggle, but you stuck to me like sweet, sweet caramel. I couldn’t pull away too soon, holding onto your lower lip for just a bit longer. Don’t let go, I thought desperately, please don’t. Not yet, anyway. I wanted to see your stage reaction. I wanted to see the lines unfurl.
But you kissed me back and we were against a cushion, a mattress holding us up from the earth. Your hand was on my chest, and I panicked. I thought, oh, God, please don’t feel the swollen part. My buttons were becoming undone and my jeans were twisting around my hips and I was terrified, but at the same time I didn’t want your lips to pull away from my neck, my eyes, my forehead. I waited for the curtain to fall on this act, on this trick. I felt your hands, your nose, your lips, and I wondered if it was all a dream. The curtain never dropped. The show had to go on. It would never end.
The work you see here has not been edited nor altered since May 9th, 2010.
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