My Lovers

Spring, 2002. Kira and I are walking down the street in NYC after voice class. I’m a little loopy and Kira’s asking why.

It’s because three days ago, this crush I harbored since day one of grad school suddenly stopped torturing me from afar, and started inviting me to her bed (i.e., torturing me in closer proximity).

See, I go for the dark, broody, withholding types. Chatty and open as I like to be, their reserve signals intensity, mystery, depth. Forget the guesswork I have to do, wondering where I fit in, how they feel, what they think of me…that’s like a dance and who doesn’t like a good dance? I’m three days into the thrall, all crickly and crackly in the electricity of it, ooey and lightheaded and deep into the secrecy…did I mention this is a secret? Too dazed by the sharp smack of her beauty to note that her less-than-forthcoming nature is working against me rather than for me.

But Kira’s not standing with me in the lobotomy line:

“Pema, just because she’s quiet doesn’t mean she’s mysterious. It could be she has nothing to say.”