chickenwire
10-21-2012, 02:44 PM
In a long row of duplexes, back porches line up similarly: a balcony with a few chairs, a staircase and a small yard--appropriate for car parking. Chloe and I lack a back porch; we’re roof dwellers. My bedroom window is the back door, the portal to our mini-escape. From the window we swing our legs over and plunge into a slight thrill: mildly dangerous experience suitable for both of us. We walk the faintly slanted roof, traction rough under our bare feet.
Up there, we can easily people-watch our neighbors. Chloe finds it funny we use a roof more than they use their balconies. Guys live on either side of us, they never speak to us nor us to them but we see them glance through their windows at us, up on the roof. Before moving in, Chloe had this ridiculous fantasy we’d become close to them and all “bake brownies together.” Knowing her, she would have grown to hate them anyway. She hates most men.
From the roof our conversations range between food, sex, and television—focusing on sex and the guys we’re seeing. Her eyes are usually downcast, but occasionally she flicks a knowing, mint-green glance my way. I’ll never tell my roommate this, but she fascinates me in a way that all introverts do. Chloe’s unbrushed blonde hair and elflike features interest most people; but I find more exciting her hushed, fragile demeanor (she can’t be above 100 lbs) versus the opinionated, value-driven soul underneath. Strangers meet her and comment on her angelic features, how pure she appears. She immediately loathes anyone who makes that claim.
Chloe is living proof that introverts are not necessarily shy. While she may prefer to keep her mouth shut, her confidence exists in her body language and random, cognizant eye contact. I fear her judgment more than I fear the more aggressive of my friends—hers is of a watchful kind. Chloe sees through pretense. She says it’s too easy to find in guys our age.
When I’m drunk, she steals my phone. She keeps me from texting the various boys we both talk **** about, but I always want to flirt with. Chloe never drinks. She likes to keep her consciousness completely intact, something I both do not understand and respect. She goes to parties with me and watches from a corner of the room with judging eyes. She seems to know the hidden motive of every guy who comes her way, or mine. As much as I may look down on certain guys, I can’t quite grow disdain of Chloe’s level.
As a matter of fact, I’ve never had a boyfriend Chloe didn’t despise. We both have wary tendencies toward men—both of us grew up with absent fathers, but neither of us would admit out loud we’re bitter for it. I imagine her response, if I brought it up, would be something along these lines: “as if we need fathers anyway.”
I’ve even tried to mask her scorn by attempting to share my boyfriends with her, at least in a light, romantic way--I wanted them to flirt with her so she liked them somewhat. When I met Sergio , my boyfriend for the better part of last year, I desperately tried to meld the two together to avoid conflict.
At first glance she found him compelling. Sergio was around Chloe’s size—miniscule, with black hair cut at his shoulders. He dressed neatly and was intelligent and quiet, most of the time. When he did open his mouth, most of what he said was critical. I met him in the writing major and we spent the majority of our relationship debating whether or not he should leave SCAD—in the end he decided to go.
Chloe was more his type, being fair haired and delicate. At first the two fostered a gentle friendship--then I tried to bring out Sergio’s confidence, my mistake. When he was quiet, she loved him, perhaps more than I did. However once I tried to get him talking, his matter of fact opinions and strange ideas, particularly about women, ignited something fierce in her.
Once, the three of us were sitting in his dorm room and Chloe was already in a bad mood, offset by Sergio’s Rastafarian roommate and the Bob Marley posters tacked to the walls. All three of us knew Sergio’s roommate lived in a clichéd sanctuary, but it didn’t seem to bother Sergio or me as much as Chloe. Then, I mistakenly brought up the topic of sex.
“I don’t like it when girls do too much during sex. It’s like if they make a lot of noise or movement they’re trying too hard,” Sergio said.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” she responded with knifelike eyes.
I knew I’d hear about this later. I imagined her thinking, “as if anyone would try too hard for you.” Strangely enough, Chloe upholds an opinion similar to Sergio’s. Later, on our roof, we were talking about whomever it is she liked enough to have sex with at the time.
“I hate it when he makes too much noise. I don’t want them to talk to me during. Or grunt or slap or anything, it’s just gross.”
I haven’t had many conversations with Chloe about her father. She avoids the subject, as do I, for fear of a victimized point of view. I don’t want to come from a “daddy issues” state of mind—I doubt she does either. However I know Chloe’s mom has remarried three times, all to men Chloe dislikes.
For the moment, Chloe and I both embrace singularity. It’s a chosen route for her, and while I do miss being in love, for now I can remain in love with our rooftop talks. From that lofty view she reminds me that I’m strong by myself, and unknowingly, she keeps my bitterness in check. When I catch reflections of her anger in my actions, from the roof I can see; I have enough perspective to recognize and let animosity slide away. I only hope it carries some of Chloe’s anger into the wind with it.
Up there, we can easily people-watch our neighbors. Chloe finds it funny we use a roof more than they use their balconies. Guys live on either side of us, they never speak to us nor us to them but we see them glance through their windows at us, up on the roof. Before moving in, Chloe had this ridiculous fantasy we’d become close to them and all “bake brownies together.” Knowing her, she would have grown to hate them anyway. She hates most men.
From the roof our conversations range between food, sex, and television—focusing on sex and the guys we’re seeing. Her eyes are usually downcast, but occasionally she flicks a knowing, mint-green glance my way. I’ll never tell my roommate this, but she fascinates me in a way that all introverts do. Chloe’s unbrushed blonde hair and elflike features interest most people; but I find more exciting her hushed, fragile demeanor (she can’t be above 100 lbs) versus the opinionated, value-driven soul underneath. Strangers meet her and comment on her angelic features, how pure she appears. She immediately loathes anyone who makes that claim.
Chloe is living proof that introverts are not necessarily shy. While she may prefer to keep her mouth shut, her confidence exists in her body language and random, cognizant eye contact. I fear her judgment more than I fear the more aggressive of my friends—hers is of a watchful kind. Chloe sees through pretense. She says it’s too easy to find in guys our age.
When I’m drunk, she steals my phone. She keeps me from texting the various boys we both talk **** about, but I always want to flirt with. Chloe never drinks. She likes to keep her consciousness completely intact, something I both do not understand and respect. She goes to parties with me and watches from a corner of the room with judging eyes. She seems to know the hidden motive of every guy who comes her way, or mine. As much as I may look down on certain guys, I can’t quite grow disdain of Chloe’s level.
As a matter of fact, I’ve never had a boyfriend Chloe didn’t despise. We both have wary tendencies toward men—both of us grew up with absent fathers, but neither of us would admit out loud we’re bitter for it. I imagine her response, if I brought it up, would be something along these lines: “as if we need fathers anyway.”
I’ve even tried to mask her scorn by attempting to share my boyfriends with her, at least in a light, romantic way--I wanted them to flirt with her so she liked them somewhat. When I met Sergio , my boyfriend for the better part of last year, I desperately tried to meld the two together to avoid conflict.
At first glance she found him compelling. Sergio was around Chloe’s size—miniscule, with black hair cut at his shoulders. He dressed neatly and was intelligent and quiet, most of the time. When he did open his mouth, most of what he said was critical. I met him in the writing major and we spent the majority of our relationship debating whether or not he should leave SCAD—in the end he decided to go.
Chloe was more his type, being fair haired and delicate. At first the two fostered a gentle friendship--then I tried to bring out Sergio’s confidence, my mistake. When he was quiet, she loved him, perhaps more than I did. However once I tried to get him talking, his matter of fact opinions and strange ideas, particularly about women, ignited something fierce in her.
Once, the three of us were sitting in his dorm room and Chloe was already in a bad mood, offset by Sergio’s Rastafarian roommate and the Bob Marley posters tacked to the walls. All three of us knew Sergio’s roommate lived in a clichéd sanctuary, but it didn’t seem to bother Sergio or me as much as Chloe. Then, I mistakenly brought up the topic of sex.
“I don’t like it when girls do too much during sex. It’s like if they make a lot of noise or movement they’re trying too hard,” Sergio said.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” she responded with knifelike eyes.
I knew I’d hear about this later. I imagined her thinking, “as if anyone would try too hard for you.” Strangely enough, Chloe upholds an opinion similar to Sergio’s. Later, on our roof, we were talking about whomever it is she liked enough to have sex with at the time.
“I hate it when he makes too much noise. I don’t want them to talk to me during. Or grunt or slap or anything, it’s just gross.”
I haven’t had many conversations with Chloe about her father. She avoids the subject, as do I, for fear of a victimized point of view. I don’t want to come from a “daddy issues” state of mind—I doubt she does either. However I know Chloe’s mom has remarried three times, all to men Chloe dislikes.
For the moment, Chloe and I both embrace singularity. It’s a chosen route for her, and while I do miss being in love, for now I can remain in love with our rooftop talks. From that lofty view she reminds me that I’m strong by myself, and unknowingly, she keeps my bitterness in check. When I catch reflections of her anger in my actions, from the roof I can see; I have enough perspective to recognize and let animosity slide away. I only hope it carries some of Chloe’s anger into the wind with it.