Everyday Stranger

Striations

This weekend is what is called a bank holiday weekend-the banks are closed today, and we have the day off.

And, as is my luck, it is fucking pouring down with rain and miserable.

But because it is a holiday weekend, we accepted an invitation to Mr. Y's brother's new home, in East Sussex. We drove down on Saturday with our duvet, a suitcase that seemed to consist solely of toiletries, and a sense of humor.

Now, I had met Alex and Terry twice before, but this was the first time I would be staying there. And the first time I would meet their two children. And the first time I was invited in a realm that is generally reserved to family only-an invitation to stay the weekend (although we opted for only one night).

We arrived Saturday evening, drove up to a large brick house and were shown the grand tour. The house was painted in what I would consider to be extremely bright primary colors, and the owners agreed that stoplight green or burgundy red with sea foam green carpeting was not on their menu either.

The kids were polar opposites. The eldest, Ida, is 6 and her younger sister Erica is 3. Erica doesn't talk at all, a point of minor worry to people, but I think she doesn't talk as she simply can't get a word in edgewise-Ida is the personal spokeswoman of all things Erica, and as such Erica really has no need for the facilitation of the English language. She's like Jeannie. All she has to do is fold her arms and blink, and she's awarded with car keys, a banana, last week's Sunday Times and a new diaper.

Upon arrival, Mr. Y and I learned that the gang would be arriving, that in fact a major barbeuce operation would be going down at nineteen hundred hours. The recon mission to the grocery store was being planned with resources being called up from the reserves. Seeing as Alexand Terry really hadn't completely planned the grill party, Mr. Y and I were called into active duty, and designed the menu. Sausages (veggie ones for me.) Burgers. Chips and dip. Salad, beer, and copious amounts of wine. I would make a strawberry cobbler with ice cream for dessert.

Basically, it couldn't be more American a menu if we tried. Add some fireworks and an American flag and we have ourselves a 4th of July deal.

Mr. Y and I went to the grocery store with Alex and Ida. Alex and Mr. Y sat in the front seat and bonded over neighborhood talks and common friends. Ida and I bonded over my pairs of sunglasses-I gave her lessons in how to be a cool chick, which included not snogging (kissing) boys under any circumstances and that "gimme five" did not include a monetary exchange. We became buddies in our own girl shop talk, and I love the kid now.

People started arriving, people that Mr. Y has known all of his life. He has a history with them that I couldn't possibly comprehend, that I could hear all the stories of but never grow to appreciate. I am the newcomer, in every sense of the word. Even Mr. Y's ex had a long history here, almost 18 years.

It's hard as a newcomer. It's not as though you can slice up a life and look at the striations of it. You can't look at the levels that one has built up in there and say: Yup. Levels 6 and 7 are what we want to infiltrate. We'll just slide you in right here.

Mr. Y was great-reassuring, very hands-on with me, and always asking if I was ok. I like his friends, they are quite nice, but I know that I am being sized up, measured, evaluated, and so I try to ensure that I dial down the crazy and be real. Mr. Y is confronted with a much easier time on his part-the honest truth is that I don't have many friends. This is out of choice I think-I just don't like people getting close to me, to know me, to understand me. If I think that could happen with someone, I don't befriend them, even though parts of me yearn to have that kind of friendship.

I kept myself busy with cooking and cleaning, something I would do anyway (I hate being idle at dinner parties), and just spent time listening. I joined the men during the talks the women had about giving birth, as I was the only woman there (besides Ida and Erica) that hadn't given birth (I didn't feel the need to point out that I had indeed been pregnant, since that's not something I discuss with anyone, really). Why do women who have given birth feel the need to sit around with a glass of wine and talk about it? I mean....why?

At one point later in the evening, Mr. Y was talking to a friend of his about his lovelife. He was being understanding, supportive, and warm. He would look up from time to time and smile at me, reassuring and questioning.

When we went to bed that night, 2 am and pumped full of alcohol, I buried my face in his neck and chest and felt such overwhelming and choking emotion for this man, this man who has a full and vibrant past, this man who looks after me and wants to touch me so much.

Maybe I will never be part of those striations.

But maybe I can be part of the new layer.

-H.

Posted by Everydaystranger at May 3, 2004 09:40 AM | TrackBack