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Dec. 1st, 2003 11:02 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jfbSanta Cruz is the only place I go where a stranger can walk up to me and have this conversation:
"You have a lot of feminine energy," she says.
"Thanks," I say. I am standing outside because the music inside is suddenly too loud.
"I can feel it," she continues. I haven't quite made out what she said, but I nod. "Doesn't he?" Her friend, who is standing just outside the cafe so she can smoke, assents. "Let me see your hand." Half of me is being rained on.
I offer my dry hand, palm up. She examines it, makes a confirming noise, then places her own hand on top of it. The rest of the conversation takes place with my hand sandwiched between hers. I am only half aware of this. My attention fixes on the parking garage across the street.
My sweatshirt, she observes, is a very mothering hue of green. It depicts a spiral of orcas, and the cycle is of course a feminine concept. The killer whales are also said to be womanly. All of this explains where she was picking up all that feminine energy. "Clothes make the man," I offer to no one in particular. "Oh, totally," she says. "Or the woman," her friend elaborates. With my free hand I raise an imaginary glass to an imaginary toast, in lieu of a response.
Her friend offers the observation that she herself dresses "like a little boy," and I note that I have the same sweater. There is some disagreement about the sweater (little boys, it is said, don't like constricting clothes around their necks) and then the handholder lets go and wanders back inside.
"My friend didn't hurt your feelings, did she?" I consider the half-joke that my feelings were hurt long before she came along; I consider the explanation that I like women too much to consider "feminine" an insult. All I say is "No." "I think your shirt is cute," she says. It is an ill-fitting thing I wear when I am out of clean clothes, or am deliberately dressing down, or want to be reminded of who I was fifteen years ago. "It's the oldest clothing I have," I say. "Well, I think it's cute." The music quiets, we move inside and split apart.
"You have a lot of feminine energy," she says.
"Thanks," I say. I am standing outside because the music inside is suddenly too loud.
"I can feel it," she continues. I haven't quite made out what she said, but I nod. "Doesn't he?" Her friend, who is standing just outside the cafe so she can smoke, assents. "Let me see your hand." Half of me is being rained on.
I offer my dry hand, palm up. She examines it, makes a confirming noise, then places her own hand on top of it. The rest of the conversation takes place with my hand sandwiched between hers. I am only half aware of this. My attention fixes on the parking garage across the street.
My sweatshirt, she observes, is a very mothering hue of green. It depicts a spiral of orcas, and the cycle is of course a feminine concept. The killer whales are also said to be womanly. All of this explains where she was picking up all that feminine energy. "Clothes make the man," I offer to no one in particular. "Oh, totally," she says. "Or the woman," her friend elaborates. With my free hand I raise an imaginary glass to an imaginary toast, in lieu of a response.
Her friend offers the observation that she herself dresses "like a little boy," and I note that I have the same sweater. There is some disagreement about the sweater (little boys, it is said, don't like constricting clothes around their necks) and then the handholder lets go and wanders back inside.
"My friend didn't hurt your feelings, did she?" I consider the half-joke that my feelings were hurt long before she came along; I consider the explanation that I like women too much to consider "feminine" an insult. All I say is "No." "I think your shirt is cute," she says. It is an ill-fitting thing I wear when I am out of clean clothes, or am deliberately dressing down, or want to be reminded of who I was fifteen years ago. "It's the oldest clothing I have," I say. "Well, I think it's cute." The music quiets, we move inside and split apart.
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no subject
Date: 2003-12-01 11:11 pm (UTC)I liked this story.
no subject
Date: 2003-12-01 11:30 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-12-02 06:04 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-12-02 07:55 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-12-02 04:17 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-12-02 09:25 am (UTC)Or maybe she was picking up the vibes from the chick-flick you had just seen ..
no subject
Date: 2003-12-02 09:49 am (UTC)hmm.
Date: 2003-12-02 01:07 pm (UTC)Re: hmm.
Date: 2003-12-02 01:12 pm (UTC)Re: hmm.
Date: 2003-12-02 08:40 pm (UTC)