Hunter Says

I exit the book-store clutching my copy of the diary of Anis Nin like a talisman against some unforeseen danger. The sun blinds me upon exiting into the street, and the crowds of people milling bout along the long brick avenue make me dizzy. My contacts bother my eyes and I curse my vanity that forces me to wear them even though they pain me. As my eyes adjust I see Jenna standing. She is, as she always is, resplendent in her ease. She stands in a floral skirt and sandals, her jet-black hair, dark skin and composed bearing remind me of the grace of the Indian women I see along the streets. She fumbles with a lighter and places a cigarette to her lips. This fumbling, I know, is the result of nerves. I inspect the scene with more care. Standing in front of her is Hunter, a former boyfriend, who has all the vulgar earthyness and bearing of a steel worker. Her hands flit and her mouth smiles but I can see the weariness in her eyes. He cannot. I suddenly feel so very protective and defensive of her, which makes no sense. I don’t desire to posses her, she interests me as she is, but this protectiveness bothers me and I do not know why. I approach her and she doesn’t notice me until the last moment. I am her escape from this unwanted conversation and when she notices me I can see the thought flicker through her mind. Her shoulders relax and she makes the excuse of our date to leave. As we walk down the red colored street the crowds of people that were so offensive to me suddenly melt away. I am elated to step by her side and wonder why she has this effect on me. We pause while she speaks to some people that we both know, but I am quiet, Jenna loves to talk and I let her, which is probably why she spends time with me. I watch her put out her cigarette on the sole of her shoe and I notice that her toenails are painted a florescent green and it reminds me if Sally Bowles from Cabaret. We had planned to get a drink, but she tells me that she has no money so I promise to buy her one. We enter the nearest bar, which is full of people and dark. She weaves through the crowd and finds a table at the back. Men stare at her wherever she moves and I am not envious. I always shrink from the masculine gaze, it makes me feel uncomfortable and uneasy. As if I am being analyzed and dissected, open and naked. Yet she seems to thrive, to blossom under the gaze which utterly destroys me. As we sit together and she talks of her difficulty with men. The difficulty being that there are too many. I want to hold her hand. I don’t. That kind of closeness that seems so easy for most women eludes me. My mother calls me a cold fish, I think it’s just emotional reservation that comes from being an over-sensitive child.