The Water Tower.

Written by: Tamar Simone Weir. Dec 21, 2020

Still sleepy, she comes to the small house by the street with the school. By the fence. By the water tower originally built on this land, marked with a bright-colored green on the clearly accented edges. Covered with a bright white, recently re-painted, “adding that authentic cottage look”. She gatherers her items. Her hands always full of something. This time she carries her mother’s painted and acrylic stained jacket, a pot full of various succulents, and her vibrator. Up the wooden and splintered steps she goes, making an active effort not to lean on the railing, seeing splinters in her future if she does.

Arrived, she is settling in. The baby lime green painted insides remind her of being young. She feels little tingles that are ignored as she unpacks her tote and decorates it with little items brought from the big house to add feng shui. She hangs her coat on the rack by the door.  Two candles, smooth cream-colored stones, and “The little prince book”. Her guest, texts saying they have arrived, and so she’s gotta walk down the steps only to walk right back up. Because she prides herself on her welcoming energy and hosting abilities, the Persian way. The guest comes in with a to-go sandwich in one hand, a hard kombucha in the other. No longer sleepy she wonders what’s the most casual way to initiate touching her guest. Tucking loose curls behind their ears is one way she thinks. Or maybe giving them the universal I wanna kiss you look that they’d somehow pick up on? They eat their sandwich. We talk about our fathers. I eat my pomegranate in a robust fashion. They take healthy gulps of their cool drink.  We laugh in the sunlight. I watch them consume and swallow, watch the lasts of whatever, slowly being swallowed. 

It was a privilege she thought, to be fucked by a hunky black strap on in the light of the afternoon, creeping in the cracks of the window she had just opened. Laying on the new never-before-used comforter set, Tamar played with the taste of Talia, how their name sounded in her mouth, and the way they said she was a good kisser. Talia let the words, “My 16-year-old self would be screaming right now because we just had sex”. They were referring to this moment. The stark difference of this moment wrapped up in the delights of being surrounded by green walls. And that 16-year-old moment, stoned off some badly rolled joints, bouncing in a trampoline filled room. For fun. Just cause.

Did I forget to mention that they was wearing a salmon-colored cotton t-shirt that was a hand-me-down from their dad? And they were wearing a red knit sweater with draped silver chains drawing attention to their neck. Heavy jewelry intertwined with sarcastic chuckles and cuddles.

Intertwining body parts that fit. Puzzle pieces. It’s a cliche.

And It was a Monday.