Marlowe pounds her cigarette against the bottom of the ashtray, snapping the remaining half in two. She sniffs and licks two or three salty tears from her lip; her head lolls like a heavy weight. Her parents' and sister's faces are fading, becoming thin and fragile around the edges like old photographs. In amongst those photographs, there is an image of herself with her arms around the neck of a man that she loves, a man who is not Lucas. A man who is not white.
The word rings in her ears like a bugle blast. White. It's an alarm, a red light, a caution flag - that's what her parents taught her; that is the experience that she has lived. Be careful; be polite. Don't cross the line. Her mind won't attach to the reality of Lucas, to his liberty, boundless and unashamed. She measures him by her expectations but he doesn't line up. He isn't supposed to look at her like he does. He isn't supposed to embrace her so totally. He isn't supposed to understand her. Above all, he is not supposed to tunnel deep inside her and touch sacred places where she thought she would always dwell alone.
Marlowe sucks in air through her teeth, hissing softly. His loving cut her to the quick. It was more than the simple pleasure she expected; he was more. Some part of her wanted him to be just another man among others, ordinary, exchangeable, someone she could skip over while she waited for the one with both the right heart and the right face. Her Southern upbringing had clashed with the cultural milieu of D.C. before over the same issue, and always with the same result. Lucas feels different, but she doesn't trust feelings - they have deceived her before. Feelings change; they fade, crumble, and fall apart. She has twice bet everything on feelings and twice lost. The stakes are higher now. Roderick and Tamara are all that Marlowe has left to lose, and perhaps she is already losing them. She rewinds her conversation with Tamara, frowning. Before her parents died, she stayed at a distance in the trenches and no one complained. But that was before. A change has crept up on her yet again. She can't help but to scrutinize; something new means the death of something old. A love affair, a loved one - something that she thought she possessed moves irrevocably out of reach.
Lucas will change everything. She can already feel it in the bone weakening inertia of his loving. He wants her to dive right in, bet the house. She isn't ready. "Too much, too soon," Marlowe mumbles absently, her eyes focused on the bowl of fruit in the center of the table. Suddenly, Marlowe jumps with fright and shoves back from the table when she hears the front door slam. She runs to the threshold of the kitchen.
"A ha! You forgot I had a key to your apartment, didn't you?" Caris says, smirking.
"Caris! You scared the snot out of me."
"Me?" Caris replies, batting her heavily made up eyes. "What about you? I knocked on the door a thousand times. Then I thought you were sleeping and that's when I really freaked out. You never sleep past eight o'clock." She wrinkles her nose, thinking. "Ever."
Marlowe sniffs dismissively. "You didn't knock," she huffs.
"I did. Why would I lie?" Caris trails behind when Marlowe turns and marches to the refrigerator. Marlowe pulls out a cold bottle of water, opens and drains it.
"Smoking this morning, are we?" Caris drawls. She perches against the counter, stretching out the long legs that extend from the very short hem of her black pencil shirt. "Post coital?"
Marlowe snorts and ends up choking on her water. "Yes and no. Is that why you broke in here, Caris? To be nosy?"
"Yes and no," Caris mocks. "I did knock, several times. Since I can't see what in the world you were doing besides smoking, I can only assume that you were thinking. About him," Caris finishes emphatically. "Why oh why didn't you introduce me? That's what I came to find out. Because I saw you swapping spit in the hallway last night." Caris twirls one ankle over the point of her heel, smirking.
"You were spying on me," Marlowe says dryly, unsurprised. "You would put a bloodhound to shame. You are too damn nosy."
"Yes I am," Caris agrees, tapping her shoe on the tile. "So tell me everything. Where did you find him and where can I get one?"
Marlowe chuckles despite herself. "I told you - he's Roderick's friend. And he found me. In a stairwell. Drunk."
"You were drunk?" Caris cries.
"Did I leave that out? I forgot," Marlowe says coyly.
"Marlowe Ross!" Caris skips across the kitchen and grabs Marlowe by the shoulders. She drags her friend to a chair and forces her down. Caris herself perches anxiously on the edge of the table. "I will have a heart attack if you don't tell me everything right now! I already know that he spent the night. So you can start there."
Marlowe's lip twitches. Because it is Caris, she tells everything that she wouldn't tell Tamara. "Caris, I couldn't buy sex that good even if I had your money."
"What? You mean the dry spell is over?"
"It ended right over there on that counter. Right after you called me."
"You hung up on me for sex?" Caris demands. "I'm so proud of you!"
Marlowe cackles. "Only you would say that, Caris."
"What next? That was like, eight o'clock. He was here all night."
"He carried me to the bedroom . . ."
"He carried you?" Caris interrupts.
"Yes. To the bed. Then . . ." Marlowe breaks off, smiling. She doesn't know how to describe what happened next. She sighs instead.
Caris' eyebrows shoot up. She narrows her eyes, peering at Marlowe. "When do you see him again?" she asks softly, almost coaxingly.
"Sunday. But," Marlowe pinches her lips together. "He wants me to meet his uncle."
"I knew it. I knew it! Give me a cigarette," Caris crows, jumping up and crossing to the kitchen sink. She pulls a cigarette out of the pack in the drawer and pops it between her glossy lips. "This is too good to be true."
"Too good to be true?" Marlowe repeats, blinking. "It's kind of quick, don't you think?"
"Love at first sight? Are you kidding me?" Caris mumbles over her cigarette. She lights it, takes a long drag, and points at Marlowe. "I would kill for your luck."
"Love?" Marlowe repeats dubiously.
"Hello? Yes. Welcome to the world, Marlowe Ross, because you were obviously just born yesterday. I think it's safe to say that you guys are in love, or falling in love, or something. But it's a love . . . situation," Caris says, gesturing with her hands.
"Caris, I just met him last Saturday."
"True," Caris says, nodding as she takes another drag. "But I'm not saying that you're going to walk down the aisle tomorrow. I'm saying that it's more than just a fling. It is, right?"
"I don't know. It's moving too fast. I can't think clearly."
"How is it too fast when everything's going perfectly?"
Marlowe snorts. "How do you figure 'perfectly'?"
"Okay - he's a family friend." Caris raises her index finger and wiggles it. "He's good looking and good in bed," she continues, counting off. "He's not afraid to spend the night or take you to meet his family. And of course he's upstanding and loves kids and dogs and grannies and gives blood and all that crap because I know how you are with your pre-screening."
"He's also white, Caris."
"I noticed that." Caris strolls to the table and taps her cigarette over the ashtray. "Was I surprised? Yes. I never could get you to go out with my friends. All the more reason why it's a special situation - it's not a problem. A love situation," Caris croons, drawing a heart over her chest with her finger.
"Uh, it is a problem, Caris," Marlowe corrects.
"Doesn't look like it to me."
"Of course not. You're white."
"Portuguese!" Caris exclaims. "How many times do I have to tell you? Portuguese, from Portugal."
"Half Portuguese," Marlowe corrects, "From Manhattan. You haven't been to Portugal since you were born."
"My mother is Portuguese. That's all the ear pulling, wrist slapping, nagging Portuguese culture I need to get by. You're trying to change the subject," Caris declares.
"You brought it up," Marlowe retorts.
Caris heaves an exasperated breath. "True. So I'm changing the subject back. Obviously he cares about you, so I don't see the problem."
You wouldn't, Marlowe thinks. For the second time, she finds herself alone with her concerns in the company of a loved one. "He cares about me, Caris? He's good looking and good in bed?" Marlowe shakes her head disapprovingly. "I'm not shopping for a car. Good qualities aren't good enough, not this time. He's white." Her voice is careful and firm. "That's like a whole new spectrum of problems that you don't understand, girlfriend. He doesn't either," Marlowe speculates grimly. "I don't even know him, not for real."
"Get to know him," Caris bellows. "That's the whole idea."
"But meeting his family, Caris? I don't know."
"He knows your family."
Marlowe's lips part on a protest. Suddenly, she frowns.
"A ha! Caught in a double standard, are we?" Caris takes a last pull on the cigarette before grinding it out. "Listen - if you don't go on Sunday, you'll hurt his feelings. It would hurt my feelings."
Marlowe's frown turns into a scowl. "Who said I wasn't going?"
"Please. I know you've already come up with a half dozen excuses."
"Actually I haven't. But maybe you're right. Maybe I shouldn't go."
Caris' eyes flash. "Hey! I didn't say that."
"You said that I would hurt his feelings. You're right. And what about my feelings, or Roderick's . . . Damn!" What if one of them changes their mind? What if she bets everything on a fling and it spectacularly falls apart? Marlowe's eyes sparkle with speculations. "It would be awkward as ass after that."
Puzzled, Caris frowns. "After what?"
"After we broke up."
"Marlowe! You're not even together and you're already breaking up with him? Can you hear yourself?"
"Yes, Caris. Yes," Marlowe retorts, standing up. "I'm glad we're talking about this. Because there's a lot more at risk than just what I want. I wasn't even thinking about Roderick. They're best friends. I can't mess with that. I don't know what I was thinking about."
"You like him; that's what you were thinking. You're just scared. That's what this is all about."
"Whatever," Marlowe snaps. "If I was scared, I wouldn't have slept with him. This is called trying not to make a big mistake."
"So you're scared to make a mistake. It's still fear, no matter what you want to call it," Caris replies primly. She rises from the table and heaves a dramatic sigh. "I'm already late for work, so I'll leave you to your mental patient thing," Caris says dismissively. "I'll see you tonight when you're making sense again, hopefully." As she walks out, she stops several times and looks over her shoulder, rolling her eyes and sticking out her tongue.
Marlowe can't help but to smile. "I want my key back," she declares, faking a gruff tone for effect.
"Not a chance. You're not getting rid of me that easily," Caris replies breezily as she strolls out of the kitchen.
Marlowe should take a lesson from her relationship with Caris, the odd and initially irritating neighbor who became her closest friend in the world. Some people appear different but they are cut from the same cloth. Caris is close; Lucas could be closer. Marlowe feels it, but she doesn't know. And it is not knowing that cranks her brain into overdrive yet again. She goes to her bedroom and grabs her gym bag from the closet; she will go to the pool. There is a long track stretched out between now and Sunday at five thirty; she'll swim at least part way to a decision.
