A RHETORICAL QUESTION – Part 1, Section 3

“You’re an artist. Everything here uses the five senses, sight, sound, smell, taste, and touch.” I watched him walk around my apartment as he explained his theory.

“Your color palette is muted, green, orange, and brown. Green and brown are both colors of nature, comfort, and simplicity. Then you have your pops of orange which is a color of energy and warmth.” He pointed to my melon-colored chaise and mosaic accent bowls.

“Your place smells of pineapples and not something like air or clean linen so I’m guessing you probably cook.” He nodded to my candles.

“Your music sounds like sex, but I never see you with a man, so that means that you are probably a romantic.” He stopped and looked around touching various items like the couch and the curtains then ran his fingers through the rug.

“The feel of fabrics is important to you. You have lots of soft, smooth or velvety texture here.

“You forgot taste.” I called out from the windowsill, getting into his analysis.

“No I didn’t.” He walked into the kitchen and opened my fridge. He pulled out a plate covered in saran wrap. “Did you cook this?” I nodded my head yes. He placed the plate on the counter and took a bite.

“Yep, good cook. Spicy.” He put the plastic back on the food and placed the plate back in the fridge.  Then he walked towards my bedroom taking a peek at my chocolate brown and pistachio-colored fabrics and mosaic-tiled mirrors and candle holders. “Now that I’m really looking at things, you must use your place as a getaway. Every area seems to be like a vacation. The living room is like an island resort and your bedroom looks like Morocco. You’re an electric lady.”

“In a red house over yonder?”

“That’s where my baby stays.” He answered.  We looked at each other and laughed at our Jimi Hendrix reference.

“Red House, love that song. Jimi rocked that Blues album. So is this what you do?” I asked hiding my shock that he just figured me out by looking at my things. “Is this how it works, how you get all the girls?”

“I don’t do anything. I just pay attention. I’m an astute observer of art and women.” He went into his bag and took out his black and white composition book, filled page to page with his handwriting that looked like graffiti.

“If you let me look at panty drawer, I could tell you the last time you had sex.” He gazed at me with his upturned crescent moon eyes, daring me. I said nothing.

“Hmm…must be a long time.” He shrugged, laughing to himself and began reading aloud from his notebook, like nothing happened.

I really liked the relationship I had with him and vowed to myself not to mess it up by thinking that I might want something more. I had become like a sister to him and we were open to speak about nearly everything. Although I was attracted to him, I was afraid that an actual relationship would destroy the gentle ebb and flow that we had. When he wasn’t analyzing me we’d meet for lunch between classes, go to New York to visit the Museum of Modern Art, buy art supplies from Utrecht, grab a gyro from the truck vendors and when we needed inspiration or we’d people watch at Liberty State Park. In spending time with him, I discovered he really didn’t sleep with all the women I saw him with, he just liked people to think so. Rhetoric also had a system; he only smoked to mellow out and think, then drank when his thoughts began to bother him.

Although I spent most of my free time with Rhetoric, I found myself dating Craig, while Rhetoric continued with his bad boy persona.  Craig was no Rhetoric. He couldn’t name the last book he read and his life revolved around football and his hopes for getting drafted into the NFL. He wasn’t a literary man but he had an infectious laugh and gregarious way about him that led me into his arms.

 

As we began our relationship, Craig was open about how he didn’t approve of my friendship with Rhetoric and swore that he was just waiting for the ‘moment’ to sleep with me. To appease Craig, I limited my meetings with Rhetoric to long private conversations before and after the few classes we shared.

Rhetoric and I recorded poems in the school’s Audio/Visual department while Craig practiced offensive plays on the field.

“You write like a virgin,” Rhetoric said with a laugh, putting down my poem. “You need a man to snatch your hair out and give you rug burn, then you’ll write some damn poetry.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” I grabbed my poetry book from the table and closed it, stuffing it in my bag.

“Don’t I poet girl? I’ve read your stuff, you talk about feelings and love and longing, but never passion. There’s no heat in your work.”

“You would make me a real poet?” I asked baiting him.

“No, the experience would.” The corners of his mouth curled up exposing his teeth.

“What-ever.” I waited for Rhetoric to pack up his stuff. “Is that why you have a different girl every night? Just out there making an army of poets?” I slung my bag over my shoulder and walked towards the door. “I think you overestimate your abilities. If you ever felt me, I’d make you a real poet.” He knitted his brow in surprise, following me into the hall.

“Oh really? I’d like to see you try.” Rhetoric smiled, closed the door to the studio, locking it and placing the key in the lockbox. “You have sass little woman, I’ma watch you more closely.”

“You do that.” I waved good-bye and began walking towards my apartment adding an extra switch to my walk.