s u m m e r
bowl
The bowl is perfectly shaped. A small unobtrusive lip at the bottom angling in over one small chip in the base before the whole thing turns out on itself growing larger and larger until the scalloped lip at the top wraps over and ends the shape in a circle 8 inches in diameter.
She sits there on the bench seat across from me with it in her lap. Holding it tight as if it might escape if she loosened her grip. It's filled with bumpy Asian apple pears and nectarines that have the color of a face just slapped. The pallor of thighs that have sat, exposed, on the concrete too long.
Her hair covers her face, dark, almost jet black, but from what I can see there is no makeup there. Her bag is small and light and she has one leg through the shoulder straps. It sits on the floor next to her, almost halfway between us and I can see a passport inside. I can also see a few pens, a disposable camera, some scraps of paper sticking out of a checkbook (or maybe an address book) and a couple tampons.
I wish we were on a train moving so I could pull the cord and get off. But we're not. We're in Dulles International airport and my flight is delayed. The girl across from me is the only thing in this world at this late hour and the perfection of her bowl coupled with the imperfection of her own posture only serves to irritate me further.
Her shoulders slump as if she's been on some long trip, possibly all her life, and she can only wait until the cab pulls up out front and drops her off where bed and dream and comfort are only a few steps away. I make up names for her.
Sarah. The name of a strong but unsure woman, or a girl bordering on becoming a woman, going through the last stages of mental and hormonal growth.
Karen. All the strength in the K and nothing left but a shell after it.
Toni. A name she's never lived up to though she's tried all her life. It goes with the tear in the left knee of her jeans or the run in her stockings she never takes notice of.
Betsy. A name she would fit if she were over weight, but the B's and A's and M's don't fit. Only the hard K's, T's, V's, or sly S's seem to make her whole and acceptable.
The boarding call finally comes through and they call my row and two others. She gets up, steps out of the straps of her bag, loops it through her arm and loses control of the bowl full of fruit. I'm collecting my own bag when I hear the crash and turn to see apple pears and nectarines rolling under benches and blue plastic seats. A few are kicked aside by boarding passengers. Some are stopped by walls. No one helps her pick up the pieces of the bowl. She's dropped a few pieces of bruised fruit in her bag and now I can see her face.
She's blushing, but not for her, for us. For all the people around her for which not even this stops them. Not shards of clay or colorful fruit spilled across the airport floor. Not the sharp contrast between the bone white exposed clay and the shiny orange and blue glaze surrounding it. Not her stooped figure slowly and methodically picking up the pieces.
She's looking around at no one and then her eyes fall on me. She rests her right arm on her knee and in it is a blunt dull gold apple pear. She stops scanning the terminal. And in the seconds before I pick up my bag, she bites the Asian fruit and smiles.
goodnight 10.6.99