The Miracle in July

The future is unbending
The past is circumstance

[Spaces of Extraordinary Size] by [Valter]

Through the pane of my home office's window, I see an electric bluebird defending his suet from a starling. With squeaky notes the infuriated bluebird lunges. The experienced starling swoops and jabs. A natural mimic, it flippantly repeats each chirp from the bluebird. The fuming fight is a flurry of feathers.

This is the first time since my return to Portland that I’ve noticed any starlings. I’ve been sitting here in my comfy space for quite a while, somberly reading the downward spiral of misspoken words between me and my digital lover. The shaggy winter plume is gone and the dark beak is lighter, but it's the same catty bird, the same non-native species bent on its aggressive squatting. Daniel, once upon a time at the Copenhagen [Central Station], had called them "junk birds."

At the time I’d felt the label a bit harsh – but I hadn’t yet experienced for myself the sound of their constant cunty chatter amongst the trees which flanked the stone walk up the foliage-enshrouded door of my Copenhagen fortress. I’ve since learned more about the character of the fowl, including the fact that starling-scat is erosive enough to disrupt the structural integrity of a metal bridge – one splat at a time.

The bluebird outside my window finally gives up and flies away. The starling is suddenly alone with the suet. It flutters around the feeder to observe it from all angles, then flies off, as though winning had been all that really mattered to it.

I return to the documents before me – [the final rewind] of digital exchanges between myself and my Viking lover – and I finally reach an exchange from the final few days of my romantic entanglement with him. In these ancient words of mine I see jealousy and doubt and possessiveness. I see the white lies to misdirect from the truth. And I remember wishing to go back to the time before I had gone to Denmark, back to the many times when I could have curtailed my descent into emotional intimacy with Daniel, or by choosing a different response to the first time he typed "I love you" in the instant messenger.

I remember how my nights had been at that time – full of cryptic, unvocalized worries which would intensify while I slept, playing themselves out in viciously accurate and sensual scenes. In sleep I was a captive witness to the crumbling of my love affair with Daniel. Sometimes in my dreams he would coldly escort me to catch the bus to the Billund airport and refuse to kiss me goodbye. Sometimes he would take the shape of past lovers who had abandoned me previously. And sometimes I would dream of nonchalant infidelities and Daniels careless, shoulder-shrugging dismissals. All night my mind reminded me of what I worried about all day.

As I read the remains of my romance, the fluttering outside my window returned. It’s the bluebird again – this time with two other bluebirds, enjoying the suet feed. The starling will not return again today.

Me: Hi, do you have a moment to share with me?
Daniel: yes I do
Me: great
Daniel: have to be on set in an hour
Me: I am still thinking about how to best respond to your email
Daniel: yes
Me: It might be a few days or maybe less
Daniel: why is that?
Me: because I feel there are some things I need to clarify and I need to make sure I'm being factual not emotional
Daniel: clarifying is good - so is factual and emotional
Me: I dont want to say the wrong thing, esp since my main issue is perception of things said. language is hard to translate.
make sense?
Daniel: sure, but there's danger that it'll come out stiff
Me: I don't understand
Daniel: Are you upset?
Me: hm, no. and not mad. frustrated, that my words arent translating for some reason. disappointed maybe is a better word.

I was not mad? I was furious, and sad. As I look over words from that time I realize I felt the same way then as when Jake ignored the signs of our chilling romance, or when Lily wouldn't take me seriously at first about Rod. And I still stung from the effort it took to get Daniel to intervene on my behalf, to convince Lily to take me up on my offer to ship him out of town. I felt my voice as useless as standing outside my house in Oregon and screaming into the sky to ask my lover 5,000 miles away if he realized it was not a question of if he was going to leave me, but when.

Daniel: All I'm saying is that if you think too long and too hard, the things you say can come across too clinical
Me: ha
thats what I do, fo shizzle
but...
these things I need to say I have said before, and before, and before. Im ready to break out the data sheets and pie charts.
Daniel: sure you can do that. But still I can't just ignore what I feel can I
Me: nope
Daniel: I'm sure this is nothing, and we'll laugh about it later
Me: maybe. let me clue you in a bit?
Daniel: I know what you wanna tell me
Me: okay, tell me
Daniel: no you tell me
Me: ha
no YOU
Daniel: well, ok
basically it's no effort to just send a fast message considering the positive statement it brings
Me: thats right, and what I've been saying all along
Daniel: and that I agreed to do so
Me: again, yes.
that's why I am frustrated...we've talked about this very issue
since our first fight.
but I think there may be a different of perception as to the kind of relationship we're in.
Daniel: there's a difference in the ways we perceive a relationship is my bet.

These last words from Daniel were like cruel, tiny pinches to my ego. Pointing to my failed romantic past to justify an idea that our bickering and our struggles to communicate were due to my ignorance of committed relationships felt hard. Maybe he was right, but our problems went much deeper than either of us could admit.

Me: to me a partnership is what I've been in with you, and all my quote 'breathing down your neck' is me wanting you to reciprocate all the sharing of my life I do.
You are now offering me that only when you want to
There is very little day-to-day 'this is what I'm up to' sharing.
And this is a mind fuck, since in the beginning I was hesitant to share anything about my life with you because we were 'just fucking'
and i didnt want to get emotionally attached.
I feel you've encouraged me to contact you, share with you, etc. whenever I want to
and now you're telling me its too much.
Daniel: not at all
Me: yes, thats what I'm seeing and feeling from you.
Youve stopped initiating conversations with me drastically,
when in the beginning you've been the leader.
Something has shifted.
Its like this...
you're too busy to chat? THATS WONDERFUL! It means youre kicking ass, which makes me incredibly happy and satisfied
but I would like to know about the cool things youre doing, because I am your partner and invested in your life.
Daniel: yes I appreciate that - and you want it every day
Me: sure, it used to be every day
but to be honest I was glad when you got your job
cause all that IMing was brutal. thats why I like EMAILS.
It doesnt require an immediate response, and you can be sure I'm not going to expect a response in return anytime soon because you're supposed to be off kicking ass.
Daniel: I'm hearing you... I'm sorry but I gotta go now - need to catch a bus - going to film today. I'll tell you about it later.
Me: great, I'd love to hear about it. And I love you too.
bye sweetheart
Daniel: I sure do love you babe

I knew I wouldn't be getting any updates about the shoot which Daniel was racing off to; that had become a pattern as well – the broken promises of inclusion. I was crushed about his theory that the strife between us lay solely on my shoulders. His fear "that it'll come out stiff" was worrisome as well. It had revealed a sobering chasm between us and our dangerously misconstrued idea of the relationship itself.

After a few days of painstaking refinement – in order to absolutely, coherently express verbatim my emotions and my facts; it's what I do – I sent Daniel a five-page retort, directly disputing every claim he’d made. I held nothing back. I had nothing to lose. I was so very tired of the uncertainties and unanswered questions. I welcomed a resolution, an end to the continuous waves of hopeful exasperation.

As much as I loved my man, as much as I admired his talents and his good looks, no matter the depth of involuntary shivers at the memories of his touch, or the amazing array of ways that life had made our relationship possible in the first place, I believed in what I felt was the best part of the relationship: my freedom to be myself and say exactly what I thought, without fear that Daniel would leave me. But that was the thing I feared the most: that my response would be [the kiss] of death.

I closed my [astonishingly emasculating email] with these words:

Subject: I love the hell outta you

...but perhaps that is the fundamental issue. Are we in a partnership or are we just dating? I really need to know the answer to that. There is a difference, and I suspect I am in a partnership with you, and you are dating me. Please tell me the truth.

I’m in love with you baby, and that’s a rare gift. Don’t be a jerk and screw this up by thinking I’m tying you up by pressuring you. If you’re not telling me (nicely) that you can’t be there for me at the moment then I’m not the one tying you up, you’re doing that all by yourself. I am willing to work with you, learn from you, give you what you need to be happy – and you need to do the same. I want to walk beside you, as your proud woman. Please let me.

Love to you,

Shell

I sent my letter off and hoped for the best. What else could I do?

According to my calendar from that time – also preserved with our digital missives – I sent off, the very next day, a batch of Christmas presents for Daniel, his kids, and his parents. I’d waited until the last possible moment to ship them so that they’d arrive just before Christmas Eve. In a big box I’d packed [See's candies], [Made in Oregon] magnets, [Mad Libs] for Daniel to use in class and with his kids, Ana's fart book, Clive's hoodie, and a bag of [Ladybug Cafe] mocha coffee beans. For Daniel I sent a [novelty welcome mat] and season one of [Deadwood] in [PAL format]. On an impulse, I also sent back Daniel's copy of [State of Fear] and his stow-away Hugo Boss underwear, now clean and with the hole in the seam left un-mended. I sent it all away to see what would come back to me.

Days followed in relative silence. Our attempts to designate times for fooling around – writing erotica for each other – were systematically thwarted by one excuse or another. Sick children. Unread emails. Being too tired. Not responding to emails. I was masturbating several times a day at that point, to release tension. But orgasms only acted as temporary reprieves from the wound-up feeling of a life twisting out of control. No sooner would the pulsating in my sex subside before my heartbeat would begin to rapidly increase again. To make matters worse, Daniel and I still had great moments of heartbreaking tenderness. He was trying to be a man who kept his promises. Such moments remind me now of the times in Ruthie’s life when it seemed as though she had a genuine handle on love and life; time had shown the joy in such bittersweet moments couldn’t last.

Daniel: hi babe
or morning
Me: Hi sweetie
Daniel: smooch
Me: xoxoxo
Daniel: what are you doing
Me: just made plans to drink margaritas and paint pottery (wtf??) friday night
and go to the nudie bar saturday night with my girls
Daniel: you're stripping this time
Me: actually
tis a MALE nudie show this time
Daniel: nah
Me: yeps
Daniel: nah
Me: ohhhhh yeahhhhh
Daniel: .............nah..........
Me: I can't go?
Daniel: YES
Me: you are well, lover?
Daniel: I'm soooo tired - haven't been getting a lot of sleep lately
Me: yeah, I know. my poor Viking
go take a shower to wake up?
Daniel: but I keep on going
yeah I better
Me: go on then honey, I'm here
Daniel: later, then
for now shower
---- 27 minutes ----
Daniel: I miss you
Me: Oh damn I miss you too
Daniel: better go now babe
Me: sure, but first honey its been a long time since I told you
lemme say real quick
Daniel: yea
Me: you're amazing
I'm so lucky to have you
and I love you very much darling
Daniel: I love you too, thank you
bye babe
Me: now go kick some ass
Daniel: YES

To this day my senses recall the intimate details of that night at [The Viewpoint], like an instrument holds that last note longer than the ear can hear it. But how I got to the strip club is innocent enough, for Portland anyway.

For quite a while several of my girlfriends and I sustained an organized effort to experience the culture of all things Portland, Oregon. Together we sampled a variety of [Stumptown] experiences. We had a fake wedding at [Voodoo Doughnuts], we walked the [Shanghai Tunnels], and we drank wine while experimenting with static electricity at [OMSI After Dark]. We went on wine tours, attended almost every ethnic festival in the metro area, and bonded over [Storm Large] and her empowering, thought-provoking question: What the fuck is [ladylike]?

Not only is Portland known for its prolific number of local microbreweries and outstanding [food carts], Portland is also known for its high strip club per capita ratio. Portland loves strippers, and my girlfriends and I had made the rounds to several already: [Mary's Club], the oldest strip club in town; a florescent dive bar called the [Magic Gardens], the club preferred by visiting, legendary metal bands; the red-washed [Devil's Point] where I once watch an amazing fire dance with matches; and the Hell-themed strip club offering vegan fare called [Casa Diablo]. We were now trying The Viewpoint, and for the first time, a male review show.

First was the "lady strippers" part of the evening. We sat in the club's low lounge-style swivel chairs at several small tables crowded between the two or three mirrored catwalks where naked girls hoisted themselves around dancing poles. More chairs were huddled around the platforms for for the close-up show.

Being a woman patron at a strip club allows a wonderful advantage. For a couple of dollars and a demure smile, beautiful girls will spread their legs and finger themselves for you. The men in the club like to watch this, and tipped accordingly. I have sat at the base of the catwalk and had a dancer bring her glistening, swollen vulva within inches of my face – wrap her legs around my neck and pull my slightly-parted lips so close that I could smell her sex and touch her with my tongue. After flirting with me for a while she'd then drift to the men sitting within view to collect copious amounts of money for her efforts. A win-win-win situation.

But that night I was in a sexually and emotionally uncomfortable state, so I stayed at the little tables. I was already optimally aroused by the stress and unrequited lust for Daniel. I ordered food – medium-rare steak, I believe – and tried to catch my friends’ attention in snippets of dialog between music beats, only to lose their eyes frequently to the folds of femininity on the mirrored platforms.

Then it was time to go upstairs for the [The American Male] review – a show which I expected to be more cheesy and funny than hot. The setting was quite different here. The room was fairly large, with the performance and audience areas taking up only half the space. Folding chairs, two rows deep, flanked three sides of a small stage just a couple of inches off the ground. The fourth side was a wall. After a long wait, my friends and I – there were less of us then; our lesbian friends had understandably begged off – dance music filled the air and five very attractive, well-kept men were introduced for our viewing pleasure.

All the flavors of American male stereotypes were represented: the jock, the soul brother, the rapper, the cowboy, the sportsman. All of the men were beautiful in own characteristic way, flawless professional persuaders. While they didn't go completely nude, their stolen touches, clinging thongs, and delicious smells made up for that. One by one, only a deep exhale away from us, the men danced sensually to an enthusiastic crowd.

One dancer in particular liked his odds with me the best.

At first the blond-haired, blue-eyed man came out to dance as the jock. He wore baseball attire, but by the time he had made it into the audience, during his second song, he was caressing and teasing the ladies in a red thong and baseball cap. I watched the jock dance his way to where I sat. The closer he got the more restless and roused I grew, almost to an unbearable expectation of pleasure. I was alarmed at the effect he had on me, and remember scolding myself then. This guy isn't even my type! I was unsure if I should continue to stay there anymore, or how much more I could take.

The song ended suddenly, the crowd cheered wildly, and the jock left the area to make room for the Latino motorcycle cop. I breathed a sigh of relief, and then I laughed at myself. My eyes were brilliant and searching, my lips moist. I felt inexplicably unburdened. I decided to stay for another couple of dances.

Before I knew it, the jock returned to the stage, this time as a cowboy. He danced to a western song, which one I can't recall, but it was lively ditty and provided many opportunities for him to flex and bend and move in provocative ways for mutual admiration. He took off his clothes in clever ways during the first song, smiling and clearly enjoying his presentation to the hungry, hooting women. This time he stripped down to boots, a straw farm hat, and a tiny white thong that gave his tanned skin a creamy sheen. In the dark his blue eyes shone. He was the consummate all-American man, and nothing like my very tall, pale and dark-haired Viking lover Daniel. Perhaps that is why this dancer, on this night, had my undivided attention.

When the second song began for the cowboy's set he headed straight for me. Moving to the beat, the cowboy put his hand on my shoulder and as he leaned his mouth down to my ear his hand trailed down my arm to where my hand lay in my lap. The trail of touch left me tingling. In my ear, clear as glass, the cowboy said "You're stunning. Let me dance for you."

He pulled back from my ear and brushed his smooth cheek on mine, his lips a mere nod away from my lips, and lingered there for an extended, mesmerizing beat. The cowboy straddled me then, and put my hand on his chest, so I could touch his soft, golden skin while he pulsated and gleamed in my lap. Through my thin shirt I felt his erection pressing against me to the beat of the music.

The sexual tension inside me threatened to manifest the kind of uncontrollable emotions that would lead me to believe at that moment, honestly and completely, that [dying is fine] as long as it feels good. I tried to resist squeezing and relaxing my sex and my inner thighs to coax a climax. I clawed for clear-headedness, and reminded myself of the silliness the situation, of losing control just because I was in extremely close proximity of a gyrating, aroused man.

The cowboy raised himself, slowly sliding the smooth skin on his chest against my trembling lips as he extended his long, chiseled legs. Standing tall, moving in a sensual rhythm and still straddling me, the cowboy again paused for second – for another intoxicating beat – so that I could enjoy the sight of his slightly thrusting pelvis. His white thong, now damp from perspiration and obvious excitement, left no doubt about it: He was ready to party.

Suddenly the music died and the applause became alive again. The cowboy had spent the entire song gyrating against me.

"I'd love to spend more time with you." He was again bent over me, whispering in my ear. The cowboy hustler's hardness hung between us.

"I have a boyfriend," I blurted out. What else was I going to say? The cowboy smelled wonderful. I smelled him on my face.

"This is all perfectly innocent, Ma'am," he said with an exaggerated drawl.

"I'm sorry..." I shrugged. I was very, very sorry.

The cowboy removed his hat, bowed, and kissed me on the hand. I raced to my car without saying goodbye to my friends.

On the way home from The Viewpoint I cried with acute frustration and helplessness. I was bloated from the constant anxiety of arousal which burdened my pulse, but it was the sexual defeat which brought on a whole new low of dark, carnal misery. Daniel and I hadn't had been intimate together since my return from Denmark. When we did manage to connect online, we no longer used the web cam, because looking at each other was too painful. Inside I was vibrating with unhappiness for every second that my cutting retort to Daniel's email continued to go unanswered.

Once I got home, I retreated to the strategy of embedding hidden messages of my true state into my correspondences to Daniel.

Subject: Goodies 4 U

Lover,

Life is hard for me right now, but I'm staying tough. We'll talk when you can, I look forward to it.

For now, here is music and words I know you'll love:

• [Reset ] by MuteMath (soothing ambient instrumental)
• [Memory] by Steven King (the short story his next novel Duma Key is based on)

Keep me close to your heart,

Your Girl

The days went on, and my lover and I continued to struggle. My rebutal went unanswered. Some days were made both more terrible and more exquisite by a random text from Daniel. They were either heartbreaking ("I had to stop carrying your [rock] because I handled it so much it turned black") or erotic ("I watched your video again. It has a whole new meaning now that I know what you taste like").

On some days I would get rational and think I don't regret the things I said – they are the truth. If Daniel can't deal with it then I'll continue without him. I'll follow my bliss alone. Despite everything, I still believed in bliss that had brought us together in the first place. But the bliss had been cut off and I needed to find it again. If not with Daniel, then by myself. For myself. But every day that passed without answers to my questions felt like another day’s worth of having my resolve shat upon by the deteriorating toxins of a million starlings. Each day I fell apart a little more.

I had to do something to save myself.

Me: Talk to me?
Daniel: At work late and have an extremely busy day, have to see 2 friends, my sister, and help my son with an assignment. Prepare for tomorrow and entertainment for a party on Thursday. Are you ok?
Me: We are not okay. Please stop pretending things haven’t changed.
Daniel: Yes we need to talk things are… difficult. My bad I’m sure.
Me: What does "my bad I’m sure" mean? Difficult means the separation right?

There was no response for 20 or so minutes. I grew tired of waiting.

Me: It's 2am. I’m going to bed. But if I’m important, if you and I matter, don't leave this unresolved for long. Hope you kick today's ass as I know you can. Smooch.

The next morning, after another sleepless night, I found the [brutally honest email from Daniel ] that I feared the most waiting for me. It was December 19th, Pops birthday.

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The Miracle in July is the work of author Michelle Anderson.