Annie's voice broke through Joanie's now negative aura. "You know, I've never been up here. Seems like the fall term just went by so quick we never got to socialize at all. "
"I missed you," she added, softly.
A little alarm went off in Joanie's head, once again. Missed me? What did she mean by that, exactly? Has Annie always liked me... in that way? Joanie just couldn't rid herself of these troubling suspicions about Annie's intentions.
"I missed you," she added, softly.
A little alarm went off in Joanie's head, once again. Missed me? What did she mean by that, exactly? Has Annie always liked me... in that way? Joanie just couldn't rid herself of these troubling suspicions about Annie's intentions.
Soundtrack: Suzanne ----Leonard Cohen
Filled with thoughts about Annie’s feelings, her own needs for gentle understanding, and a nagging fear that Jake could show up any minute, she continued fumbling through the ancient Mason jar in which she kept her teas. Finally, she found the bags she was looking for. "Here they are!" she exclaimed with some relief.
Dropping a couple of chamomile tea bags carelessly into an old chipped china teapot, which she'd brought back years ago from a family vacation in Mexico, Joanie now turned to fill the tea kettle from the tap in her bathroom sink and placed it on the hot plate. She was still preoccupied as hell.
Her mind tuned into the Leonard Cohen song now playing on her little portable stereo. She remembered the first time she'd heard it; it was with Jake, maybe three years ago, when their relationship had been really intense. They were at one of the coffeehouses that had sprung up just off campus. He was reminiscing about growing up in a rural area, the narrow-mindedness, the lack of opportunity... or rather the limited view of what opportunities there might be. Earlier, she'd been regaling him with tales of her teenage years in the suburbs: the wild parties, the cars, and… the emptiness.
Then, in a break in the conversation, they became aware of a somewhat odd and unfamiliar voice, coming out of the speakers at the back of the room. The singer seemed to be almost speaking the poetic lyrics of his sweet, melancholy song.
Jake turned to her, slowly, and reaching for her hand, he said, for the first of many times to come, "Joanie, I think you're the love of my life."
Somehow, Jake's words hadn't surprised her. Nor did she experience them as phony in any way. She knew he meant it and she felt so in love at that moment, as well as at other moments over the past three years.
Most of the time, however, her feelings for Jake were far less romantic. Usually, she found him to be depressing to be with; he was so morose. Sometimes she was actually afraid of him; his paintings and the visions that birthed them were often terrifying.
Being "the love of Jake's life" was certainly a mixed blessing. For one thing, she never knew when she'd see him. He'd disappear for days on end and then suddenly be at her door, wanting to fuck her. She'd feel relieved to see him, to know he was O.K., but she wasn't all that thrilled with the sexual demands he made on her. It wasn't that she didn't like sex or even that she didn't enjoy sex with him... sometimes. It was just that there was so little about it that was mutual. It was always on his terms, on his time schedule.
Like tonight, for instance, earlier in the evening she'd wanted to make love with him, but he seemed totally uninterested. Yet, she knew, if the urge were to come over him, he'd be at her door, expecting it... maybe at any minute, dammit!
Links
Leonard Cohen
Go to the next scene in Joanie's story
New Year's Eve 1968: Joanie, Scene 6 "Blow Job Artist"
Go to the previous scene in Joanie's story
New Year's Eve 1968: Joanie, Scene 4 "Home, Sweet Home"
Filled with thoughts about Annie’s feelings, her own needs for gentle understanding, and a nagging fear that Jake could show up any minute, she continued fumbling through the ancient Mason jar in which she kept her teas. Finally, she found the bags she was looking for. "Here they are!" she exclaimed with some relief.
Dropping a couple of chamomile tea bags carelessly into an old chipped china teapot, which she'd brought back years ago from a family vacation in Mexico, Joanie now turned to fill the tea kettle from the tap in her bathroom sink and placed it on the hot plate. She was still preoccupied as hell.
Her mind tuned into the Leonard Cohen song now playing on her little portable stereo. She remembered the first time she'd heard it; it was with Jake, maybe three years ago, when their relationship had been really intense. They were at one of the coffeehouses that had sprung up just off campus. He was reminiscing about growing up in a rural area, the narrow-mindedness, the lack of opportunity... or rather the limited view of what opportunities there might be. Earlier, she'd been regaling him with tales of her teenage years in the suburbs: the wild parties, the cars, and… the emptiness.
Then, in a break in the conversation, they became aware of a somewhat odd and unfamiliar voice, coming out of the speakers at the back of the room. The singer seemed to be almost speaking the poetic lyrics of his sweet, melancholy song.
Jake turned to her, slowly, and reaching for her hand, he said, for the first of many times to come, "Joanie, I think you're the love of my life."
Somehow, Jake's words hadn't surprised her. Nor did she experience them as phony in any way. She knew he meant it and she felt so in love at that moment, as well as at other moments over the past three years.
Most of the time, however, her feelings for Jake were far less romantic. Usually, she found him to be depressing to be with; he was so morose. Sometimes she was actually afraid of him; his paintings and the visions that birthed them were often terrifying.
Being "the love of Jake's life" was certainly a mixed blessing. For one thing, she never knew when she'd see him. He'd disappear for days on end and then suddenly be at her door, wanting to fuck her. She'd feel relieved to see him, to know he was O.K., but she wasn't all that thrilled with the sexual demands he made on her. It wasn't that she didn't like sex or even that she didn't enjoy sex with him... sometimes. It was just that there was so little about it that was mutual. It was always on his terms, on his time schedule.
Like tonight, for instance, earlier in the evening she'd wanted to make love with him, but he seemed totally uninterested. Yet, she knew, if the urge were to come over him, he'd be at her door, expecting it... maybe at any minute, dammit!
Links
Leonard Cohen
Go to the next scene in Joanie's story
New Year's Eve 1968: Joanie, Scene 6 "Blow Job Artist"
Go to the previous scene in Joanie's story
New Year's Eve 1968: Joanie, Scene 4 "Home, Sweet Home"
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