Six Minutes
(Tomorrow is 321 Plays for Trans Futures, an "an 11-hour performance art show honoring the work of trans, non-binary, gender-nonconforming, and ally artists" in Chicago. On a whim, I submitted something I wrote on March 28, 2024 and sent to a couple close friends, deeming it "not exactly blog material" at the time. But since it's being performed tomorrow, it seemed worth sharing here.)
The door opens immediately as I take my finger off the doorbell. She's there, grinning, and pulls me close to kiss me. The frenetic action of the day -- packing for the road trip, the shopping list of snacks, the replacement retainer that's next on my list -- freezes for a moment, another, as we kiss across liminal space: her inside the house, me perched on the doorstep.
"I put six minutes on the meter," I say at the first moment I have enough breath and lip movement to manage words.
"The kids are watching something, come in," she replies.
I slip through the door and she closes it behind me. I reach for another kiss, and she nods towards the bedroom door. A couple seconds' buffer if the kids' attention wanes.
The hand-me-down kid swim trunks that was the pretext for dropping by gets tossed aside onto the keyboard, I slide off my shoes. A tangle of lips and skin, and fingers against fabric. Her t-shirt is pink; that's all I register about it for at least four minutes before processing and recognizing the memetic template -- X & Y & Z, each on its own line in a bold font. It might be farmer's market themed? The only word I manage to read is "chickpeas". That's her strange magic: getting me out of my head and my own thoughts, actually being in my body for a change.
I usually set an alarm. I hadn't set an alarm. My thoughts returned, with the 6-minute timer running out.
"Time's up, I gotta go."
"You're more responsible than me," she smiles.
"I've got a retainer to pick up before the trip."
I slip on the shoes, and she steps out the bedroom door before me, almost colliding with her oldest, heading down the hallway.
"Dad! I want to show you something!"
"Hi, kiddo -- I brought you a swimsuit!" I tell the child cheerfully. "See you!"
I give her a little smile as I head out the door and down the sttairs. They're engaged in examining the swimsuit fabric as the door closes behind me.
She's back to being "Dad", and I'm off to the orthodontist, mentally ticking off the list of things to pack.
(Addendum: I still have that swimsuit, now long outgrown, which has these wonderful, weird, bright pink lion-mermaid creatures. It was itself a hand-me-down, and probably my favorite swimsuit the kids ever had. My girlfriend still has that pink t-shirt, which was a free promotional giveaway for a vegan protein called Unicorn Meat. Someday I want to make them into something new.)
