The Letters of Mina Harker by Dodie Bellamy

Author:Dodie Bellamy [Bellamy, Dodie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: MIT Press
Published: 2021-09-29T00:00:00+00:00

November 17, 1992

Dear Sing,

It was Matt Dillon's fault … his cocky smile his raven hair, those eyes … I hadn't spoken to Dion in months, not since the night he stood me up—I sat fuming in the Cafe Picaro an hour and a half of weak bitter coffee and my boring wrist watch finally Dion rushed to my table, sweating, his cheeks full of corpuscles. “Well, it's about time!” He said he'd been busy beating up a former roommate who'd skipped out on the phone bill Mina, that was the only time I could catch him! I thought you'd be a little more understanding! But I wasn't, and he was (once again) history. Then I saw Drugstore Cowboy … Matt Dillon in twenty-foot close-up made me yearn for Dion … drunk, I called him from a pay phone and wailed, “I godda see you!” Dion yelled through the receiver some bullshit about betrayal, then: “How about tomorrow night?” So we started seeing each other again—just as friends—and we were very “just,” our interactions friendly but empty as the bobbing head of the hula maiden in the the back window of his car—occasionally he still came on to me but halfheartedly: some people shake hands, Dion comes on. I couldn't understand what I'd seen in him. Then he mentioned he was moving to Louisiana in a couple of weeks. An aura of imminent departure crimson and gold ghosts flared from his groin—a Southern carrot forever out of reach to my erotic donkey bite now … we were sipping rotgut red wine when I let it “slip” that his leaving was sexy. Dion grinned and licked a bead of red from his lower lip, “You mean we could have an affair, no strings attached?” I didn't reply to this but things were settled, it was just a matter of working out details. We went back to his apartment and sat in folding chairs in the middle of the packing mess … James Dean poster beside the bookcase, 3-D cigarette poking out of a hole drilled in the wall above James’ left ear … irregular clumps of fur made the avocado shag carpet look like camouflage, like a war zone … a cheap portable tape player warbled Lulu's “To Sir With Love”—eleven times how can I thank someone who has taken me from crayons to perfume … it isn't easy but I'll try Dion's chair creaked as he leaned toward me his blue eyes watery and earnest, his thighs and balls splotched with poison oak from pissing in the woods, he took my hand in his and waxed on about communication and people teaching and giving to one another while Lulu belted out his favorite song a man who taught me right from wrong and weak from strong … that's a lot to learn. It was kind of cute.

“Okay,” I teased, “I'll lie down with you but I won't take my clothes off.” A dirty foam mat tossed on the floor, no sheets, we rolled around on it agreeing to be “platonic”—while Dion took off both our shirts.

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