down in me

I saw the Queen Mother at the post office this morning. The Queen Mother hobbled in, dragging a large umbrella and recklessly pulling a plaid trolley behind her. The Queen Mother and I made eye contact and I immediately sensed I shouldn’t have done; perhaps I should have bowed my head or curtsied or something. But the Queen Mother took my irreverence in her stride and, sidling up to me, she casually complained about the weather. As she did, the Queen Mother attempted to ruffle up the white tufts of candy floss hair behind her ears and on top of her wrinkly forehead. The Queen Mother must not have had much business at the post office because though I was ahead of her in the queue, she quickly caught up to me as I headed toward the exit. The Queen Mother asked me if her slip was showing and whether I would take the lift to the ground floor with her; a monarch should never ride the lift alone. The Queen Mother told me she very much likes black people because, unlike her own people, black people indulge her in friendly banter once in a while. And here I thought the Queen Mother loved all her subjects equally.

I saw Miranda July when I left the house this morning. Miranda July walked towards me with her alabaster skin and her flighty expression. Miranda July was wearing a stripey top in graded shades of blue, paired with ill-fitting, bunch-up-around-your-ankles blue jeans and scuffed white Keds. As she drew closer, I noticed Miranda July’s hair was a dark reddish auburn now. I didn’t think Miranda July cowed to the more superficial aspects of womanhood. I still want hip, old Miranda to be my girlfriend, even if she’s not secure enough to sport a greying mane. I want to make love and pasta sauce with Miranda July. Miranda July can braid my hair while we critique her new art pieces using phrases like ‘seedy Warren Beatty’ and ‘oh my god’ and ‘Mozambique spring’. When she turned the corner, I actually took notes about Miranda July in my trendy, black moleskine. Miranda July never once looked at me. I felt like next-day bitter birthday cake.

I saw Andrew McCarthy at work today. Andrew McCarthy and I collided at the double doors. Andrew McCarthy was wearing pastel colours and his hair was light brown and feathered, but in a slightly more modern way. Andrew McCarthy’s cat eyes were glassy and his lips were bubblegum pink and slick. I envisioned a future in which I would call Andrew McCarthy ‘Andy Mac’ because we were close that way. Andy Mac would sing and perform for me in his boxer shorts while I sat in bed. Andy Mac and I would recite lines from Pretty in Pink to each other while eating vanilla berry swirl at the ice cream parlour. Andy Mac would not try to remind me that he’s done other work since Pretty in Pink because Andy Mac is humble and knows he got a good deal in life. As I reached for the door, the real Andy Mac flashed me his trademark ‘knowing wink and winning smile’ to indicate that he would hold it open for me. I was touched that Andy Mac acted so gallantly. I smiled and thanked him as I passed. Andy Mac gazed at the floor in embarrassment. Andy Mac went through the door and looked back without realising I was still looking at him. Andy Mac gazed downwards coyly, half-smiling as he shuffled off.

I saw Ian Curtis crossing the street. I was on the bus to work and he crossed in front of it. It was a rainy-grey morning and he was wearing grey trousers and a black jacket with an upturned collar. His hair was shiny and dark and his skin was pale. He stared at the bus out of the corner of his eye. Ian Curtis was a little angry that the bus driver did not decelerate. The bus driver was a little angry that Ian Curtis was jaywalking. Ian Curtis should not have been crossing in the middle of the street, but he is Ian Curtis so you forgive him his indiscretions. The bus driver does not know who Ian Curtis is. The passengers in the first four seats on the bus do not know who Ian Curtis is. Two men at the back know who Ian Curtis is, but they were talking about girls so they didn’t see Ian Curtis cross the street. Ian Curtis stepped onto the pavement, but the hair of the lady in front of me blocked me from seeing what kind of shoes he was wearing. Ian Curtis continued to sideways-stare at the bus long after we passed him. I wanted to kiss Ian Curtis. I wanted to stop the bus and jump off. I wanted to run towards Ian Curtis and not look stupid. I wanted to throw my arms around his neck. I wanted to kiss him. I wanted Ian Curtis to kiss me back. I wanted his head to be intact. I wanted his body to be warm. I wanted the part of his brain that sang to know me. I wanted his hands to snake down my back. I wanted Ian Curtis to pull me close. I stayed in my seat on the bus. Ian Curtis walked into the pound shop and disappeared from view.