Palm Springs

We’re in the red room of the Saguaro. I didn’t specifically ask for it—it’s just what we ended up with by chance. But I am glad, red has always been my favorite color. I booked a room in advance with two beds in it to feign a mild semblance of modesty, although I did have a suspicion that we would not be needing both. Sitting by the side of the pool I glance up at the multicolored doors to all the other motel room poolfront balconies and I’m glad we didn’t get the green room or the purple room.
“I love mid-century design.” I remark awkwardly, trying to spark a conversation. “It is having a moment now isn’t it? Though I’m not sure I’d call this mid-century modern. It feels a little more Memphis style to me.”
I’d never heard of that style before, but it did not surprise me that he knew something like that existed. It’s always strange seeing an old friend after so much time has passed. There’s a comforting familiarity there, an imposturous intimacy. I never much minded it before, in fact it has always been my preferred way to cure a heartache. Sometimes all we need is to play a little pretend while we nurse our wounds.
“So how is Long Beach treating you?”
“Better than the Chicago winters ever treated me. I should have moved a long time ago.”
“Each year I tell myself it’s my last year, but it never is.”
“You just have to rip the bandaid off. Jump in. Don’t look back.”
“It’s hard for me to let go of things.”
I swirl the ice in my glass and drink the last sip of my margarita. I lick the salt off my lips and get up to grab us another round. We move to the hot tub.
“Are you seeing anyone?” he asks without looking up from the hot tub water. “I was, but not anymore. You?”
“Been on my own for some time now.”
We look up at the mountains and watch the sun setting. The sky is every shade in between pink and lilac. I feel him looking at me, I look up to meet his eyes. He leans in slowly, but pulls back.
“Howdy folks, where are you visiting from?” A trucker from Colorado and his wife join us in the hot tub. We make small talk with them about mai thais, mountain valleys, and whether or not it’s easy to quit smoking using nicotine lozenges. They’ve been married for thirty years and came to Palm Springs for their anniversary. How people can stay together that long has always been a complete and utter mystery to me. And yet, if the average length of a marriage in the United States is eight years and my parents got divorced after 26 years then, as much as I want to keep blaming them for my romantic failures, I suppose I should start thinking of them as a success story? Even with metrics like that, it’s hard to look past certain memories. How quickly brief moments can taint entire decades and change how we perceive entire pasts. Even so, I probably should start finding someone else to blame at this point.
“Do you want another drink?” He asks as we leave the hot tub.
“Yes, please.” We say goodbye to the Colorado couple. The sun finishes setting and the pool lights come on. I walk over to the lima bean shaped swimming pool and get in the water, delighted that I have it all to myself, if only for this moment. Swimming pools at night always make me feel like I’m somewhere I’m not supposed to be, doing something I’m not supposed to be doing.
Wading calmly into the deepest section, I submerge myself completely and everything goes quiet. I swim, feeling the beams from the underwater lights glowing on my eyeballs even through closed eyelids. I do that thing that we all do that makes us most human and count to see how long I can hold my breath underwater.
I try not to think about the break up or how he did it over a phone call that lasted only three minutes and 42 seconds, the day before New Years Eve.
Did you know that if you bake a pie in glass it makes a crispier crust than if you use a metal or aluminum pan? I don’t know if that’s actually true or not, I haven’t tested it out, but someone once told me that on a first date many years ago and it stuck with me. It was the only part of the date that really stuck with me.
I try not to think about the break up. His eyes were light green like Aruba water with skin, warm like a coffee with just one cream. He didn’t drink and he didn’t eat meat, but I knew he would still be trouble for me. And he was.
I think the best slice of pie I’ve ever had in Chicago was at Hoosier Mama, but the best time I’ve ever had at a pie shop was at Spinning J. I try not to think about the break up and how he was married the whole time. The whole fucking time.
The hardest I’ve ever laughed making a pie was when I dropped the Thanksgiving apple pie as I pulled it out of the oven. It was just a Marie Callender’s ready to bake, so nothing to write home about, but I did lose all kitchen credibility that day and don’t know if I'll ever get it back.
I float slowly, looking up at the most stunning night sky I have ever seen. I’ve taken stars for granted my whole life, but they always humble me when we reunite. The water gently bobs against my head, giving me alternating moments of silence and sleepy steel guitar.
After the pool we go to this cheesy tiki bar down the street, with cave shaped walls and drinks they set on fire. We split a volcano bowl, two straws. I’m drunk and he smells like the room in the house with the bed where everybody throws their coats during a party in the winter. The room you used to crawl into when you were barely five and half asleep, all tucked in under a pile of suede, leather and wool that reeked like your uncle's cologne and your mom’s friend’s menthol cigarettes.
We are back in the red room of the Saguaro. The room with two beds in it, even though I still have a suspicion that we will not be needing both. Tomorrow morning will come and I’ll open my eyes, cleansed of the world. After tonight, and every day that will come after, I hope and I imagine that I’ll never have to feel ugly again.