I’m late for Contempt. Perspiring in the subway—the kind of perspiring that’s really full-on sweating, but that doesn’t sound as delicate as I want to feel. I’m dressed as Bardot for the festivities: black head to toe, wide headband and winged eyeliner that covers so much of my lids it frames my already black eyes in darkness. Recently, while reviewing a selfie in front of my bathroom window, I learned they’re not black anyway, they’re brown.
There’s a picture of me at about 3 or 4, meeting the photographer’s gaze through a car window, I think. I’m mid-wave, and my eyes look so dark that the iris eclipses the pupil, or the pupil is indistinguishable from the iris. I wish I was the type of person whose dark eyes occlude my mood. But I though I don’t have a very expressive face most of the time, my eyes do, in line with the cliché, confess.
When I met my partner, the lower half of our faces were constantly covered by KN95s. The first time I was close to him, it wasn’t the color of his eyes that struck me (I imagine most people get wrapped up in the uncanny and sparkling absinthe that appears a little blue at first in certain light) though the color is undeniably striking. It was moreso that his eyes felt like they were holding something back, some cards close to the chest. Later we decided his whimsy lives mostly in the bottom half of his face—that characteristic smirk or twist of the lips that never fails to make me cackle. Accidentally stumbling on his linkedin profile picture early on—black turtleneck and backlit by sun such that he’s veiled in bright blur. Even though he looks austere, there’s something about his unsmiling mouth that’s smiling.
I’ve been wearing sunglasses as much as possible. I don’t want to be seen even as I want to see. Yesterday, posted up on the patio of a cafe/restaurant I covet, reading Colette and nursing bottomless mimosas for one, I rarely peered over the top of them. I felt so protected by obscuring a part of me I fear tells so much. They’re less opaque than I thought, but they come in handy. On the street when men comment about my body, with new acquaintances or near-strangers when I’m hoping to hold something back for a little longer.
There are many iterations of Bardot in sunglasses. Square and bright white, or gigantic circles concealing her eyebrows and half her cheeks. Aviators, or rectangles revealing the reflection of the scene in her view: someone playing guitar on a stage. Often accompanied by a slim cigarette hanging lazily from her lips.
I don’t idolize these images of her. Well I do, a little. But I’m more interested I think in Kadeem Hardison as Dwayne Wayne. Flip-tops—at any moment able to switch between a one-way mirror to two. That’s all I want. To be able to choose.
I’m late for Contempt. I try to focus on “The Look of Love”—Dusty’s version playing in my ears. Its airy openness. Of course I love Hayes’ rendition: so quintessentially 70s, so classically him: his delicious baritone. No one can lilt low like that. It’s butter. If Hayes’ “The Look of Love” is rich and orchestral. If Nina’s verges on sped-up bossa, if Ms. Ross’s is slow hip swaying, if Dionne Warwick’s is James Bond-bold, if Dorothy Ashby’s is swift pluck and the Delfonics’ is a cheek to cheek cha cha…
Dusty’s feels like sitting in a bright, empty room where every wall is a window, with cold wine in the first available vessel. Scrape of cabasa, her rasp, the strange stop-cap of the woodwind phrases.
As with most Bacharach tunes, I’m unnerved by the time signature in a way I’m drawn to. The sleepy sway suddenly shifts into a quicker, stilted refrain—I can hardly wait to hold you…his songs always show their seams.
I’m coming around to showing mine. Breathless and running up the stairs from the station to the street, my partner graciously forgives my lateness. He’s always forgiving me. And in a costume that’s only half a costume, half-me really, I do finally take off the sunglasses which I wore even in the underground dark. I meet his eyes that still dazzle me every time, even as they are reluctant to confess. I could eat, he says. And we cross the street, making a swift and near-telepathic decision for cold beers and fish and chips.
xx.