the wind in ottawa
by Grace Jordan
“My girlfriend is having a concert. Free Wine.” It’s Charlie, she hates Mozart and I need something to do. I sit in a folding chair, set up in a chinatown storefront and zone out while she plays. “White please.” I say to the bartender, first in line. The music, over.
“I like your dress.” I hear a tiny voice behind me. The bartender hands me the wine. I turn around, the voice belongs to a slight woman with a pinched face, freckles and blue eyes that scream WASP. She wears a long cashmere sweater and three scarves that say Scandinavian woman from the 1800’s. Flattering juxtaposition.
“It’s from Tokyo.” I slide the bungee cord at the bottom of the skirt back and forth to display.
“It suits you.” I have to lean in to hear, she’s barely audible.
“I’m Grace.”
“Wind. I like pockets in peculiar places.”
This makes me smile. I like hiding things too.
She hangs onto her scarf tightly with one hand. The other flutters as she speaks.
“Why are you here?” She turns red. “Sorry I mean, who invited you?”
I point to my friend.
“Oh, Charlie’s friend.”
Wind has a sketchbook sticking out of her bag.
“You draw?”
“Oh, little things. I’m not any good. You?”
“I write.”
“What kind?”
“Plays, stories, poems.”
“I’m an independent filmmaker. NYU.”
“Grad school?”
“No, my undergrad. I’m a forever student.”
She watches me drink my wine.
“I’d love to chat more. I should say hi, though.” She motions to Charlie’s girlfriend who is making the rounds.
“Take my number.” I hand her my phone.
I think about her on the way home. Wind. What a character. Maybe she can be my girlfriend.
*
We text back and forth and make plans to meet for Charlie’s girlfriend's next concert at Cornelia Street Cafe. A violinist who likes to chat sits next to us, oblivious, and rambles. “You should go rock climbing with me.” I give him my number too because Wind is being polite. Afterwards we go upstairs and wait in line for the bathroom together. The woman standing ahead of me is wearing a red flannel dress very similar to mine.
“You’re wearing the same dress!” Wind is delighted. She gets out her camera.
We three-way kiss with the twinning stranger. Our first.
*
Wind texts me vimeo links of her film which she directed and stars in. I click immediately and watch as Wind, in character, roams through a large house. She lies naked in a bathtub. Her mother locks her in the basement. Her skin peels off as she waits next to a window and then on the couch. I’m not sure if she is ill or it is just a metaphor, either way the peeling skin is brave.
“Wow.” I type in a Facebook chat. “The people who played your family were great too.”
“That’s actually my sister who plays my sister.”
“I didn’t know you had a sister.”
“She reads Harry Potter for fun.” A frown face emoji follows.
*
“Do you want to see a play?”
“Sure.” I am revved for another date.
When I arrive at LaMama she is already in line, chatting up one of her professors. I didn’t do research on the play but I don’t say anything. She hands me the program.
“Euripedes.”
We settle in and the play starts right away. When the dark theatre lights up, a man whips his penis around on stage like a lasso. He then jumps up on the seats and makes his way between audience members. He dangles his penis on top of our heads as he vocalizes climbing a mountain only he can see. I look at Wind's face. She wears a placid expression with no tells of being shocked so I just shrug, cool. I wish it wasn’t happening. The man leaves the audience alone and gets out a knife. He cuts a hole in a watermelon and puts his already erect penis inside the hole. He violently fucks the melon. When he is done he pulls it out, pink and white cream dripping on stage.
Lights up.
“Want to get Frozen Yogurt?”
“Sure.”
“I wish a woman fucked the watermelon,” she says.
*
“Aren’t you getting any?” I spiral mine high in my cup, she stands back, away.
“I’m lactose intolerant, sadly.”
“We could go somewhere else.”
“Let’s sit.”
“I’m polyamorous.”
“Me too.” I’m not.
“I fall in love with everyone.”
“Me too.” That’s true.
“It’s terrible. I had sex with an ex today. I don’t know. I think he wants to date me. My parents would love that.” She looks wistful, something about her parents.
I hate this man she’s telling me about. I puff up with jealousy.
“Can I come over?”
“Not more than one partner per day.” She laughs and watches me finish my frozen yogurt.
*
The snow outside is over a foot and the subways are closed. I am on my flannel sheets scrolling through random travel blogs. A spa in Ottawa catches my eye. “Le Nordic Spa.” I pull up a map. Nothing says luxury to me like a good spa. If I was rich I would soak in mineral water every day. Or if I lived in Japan, Onsen are cheap. This spa sits surrounded by pristine snow, steam emerges from blue mineral water. A happy couple sits soaking. That could be me.
*
I sit with Wind and sip coffee.
“Do you want to do something crazy?”
“What?”
“Do you want to go with me to this spa in Ottawa? My treat?”
“That is crazy. Yes. Sure, why not?” Her face flushes pink.
*
“I have a gift for you. Come over.”
Wind hands me a hat. It looks like a bonnet with dangly strings and rounded flaps. The wool is very soft, navy blue and grey.
“I made it.”
“I love it.” I put it on my head.
“You don’t dress warm enough.” She says. She opens her closet and takes out a navy and white striped puffer vest.
“Wait. You need to layer. Here put this on under.” A sweater. She watches me pull them. “Much better.”
I feel insulated.
“Thank you.” I wrap my arms around her.
She shakes her head, “It’s just a hat.”
*
It’s not even 7am and the airport coffee tastes like it was reheated from last night. She slides over her phone. “This was taken on the day my parents made me get an abortion.”
“You look beautiful,” I say. She’s all in white, her hair is longer, blonder.
“Youth,” she says, “it’s leaving.”
“No.”
“I have to work on this trip.” She seems mad.
“That’s okay. Me too.” I’m scared I won’t be able to fake being busy but I do need to write a sex scene in my new play.
Ottawa is freezing when we finally arrive. We lyft to an airbnb in a snowy suburban neighborhood. A record player and lava lamp decorate the living room. “Looks like it was decorated for tourists.” We are.
I put on my boss's son's old ski clothes that were in the donation pile at work. We go outside and walk a few blocks, exploring.
“Good, a wine shop.” She buys a bottle called Bad Men. At the grocery store, she picks out green and orange things. I pretend to do work things on my phone and excuse myself.
A vegan restaurant. I scan the menu, cauliflower. “Does it have breadcrumbs?” she asks the waitress. “I’m gluten intolerant.”
“Are we getting massages tomorrow?” She asks.
“I just thought we could sit in the spa.”
“Oh.” I failed her.
She makes a phone call in French and reads off her credit card number. I can’t speak French.
The food arrives.
“Who was that?”
“The spa. I made massage appointments for us. We can’t get them at the same time though. It’s too last minute now.”
“What do I owe you?” I hope it’s not a lot.
“On me. You can’t go to a spa and not get massages. Happy Valentine's Day.”
“Happy Valentine's Day.” It’s the next day.
*
I’m in bed. Wind puts on a sweater over her turtleneck before she climbs in. Our first sleepover.
“I can keep you warm.” I offer.
“I’m tired.” She squeezes my hand, rolls over and falls asleep. She snores.
In the morning she makes us a salad with grapefruit and bean sprouts.
“I need to work before we go to the spa.”
I go upstairs and try to write while Wind works. I hear what sounds like paper rip. The sound is coming from downstairs, where Wind is. Perhaps she is ripping up something she wrote that she doesn’t like. Perhaps journal entries about me. Perhaps she is angry and ripping paper. The rips sound angry. The ripping goes on for what seems like a while. Pick up paper rip, pick up paper rip. Rip. I write the sex scene for my play, it’s weird and somewhat violent, my young protagonist has a knife. The ripping stops and I venture my way downstairs. I don’t see paper.
“We should go to the spa.”
*
The spa is expansive, it rests 20 miles or so north of where we are staying, a fire pit greets us at the entrance. A line of people out the door. In the dressing room, Wind turns away to change. I turn away too. My massage is first, afterwards I sit by another fireplace and pretend to read a Vogue while I wait for her. She taps me on the shoulder, her hair is wet. I stand and attempt a hug, her body is stiff despite the massage. She points to the gift shop. “Let’s look.” She picks up a candle, the woman running the shop says, “It’s massage oil when you burn it,” and winks at us.
“I’ll get it.”
“You don't have to do that.” I hand her the candle and pay.
We sit by the fire.
“You tricked me.” She says.
“No.” and then, “Why?”
“You want a girlfriend.”
“So? We could be girlfriends.”
“No. I will never be your lover.”
I start to cry.
“I will never ever be your lover, Grace,” she repeats.
Grace is a button, my name offending me, as if to clarify in case the paring knife which she delivered the cut with in the first line didn’t peel off my skin. It did. As if I could mistake her intention. It is me specifically that she is not interested in being lovers with. I understand what she says but not why she uses the word lover. She does not want to be my lover. Ever. She’s mad. I tricked her.
We take a lyft home and she tries to chat with the driver in French. In English he says, “It’s not nice when your friend does not understand French.” I’m grateful.
At the airbnb she cracks open the red wine, bad men. “No cork,” she scoffs. I drink 3 glasses and go upstairs. I text a dozen friends an emotional drunk, “She says she never wants to be my lover.”
I am alone in bed. Wind sleeps on the couch. We have two more days to get through.
*
“I found something for us to do.” I look at her computer screen. An event website with everything Ottawa. Add to cart, tickets to go ice fishing. It’s a charity event for Syrian refugees. We huddle around a pre-cut hole with a line someone gives us. No fish. We break to get food. There’s vegetarian chili. My fingers are numb from the five minutes outdoors in negative 30 degree air. I find a bathroom and run warm water on my hands.
*
Wind and I are downtown under a bridge. She hands me a lighter and blocks the wind as I flick her cigarette on. Her, then me. We chainsmoke silently. The warning label on the Canadian brand covers the whole pack.
Animation shorts at a Film Festival. An astronaut and his twin astronaut train for space but only he is chosen for the mission. They float in different atmospheres. The one left on earth wastes away.
Wind and I go to the spa again, before we leave. The ‘no speaking please’ saltwater isolation pool. The lights are dim yellow, a fake cave covers part of the pool for extra solitude, a watery womb. Indigeonous Canadian flute music plays. I look at Wind, bobbing at the other end of the pool. We float in different atmospheres too. “I will never be your lover, Grace.” I will never be inside you, to be exact, your body, your soul. She is not my astronaut. I guess I thought because we were both impulsive and fell in love easily we could fall in love with each other. We won’t. Right now the only thing I want is to be home in Harlem, away from this therapeutic construct. I want to zone out somewhere else. I want to surf the internet again and look for another place, the next wave of possibility. Wind will never be my girlfriend just like I will never be her lover and this was never our great Valentine’s Day escape. A hole was cut for us in the ice but there was nothing there.
*
Grace Jordan (formerly Connolly) is a playwright and essayist based in Hell's Kitchen. Grace’s play Moses was a two-time semi-finalist at the Eugene O'Neill National Playwrights Conference. Dramatists Guild Grant Recipient, Amoralists Writers Group Finalist, Ball Grant Finalist, NAP series Semi-Finalist. Publications include stories and essays in Cleaver Magazine and Bluestockings. Pen Grant Recipient 2020. Yale Writers Workshop 2021. www.thegracejordan.com.