Alive in the Fields of Nebraska

Fate, that’s what everyone always told me it was. It had to be fate that I met him in that bar, that he swept me off my feet. You two are perfect. It’s fate that we met and became friends. It’s like I’ve known you for years. They always coo through their glasses of champagne cherry red lips millimeters away from staining the crystal glass. Fate this fate that it was an exhausting thing to hear over and over. I never spoke up at their words, never butted in with my side of things, instead, I played my role silently with a smile.

Through the years I’ve learned truth, just as much as fate, is relative. I didn’t need my truth, I only needed to absorb and imitate what sat around me. So that’s exactly what I did, mold myself to the world around me. Sitting here in the den of a neighboring mansion I am Angeline the wife of a businessman turned senator hellbent on fixing this damn country. My shoes are black suede, hardly a kitten heel but never so tall I towered over anyone, my dress a deep jewel tone tonight it was sapphire, my hair pulled back in a French twist combed and cleaned down to the last strand, and my face is lightly powdered with rouge decorating my cheeks and lips, of course, a simple smile always held just so. 

Angeline starts the night by stepping out of the cool night air and into the foyer, she shrugs off her coat allowing it to fall into the hand of a waiting maid. She nods politely recognizing the servant without giving direct thanks for a job simply done. Her smile grows when the hostess struts over with appreciation for her attendance, Angeline responds accordingly complementing the beauty and warmth of the home. A gentle hand on her back and a soft chatter pull her deeper into the belly of the beast. Her skirt swishes past partygoers in the den, she smiles and greets those she walks past. Finally, she reaches her destination, a well-lit and rather spacious scullery where the woman stood around to share stories of their lives. 

Angeline settles into a space parted just for her before tuning in to the stories of who thought their maids were stealing, what kids were no good, whose husband was taking suspicious trips, and of course who looked like they had “let themselves go” as the girls always said. Angeline enjoys the gossip she leans in and whispers what she knows, she laughs at others' expense, and carefully dodges questions too scandalous to be answered aloud. She gasps when one of the girls shrugs after being asked about giving a pool boy some “special” attention and laughs when the group does.

She moves through the crowd of people to find her husband. Effortlessly she links her arm with his squeezing enough for affection but not so hard as to be nagging. She plucks the empty glass out of his hand and with a cheeky smile she swishes off to find a servant to fill the empty glass. In no time at all she returns to her husband's side, drink in hand. Angeline waves off the compliments of the other men and their subsequent gripes about their own wives. Now now she consoled while correcting the behavior. Finally, when the conversations began to lull and her husband's feet began to sway, they would bid goodbye and great thanks before heading out into the night.

Safely tucked in the passenger seat, pulled down to earth by the cool leather brushing against my caves I bring a hand to my neck. My fingers dig in deep, pulling at the tension, pulling Angeline away from me. My husband turns to me and our eyes lock as he leans in for a soft peck. I oblige and feel his lips on mine, here in this car under his touch I was Angie. The sweet girl he met at a bar all those years ago, the girl who held him in her arms when his father died, the girl whose sweet smile and unwavering support were always there, the girl who never complained, only provided. 

Angie rubs the smooth fabric on the shoulder of her husband's jacket. She feels the gentle pressure of his arm pushing towards her touch. Angie makes promises of a warm bath and shoulder massage for her tired and groaning husband. She listened and nodded as he recounted the day's slights against him. When the engine's dull roar comes to a stop she waits for her husband to swing around opening her door. She takes his hand and the pair saunter into their own home. She slips those awful heels off replacing them with a pair of smooth silk slippers. Racing up the stairs she drops the itchy dress and slips on a nightgown that’s edges are decorated with lace. She floats down the stairs light and free.

Angie finds her tired husband on the couch lying with one strewn over his eyes. Carefully and quietly she sneaks over, kneeling by his head, she folds her arms and rests her head on them appreciating the softness of her husband's face. She carefully reaches over, pulling at his hand, lifting it from his face. Her playful smileyness must be contagious because as soon as he sees her a smile breaks out on her husband's face. He turns so their eyes meet again. In the protection of their home Angie runs her hands through the hair of her husband, she leans into his touch. There’s no one here to force her to swat away the hands that wander into her dress. Traversing the soft and untouchable parts of her body.

Angie lets herself be touched and held without concern for modesty. Angie only giggles when her husband sweeps her off her feet to carry her upstairs. She buries her face in his chest inhaling his scent of cologne, sweat, and whiskey. She bats her eyelashes before grabbing him a fresh glass of water to sit on his nightstand. She carefully undresses and redresses the man labeled as her savior with gentle love and care. She tucks him into bed before getting in herself. She burrows her body towards his warmth, Angie rests her head on her husband's chest feeling the rise and fall with every breath. 

As the breaths slow and even out I know he’s asleep. The drinks at the party must have tired him out. I say a quick prayer of thanks that drinks made him docile rather than violent. Then slowly, carefully I lift my head off his chest. His lack of stirring is my final confirmation that he is asleep. I slide out of bed, my feet hitting the cool wooden floors, I crouch to the floor, laying my body flat, my hands reach underneath the bed until they grasp beaten leather. Reeling in my catch I scurry to the bathroom changing out of Angie into someone new. 

Under cover of night, I sneak out to the road, I catch a taxi, and ask them to take me to the place downtown. I tip before walking up to the bouncer. A quick smile and flash of my ID lets the velvet rope drop. The club is dark with colorful lights blazing across the dance floor. Your stereotypical club, packed with young sweaty bodies mashing together. Here under the flashing lights squeezed between the counter of the bar and a long worn-down stool, I am Angel. 

Angel wears tight cheetah print crop tops and old leather jackets, she smells like past cigarettes and exudes confidence. Angel loves the dance floor, she loves her hands tangled in long locks of hair smelling their sweet perfume. Angel drinks dark liquor neat with a flirtatious flick of her tongue. She’s a regular here but isn’t everyone. 

A new face takes a seat on the stool next to her. The woman's face is flushed with exhaustion and glistening with sweat. The colorful lights dance and shine on her teeth as she smiles out her drink order. Angel's eyes wander down feeling, tracing, imagining what lay beneath that tight red dress. Angel, who is unafraid of social norms, coos out a greeting and gets a response. The two women chat for what feels like minutes but is closer to hours. They dance letting curious hands find playful curves, they sit back at the bar swapping stories and lives, they share so much of each other, but eventually, the clock strikes three and Angel has to go. She jokes with the bartender about her tab before flicking him cash. She struts through the dance floor like parting the sea. Finally, she steps out into the light of the street. 

 I breathe in the fresh night air as I take the careful steps to the street where a taxi is waiting to pick me up. My eyes focused on the ground mostly to keep me from falling, I pass by tufts of grass poking out of the cracks on the sidewalk. I’m alone under this cover of night until a shrill chirp hits my ears. My eyes shoot forward to find a grasshopper blocking my path ahead. Quietly I creep up to him and ever so gently reach my hand out. The moment I feel his tiny legs dig into my skin I’m transported back in time. I’m little le le as my grandfather always used to call me.

Little le le was an obedient girl, yet she maintained a thirst for adventure. Little le le strategically found the spots with loose dirt to play. The dust on her clothes is never permanent. Most of all le le loved to find bugs with her grandfather. Suddenly it’s little le le holding the grasshopper in hand going over the parts of the insect's body, head, thorax, leg, she counts the limbs in her head. Examine the markings working to identify the small creature in her hand. Le le looks up expecting to see her grandfather's warm smile looking down on her. Instead, she sees a midnight sky full of stars. In a way, it’s still her grandfather looking down on her just not as close as before.

My eyes drift forward to the waiting yellow car as the grasshoppers' feet leave my hand. I stand and make my way to the vehicle. The ride is unceremonious, Angel's whiskey churns in my stomach making time pass all the more quickly. Before I know it we’re turning into the driveway. In the text moment, I pay and exit the vehicle, reaching the door I slot my key inside and make my way up the stairs. I slip back into Angie’s nightgown and wipe Angeline’s makeup off my face before sliding into bed. I burrow close to the man radiating warmth and comfort next to me. I don’t sleep not yet though my mind is still full.

In my home sitting in my bed under the cover of night with no one’s eyes to watch me and no one's voice to name me I don’t know who I am. I’m not Angeline I’m not Angie I’m not Angel and I’m certainly not little le le. I am what I need to be. I have no true name but I do know that I am the one in control there is no fate. I am fate, and fate is resourceful. Maybe in one way, they were right it was always fate because it was always me. 

Tomorrow I’ll wake up under the man next to me’s gaze and I will be Angie. The thought brings me some comfort as I close my eyes and let the night take me.