Two Drops of Sea

Two Drops of Sea
by Judith Goudsmit

She didn’t do these kinds of things often: stretching out on a sofa, pretending to be comfortable, legs a little spread, head tilted as if she was dropped from an airplane and just happened to have landed in this position, as if no single thought had gone into it, casually holding a cigarette between her slightly spread fingers, her elbow resting on someone's skateboard. It had taken her at least ten minutes before she dared to sit down, before she had decided exactly where she would place each limb, like puzzle pieces that wouldnt make sense anywhere else. And now that she was seated she hadn’t moved for exactly sixteen minutes and fourty-five seconds.

Beer cans were being opened, cigarettes were blazing, moving around the room like fireflies, windows were opened and then closed again seconds later after a dress had been covered in flying ash, people were smiling, attempting to look interested, while other people pretended to be interesting, explaining their latest art installation consisting of vintage t-shirts covered with semen and cocaine segments, and an empty shoe and ashtray danced a sad dance between two people stumbling into an embrace.

She breathed in and out, slowly, and wondered if there was an allotted time for people to stretch out on a sofa that wasn’t their own without anyone’s particular company. She guessed thirty minutes was the absolute maximum, but thought that maybe in a situation like this, at some apartment somewhere, closer to morning than midnight, more strangers than acquaintances, maybe they could let some minutes slide. The truth was she didn’t like parties, or conversations, or new people, or uncomfortable silences, or warm beer, or people courting, or people embracing, or people kissing, or people commenting on outfits without looking, or sunglasses inside, or big sunglasses of any kind, or impossible stilettos, or people looking across the room, or people looking without looking, or people tripping, or people talking and laughing or people who genuinely seemed happy. About something. Or nothing.

She had read somewhere that nobody wants to talk to an angry face.

She smiled or attempted to look open, gentle, clear, or at least like someone you can be comfortable with, who you can talk to if there is really nobody else you could possible share any interesting topic with. She would be there for that person. For that person aimlessly walking around the room hoping someone would bump into him, or step on him or comment on his carefully destroyed t-shirt in order to start a conversation. She would be there, waiting.

She had read somewhere that finding a man after you turned thirty-five was like winning the lottery.

Two feet were walking her way. Two feet, ten toes, ten nails walking her way. He also had two calves, two knees, hips, a stomach, and there she stopped. So far so good, she thought, so far so good. She sat up a little and adjusted her hands. He had two arms. “Thank god for arms,” she thought. He moved closer and she could make out strong veins on his arms, veins like an athlete or a good dad or a fighter. “Veins,” she thought and repeated it a couple times in her head hoping she didn’t have to look up yet. But there was no need; he sat down.

He asked her name, she told him, asked for his, he told her, and there was an instant of silence. Nobody would have noticed it, it was the length of a breath or a clap, but for her it was an ocean, a big pool of water you could swim dozens of laps in, and then get out and dive in again, before it was over.

She had read somewhere that more than half of all conversations consist of body language, not words.

He asked her some questions, which she knew the answer to although she suddenly doubted her answers, as if maybe where she came from had changed, as if where she went to school had been some strange dream she had just woken up from. But she breathed and he still sat there, legs a little parted, hand lost in the little room between them, like a little pet that couldn't choose between his parents. They talked some more, she asked some questions, he answered them, and suddenly it was easy. Words came and went like a soft wind calmly flowing between them.

He asked her if she had ever thought why people talk the way they talk. And it was funny, because in fact she had. Many times. The way people converse had always been a riddle for her which she never quite found the answer to. He wondered out loud if it would be possible to talk in “things” rather than sentences, or words, or sayings. She wondered with him.

"Like for instance,” he said, “what if I said ‘five hundred eggs’ and that would mean ‘hey how are you,' or ‘I put all your black socks in the washing machine.’ “

She laughed. “That would be nice,” she said, “I would like that.”

"Let’s go,” he said. For a second she meant outside, away, somewhere else. But he meant let’s go there, let’s go there, where people talk in “things.”

"Two grains of sand,” she said. She liked the feeling of warm sand between her toes, especially if they had red nail polish on them, and the sand was fine and filled with pieces of shell.

He answered with “two cups of black coffee with some milk.” She smiled, because she liked her coffee with milk too.

"Five hundred red tablecloths.”

"Two blue balloons.”

"Three cartwheels and a big sunflower.”

"A dark blue fountain pen and seven unpaid telephone bills.”

"A gummy bear and a slither of sadness.”

She wanted to stop him, and tell him that didn’t count because sadness wasn’t a thing, but then she didn’t because maybe it was. She grabbed his hand instead and touched his veins. They sat there for a while and said nothing. They had said most things already anyway.

Some people had fallen asleep, their mouths parted, cigarettes still burning; some people had left hastily as if they suddenly realized they had a dentist appointment; others were still talking, sniffing the last bit of cocaine, smoking the last bud of weed, drinking the last cheap beers, emptying already empty bottles, inhaling the last oxygen in the room, finding the last listener, taking in the last moments of a night that had already passed, finding the last one standing, maybe for a talk, maybe for a fuck, or just to acknowledge that they weren’t alone, not yet.

And they sat there still, she wanted to tell him “a basket of painted eggshells,” but she didn’t. Someone tripped over her bag, someone vomited in the bathroom, someone mumbled a song, an old song, a sad song, someone’s nose was bleeding, someone danced, alone, someone asked for directions, to the next party, the next morning, the next love song, the next heartfelt conversation, the next happiness, and they sat, in the middle.

"He has hands,” she thought, “he has legs, long ones, he has lashes, a nose, he has a mouth.”

"And his face,” she thought, “his face.” She looked. She was wondering if there was an allotted time to sit with someone on a couch that wasn’t your own, not saying anything.

Someone told them they had to leave. “Two bottles of aftershave,” he answered. She smiled. They walked together, on the street, to her house, or his; there was no one else, on the street, in their city.

"Two moons,” she said.

"Two stars,” he said.

"Two Plutos.”

"Two faces.”

"Two mouths,” he said.

And she said nothing.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Judith Goudsmit is a playwright from Holland. She has a BFA from NYU and is working on her masters in playwriting at the New School in September.

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