A single candle illuminated the wooden bench upon which dinner was being prepared. A few handfuls of greens rested there, freshly pulled from Colin’s garden, just steps outside the front door. Colette was preparing a stir-fry at the wood-burning stove in the back corner of their caravan. They were both here short-term as woofers, but it was Farmer Colin’s turf.
He had a dangerous sort of handsomeness: tattooed, lean and dark; like a gypsy. Two Pounamu jade swirls hung from his earlobes, and two more jade pendants gleamed on his chest. Carving Pounamu was a hobby of his. Rough stones puddled outside the caravan, and beautifully finished pendants decorated the windows inside. Colin was an artist with a precise hand and discerning eye, and you could see that in the lovely nude drawing that he’d made of Colette, hanging just above the bench.
Colin settled a can of chickpeas for the stir-fry on the bench between a shriveled mushroom and a lush pile of garlic. He’d grown tobacco that summer, and a short curtain of their delicate amber leaves hung low around his dark head. His short, sharp shaman’s knife had an antler handle that gleamed in the candlelight. He sliced through the top of the can with a practiced ease, hands firm and pipe dangling from the corner of his mouth.
The Mormon and I were there to commiserate with them over the news that Colette and I were being kicked out for the winter. The farm owner told us that he didn’t have enough work for us to do, but we all thought it was because he was cheap and antisocial. And misogynistic for just kicking out the girls. Otis, the German kid, was planning on leaving next week anyway, so we didn’t count him.
I was happy for any excuse to visit Colin and Colette. Conversation with the Mormon was excruciating, and I never felt satisfied. Colin was lively behind his eyes, and Colette was wonderfully French with her dismissive passion. We three had spoken of philosophy, art, and gardening a few times, but we’d never managed to fulfill our fantasy of weekly potluck dinners together.
Whenever we tired of misunderstanding the farm owner’s motives, the Mormon would bring up Rex and his stinky farts. Finally, Rex did grace us with one, and he was summarily removed from the caravan. Farmer Colin’s little tabby cat, Mirabelle, was quite pleased to recover sovereignty over her domain.
I took a sideswipe at the conversation by saying that the farm owner was just jealous that we were getting laid on the regular.
“It’s like he sees that we’re enjoying life, and he just can’t be around that.”
“He is …what you call it? …a hater,” Colette replied.
“That’s what I’m saying, Colette; you’ve gotta live in love.”
“That’s a different level of living,” Colin said. “Most people don’t think about how they live, they just get on with it.”
“It’s too bad. You’re right.” I paused for a moment to look at the Mormon. He was licking a rolling paper to make a spliff, and he glanced up with wide eyes and a wrinkled brow. “But like attracts like, and love begets love. It’s a positive cycle. People are missing out.”
Colin made a dismissive sound that sounded like a growl.
“People are always missing out,” he said. “Do you know how often they get close to amazing things, and then they back down because of fear or incompetence? People don’t like to deviate from the plan. Especially when it comes to sex. There are so many obstacles to having sex, and we’ve created most of them as a society. Even if you have the chance, your mind is constantly coming up with reasons not to do it. It’s twisted. Love is the exception, not the rule.”
“I totally agree,” I nodded. “It’s actually remarkably difficult to have two people together in the same room that both want to have sex with each other. You really have to take advantage of the opportunity when it presents itself, or you’re cheating yourself. Life is a buffet, man! How you gonna go home with an empty belly?”
We all toasted that idea with a smoke. Colette admonished Colin for adding the greens to the stir-fry prematurely, and soon after, the Mormon and I left them to their dinner. I held his hand as we walked back to his caravan in the dark. The night sky exploded above us; her stars thick and lustrous.
Rex bounced around us, and, when we finally reached the chilly caravan, I thought I could hear a sigh of contentment from him as he settled into his spot. Poor, sweet Rex needed comfort and security. The Mormon reckoned that his neediness came from being just outside of the restroom when his original owner died on the pot. It is traumatizing to watch your best friend die. Rex needs to be a dog; he needs to be owned, to have a pack to protect. He has dog dharma that is unfulfilled.
I didn’t want to be another disappointment to him, so I tried not to be too loving towards Rex. Sometimes, I couldn’t resist hugging him close, but I didn’t dare attach my heart to his. According to the farm owner’s new rules, I’d be allowed to visit one night per week. I wasn’t allowed to root and settle here. I wasn’t allowed peace.
“You’re tight,” the Mormon said, as he pressed his lovely, hard cock into me just before bedtime.
“I’m worried.”
“What ya worried for? That old man can’t take this away from us.”
“He’s trying his best. Does this mean that I don’t belong here? I was having so much fun playing house with you.”
I didn’t tell him that my period was late. When I’d been sick from overindulging in alcohol a few days ago, I fantasized that it was morning sickness, and that thought made me smile. If only such an accident could happen! Statistically, it should have happened a dozen times already.
Maybe my barren belly would grow round with the Mormon’s seed. I hoped it would, even though I knew how impossible that dream was. Neither the Mormon nor I have any kind of financial stability. I’d undoubtedly get angry at him for being irritating, ignorant, and unhelpful like my father; and the poor child would have my painful, hateful childhood. The Mormon would work too hard, I’d feel trapped, and we’d resent each other before long. But, how sweet it would be to hold my own child close while her father held us both in his strong arms! That moment must be a special joy.
Ten years ago, I’d consulted the I Ching1 about the possibility of having a child. It said that if I didn’t get pregnant at that time, then it would be ten years until I had another chance. My ex-husband didn’t want children, so I gave up on the whole idea at the time.
But here I am: divorced, stuck in a foreign country by a global pandemic with a cum-spouting, condom-hating Mormon. I finally have a chance.
1https://www.chinafile.com/library/nyrb-china-archive/what-i-ching
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