Cute

     “You are not cute” he said, in the Bend, as though I were a vain girl. Or as though I needed to be reminded not to touch. It will not do to give the wrong impression. Unless, of course, that’s fine today. Unless it’s one of those rare days when I should take every word into account.
     And (can you believe it?) for years I said it was the best compliment I had ever received.  Those words in the Bend, a lead pipe I carried around in my shirt sleeve. They made me something different, special, touched. Fey and alien. And cute. What a thing not to be.
      Sometimes I didn’t know where exactly they had come from, those words. Waking up, unreachable and cosmic, I couldn’t tell you why, but I’d be asking where the letters he had written had gone. Habits grow fast in me, and I took to the habit of being unreachable. Or perhaps just unwilling to leap. Blame an inferiority or superiority complex, you can take your pick. I’m still unsure.
      And after he was gone, man oh man, I traveled inward. I lived in my head. Made my own furniture and painted the walls scarlet. I could dance there and sing too, belting. I could say biting words and speak in front of a crowd of hundreds. I could jump across rooftops in the moonlight. I could play guitar.
      It is embarrassing, the list of things that I could do in there. I kept the spyglasses trained out the window, of course, let’s not be silly, but I stayed safely inside. Safe, sound, and talented, and never cute. Never, never. How droll, to be cute! How very demeaning!
       A lead pipe in my shirt sleeve, kept close to my veins. A perfect gift from a boy like him. And in my head I learned to embroider and make a perfect cup of tea. I learned karate and the bassoon. I took ballet. I read so many books and wrote many, many theses.
      If one should come too near, with mal intent, I had my weapon.
      But curiously, as of late, something happened. Like the prophetic advice of my mother said. I was in the car, driving down the highway in the rain, buried under coats, when I realized, that somewhere along the line, I had lost them. Those words were all gone. Excised. And maybe they’re on the side of the road. Maybe I lost them on my porch, near the door.  Maybe they rolled up against a streetlight. Maybe they fell underwater. Perhaps I lost them in the morning, where my heart stopped from joyful causes. Or maybe it was when I stumbled through the door and made tea at one o’clock in the morning. It might have been when I heard, so quiet, at my ear, “You are so cute,”
        And I know it’s rude to disregard a gift by losing it, but, this time, I think I’ll let it slide.