Carnival Frevo

Tonight I slip on a sleeveless summer sheath and a delicate pair of heels; pump a lithe perfume against the sensitive part of my shoulders, my neck—and head into the city. To Lincoln Center and carnival frevo, carnival Brazil. Applying lipstick in the dim light of my car, I drive too fast over the Henry Hudson Bridge, and down the West Side Highway. I sing along to my iPod, on my way to an adventure. Above the Hudson River, the sky is the color of wet sand, the moon hidden behind clouds, the air thick with heat and the promise of many good things. I have bandaged the other day’s wounds, applied ointment and cream, and taught myself again how to smile—practicing in the mirror, in the quiet of my car. I am so tired of pain, so tired of being left behind…

On the south plaza, the crowd is assembling, moving slowly onto the smooth gray stone, still warm beneath our shoes from the day’s heat, just beyond the Center. I pause alongside the fountain, and remember all those times I sat there—a majestic spray and the perimeter of lights mirroring my joy. Those were happier days when I was kissed with an open mouth, was loved with both arms and a man’s thirsty heart… Tonight, the fountain is under repair—like me and this wounded body, a string of caution tape stretched around my own bruised heart.

Along the plaza, sculpted trees lift long, graceful arms that are haloed in light from some unseen place below—and tall, courtly buildings stand anchored around us, like sentinels, like guards to make sure we don’t get too raucous tonight. Which is what I ache to do, what I want to have happen. Me alone and unloved on the flagstone plaza, the warm, quiet breeze my inconstant lover—like the man I knew before this. I know there is more than emptiness and pain, that my fire and heat are magnetic, wanted…

The band kicks in and the crowd begins to pulsate, to express their joy through shuffling feet, lilting hips, and fingers snapping out their pleasure. It’s not long before I am swept into the swell, into the energy of the people here tonight, and I move alone—carefree, captivated. My bliss lifts up into the dusky night to join hands with the rest of the joy that has been released up there. I feel every curve of my body, every rounded angle and swell, as I move, move, move… And suddenly the slightest touch of a hand on the small of my back, on my arm—and he’s there. An unexpected man who asks if I am alone. I am, I tell him, flashing a noisy smile that he flashes right back. But I don’t want to be…

And he urges me to a space just a few steps away--where we might move together on this hot summer night, under the watchful eye of those guardian buildings. You are the brightest woman here, he says as we move—and I suspect he’s talking about my dress, the flash of my smile, my polished pink toes. The drums and bass lay down a pulsing rhythm that draws the whole crowd closer, including the unexpected man and me. His face is just inches from mine, this tall stranger: gray licking at his temples, eyes as black and daring as mine. It’s a hot summer night—and we move, and we move, and we move…

Later we take a giddy walk down Broadway, two strangers, two open souls, on a fanciful night in the city. Still, he says: you are a sad woman, I can see. Which I don’t deny, but instead tell him that I won’t always be. I have lost a lot, I say, but I’m ready to find other things. I don’t like going through life empty-handed…

At the bar, he orders our drinks, and leads me outside to a small patio where music floats along in the heavy air from speakers no one can see. There are tables and expectant people—the sound of laughter, of newly ripened love. In the corner, white lights shimmer like crystals from a sassy tree. We sit together at a small glass table, the tension in my knees igniting a heat that I can feel each time I cross my legs. Above us, the moon and stars remain hidden, leaving us to the night and all its brassy shadows. Tomorrow, and my own jagged pain, float along somewhere with the music, waiting for the dawn, for this night to end, for me to reclaim them…
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