The brown skirt has a history. It has to do with New Orleans, and the first time I had sex, and the first time I got drunk, which happened to be the same night. One happened and then the other, and there I was, dancing in Harrah’s Casino to “Hollaback Girl,” a song I’d heard on the radio many times that summer but whose beat hadn’t roused me until that night. The guy I was with sat playing a slot machine and murmured for me to tone it down so I didn’t get us kicked out. There was the hotel room afterward (Room 315, tattooed on my brain), and there was the pipe painted white to blend in with the wall. I used the pipe for a stripper pole, the clock radio tuned to classic rock, wearing nothing except for this skirt, dancing for him, because he liked strip clubs -- he had taken me to one earlier in the night. “Fate… up against your will… you will wait until… you give yourself to him.” That was several lifetimes ago.
Sometimes I feel like an old onion, lifetimes wrapped around lifetimes.
I wonder whether anyone is really knowable, to anyone.