Imaginary Lover

Dear Imaginary Lover,

Where are you tonight? Are you at home? Come here. Sit by me. That's it.

Imaginary Lover, do you mind if I give you a name? It should have I and L in it I think. Lil' Rick? Lonnie? How about Ali? Because, yes, Ali, your skin is different. It's a different color, it is smooth like silk, like a chai latte. No, darker, like milk chocolate. Or...

Ali, when you sit by me like that I feel so young. I feel different. I am, in fact, a different person. When I'm with you, Ali, I am someone like me, but not me. I am a third person.

Her name...is it Lana? Is it Lisa? Lana is so distinct. Not many Lana's out there. But Lisa is the name of my best friend in third grade, and two of my sisters-in-law, and my best friend's sister, and many others born in or around 1960-70. It could have been my name. Lisa...

Lisa is sexy. Lisa is not me. She was born in L.A. and decided to stay there. She went away to college, but she came back. She lives in Topanga. She is married to a surfer and an artist. Let's call him John.

Lisa is...a real estate agent. She kicks ass. She is better than me, but not as tall. She looks like Mary Louise Parker. She has attitude.

Lisa sees Ali at an open house in the Hollywood Hills. He looks familiar. She humiliates him very subtly. She makes him wear blue hospital booties to tour her open house. It's her listing. She is a broker, and he is a rooky agent. She's kind of a bitch. He doesn't seem phazed. They hardly exchange any words. But there is a recognition.

Lisa drives home the long way, taking Sunset to PCH. It's November, but it's warm enough to drive with the top down. It's dark when she gets home. The flat screen is glowing blue in the living room. John is eating pizza and watching football. He hardly notices when she comes in.

"Hey," John says. "There's pizza on the counter." Leaning over his plate staring at the TV he stomps his foot on the wood floor and mumbles something indiscernible with a "Fuck!"

"Thanks, honey," she says, flicks on the bedroom light and kicks her shoes off into a pile outside her closet. She strips off her white linen jacket and black pants, and pulls on some sweats and goes back to the kitchen. No one else is home.

She sits on the stool at the counter and eats warm pizza thinking about Ali. His skin looked so smooth and creamy. He looked at her, and he smiled.

Is this her imaginary lover?