Still Life: Part Three: Leanings: Busy Street

-open-

 

-scene-busy street-

 

I think the chiropractor likes me.  His bald head gleams as he leans across the table and smiles.  The sun streams in through smudged windows.  The pub is large during the day, the room virtually empty.  The tables are shabby looking, the chairs uneven and mismatched.  The romance of the room diminishes greatly with sunlight.

 

I woke up strange today.  I needed to talk, to be with someone new, to hear a new voice.  Strange how few friends are left when you abandon everyone you know for the safety of your home.  There are only twelve numbers in my address book, eight of them are family members, some of which are dead.  There was no one to call, no real friends, only people who used to know me.  I needed someone new.  The chiropractor

 

’s number was in my coat pocket.  I stared at it for an hour, trying to remember how it got there.  Flower Child, of course.  The night we were drunk, months ago.  How like Flower Child to share.  Still, there was the number and I needed someone new, so I called and he answered.  He agreed instantly and I was bewildered, wondering of what we would speak.  I showed up at the pub, slightly early, and contemplated leaving.  I was rounding the corner to wave for a cab when he approached.

 

Now, we have sat here for hours, talked of many things, our lives, the years.  I have not told him about you.  Not yet.  He is older than I am, worried that he might never meet that someone special, worried that he is getting old.  I am not that person, the one and only.  I am just interested in one night, maybe two.  I would like to know if spiritual sex can begin over an innocent pint of Guinness.

 

The chiropractor makes me content, makes me laugh wholeheartedly, as though my waking self can forget that I have a memory.

 

* * * * *

 

 

It is past five now and the car plant down the street has just changed shifts.  Smelly men in overalls appear and fill up most of the booths.  The waitress glances at the clock before crossing over to set plates of authentic Irish appeal in front of us.  The chiropractor dives in with a zeal that would ordinarily frighten me.

 

I never thought small talk fun.  I am having fun now.  The chiropractor’s nose crinkles as he eats.  He sniffs every bite before eating.  I have not eaten so much in months, almost a year now.  The stew is thick and full of vegetables, large carrots and chunks of potatoes.  The chiropractor, Tim, that is, he starts a new story, this one about the university’s soccer team’s incompetence and constant injuries.  He was hired by the university in full capacity and has many tales of youthful exuberance and mishaps which result and require his expertise.  His teeth show with each laugh and there are many to be had.  His eyes crinkle in the corners and he fiddles constantly with the ring on his middle finger.

 

I find myself smiling at his eagerness, the youthfulness that cannot be masked by years of practising a discipline.  I envy his stamina, but I do not feel left behind, as with Flower Child.  He makes living actually seem possible and not a feature of the truly gifted and apathetic.

 

-Tell me more, I say, and a new story begins.  The names blur and sometimes the twists and turns confuse me but I try to stay focused.  I want to know, I want to hear these words, hear of other lives without feeling anxious about mine.  I am not threatened here, I feel no judgement, no need to lie or protect myself.  I only want to listen and laugh and be here now.

 

Tim pushes the plate away.  -Enough, he says and I push my plate away in agreement.

 

He studies me for a moment and when he speaks, his voice is almost shy, childlike.  -I have a cottage, he says.  -It’s near Midland.  My fishing buddies and I head up there two or three times a year.  It’s furnished well.  I’m fairly proud of it.

 

-Sounds great, I say.  -Love to see it.

 

* * * * *

 

The strangest thoughts occur to me as I sit in this pub and watch Tim relate another story.  I think of Kid, so young, still learning.  I liked his innocence and that he liked me, despite my appearance, my social standing, my quirks.  He liked me, but he never loved me, not really.  I suppose being liked should have suited me well enough.  Everyone wants to be liked.

 

The doctor likes me, but he admires the drama, is even tempted by turmoil but perceives a vicarious living as his only option.  He is so structured by the world he hears he cannot associate it with the stress of feeling.  I liked him very much and I miss our talks.  I wonder if it would be hard to track him down.

 

And Tim, sitting across from me now, his pint raised to his slightly parted lips, likes me.  I can tell by the way he leans across the condensation covered table, disregarding the light moisture seeping into the edge of his shirt.  He is pulling me forward with his smile, the brilliance in his eyes.  I could fall, I think.  Yes, maybe I could take the step over the edge and fall to earth.

 

-Let’s walk, I say.  I want to leave this place, be in the open air and start a new day with these new thoughts.

 

* * * * *

 

 

It is easy to be content today.  Nothing marvellous or miraculous has happened other than the sun rising.  And the sun shines, shines bright and tinges my skin with red, even here, on this street full of people, most oblivious to the presence of the sun or myself.

 

I do not even remember needing my pills now.  Flower Child would say I am getting better.  Prescription drugs were never so desirable to her because their use suggests an authorized problem.  Illicit ones hint at issues but there is no stamp of corporation or institution.  Maybe she is right.  Maybe my problems can be just a little less important.  Maybe there is a life beyond prescriptions and pills and problems and doctors.  Maybe sometimes there are people who make me laugh and make me feel somehow like the future is not so dreadful or terrifying.  And maybe, just maybe, life does not need to be healed today .Maybe it can just be enjoyed.   Maybe I am ordinary.  Normal of sorts.  Feeling emotions everyone feels and deals with on a daily routine.  Maybe neurosis and psychosomatic nonsense are simply that: nonsense between sunshine and contentment.

 

The rooftop is empty today and no one notices the absence.  There are no crowds, no noise, no reason to pause or gape.  We sit on the bench and I feel every inch of the hard wood against my bones.  My back stiffens as usual but relaxes again when the chiropractor sits beside me, and I remember that I am not alone, not really, only if I choose to be.

 

-Why are we sitting?  Tim asks.

 

I point to the building across the street.  I could tell him that there was once a girl who climbed to the roof to escape, that there was once a blind man who joined me daily to listen to life, that I have sat here many hours watching the same building for the last year.  I tell him the truth.

 

-I used to live here.  The man, the man I lived with, he died recently, a year ago actually.  Um, we lived here, together.

 

And there you are, out in the open, for all to see.  I will not hide you inside me any longer.  A year has passed and I cannot be the person who feels all the regret.  I miss you but I did leave and I will not regret it any longer.

 

* * * * *

 

 

It’s funny.  You are not even a person anymore.  You are just a name, a theory, a recollection of events that I am not sure happened and which I am sure I have altered with time.  I have made you into a hero, a villain, a despot.  You were just a sad, lonely, confused, cowardly little boy.  You ran and hid at the slightest chance of a fight, even when the fight was for your life.

 

But it was your fight.  I know I stayed as long as I could have when the love is gone.  I loved you, I thought beyond measure, but as you changed, the boundaries did too.  I chose survival, you sought darkness.

 

Tim nods.  -I’m sorry.  I shrug off his sympathy.

 

-He got sick, I say, almost clinically.  -He didn’t, didn’t know how to cope. He thought he could hide from it, that if he didn’t acknowledge the pain, it would fade.  The medicine made him weak, he started to lose his hair, he was so vain, he thought people noticed his thinning hair more than his pale skin.  He couldn’t remember which pills to take when and he got angry, at himself, at the sickness, so he stopped taking them altogether.

 

-He started drinking more, I continue.  Now that I had begun, how was I to stop?  -He was always a drinker.  He found that whiskey dulled the pain the most, but eventually he would drink anything.  I couldn’t figure out who was buying it for him since his doctor had restricted him to the flat.  Turned out, it was the kid downstairs, but that’s not really here nor there, is it?    I try to laugh but my voice cracks.  -He was going stir crazy.  I tried to find things for him to do, but he was so weak.  I had people in to visit but many were confused and put off by the drinking.  He was never sober enough to speak with them.

 

-I tried to stay.  I told myself that if I loved him, I had to stay but everyday, he changed, he got worse, he couldn’t remember my name.  He forgot who I was and I couldn’t remember why I was staying.  So I left.  And he died.  I did, um get him a nurse to come in.  Still though, you must think I’m horrible, leaving someone who was so sick.

 

The chiropractor sits quietly for a moment.  He is going to leave now, I think.  He is going to stand and leave.  And I will be alone.  As I deserve.  But instead, he reaches across and takes my hand.

 

* * * * *

 

 

The day we discovered you were sick, you sat quietly by yourself for hours.  I brought you tea, soup, a sandwich, and finally the brandy, which you accepted without argument.  And I sat at your side, and tidied up, and cried.  You never cried.  You showed no emotion, not even anger.  I was never more frightened.  That was the day I lost you.

 

You once said you would never die for anyone, not even me.  You could never love, no no love is the wrong word, never trust anyone enough with your life.  Those were your words.  Trust no one, die for no one.  But I did not believe you .  I saw more to you than you could see.  I saw myself hanging from a cliff and your hand reaching over to save me.  I thought I saw strength and courage but I was wrong.

 

Truth was, you did not trust me to be there in the end.  You expected me to leave and you made it easy for me.  You never saw the hand reaching over the edge to save you, only the dark seas below.  You did not trust me with your life and you did not trust yourself enough to save yourself.  You could not trust me to stay because you would not have stayed.  You did not trust me to love you because who could love someone as hateful and empty as the person you were becoming.

 

I never believed you were empty.  I never imagined you cared so little for this bit of life you were given.

 

Letting go of the memories of you is the hardest.  You have lived here, in my head, and I thought that so long as you were there, you would be alive.  I could keep you alive that way, the way I could not standing above as you lay on the bed, watching you as you coughed and sputtered, as I prayed for you to be better, to wake up well.  How many nights did I pray?  You cannot know how I tried.

 

The chiropractor, my hand in his, squeezes lightly.  He pretends to look around but his eyes watch me from the corners.

 

-Thank you, I say.

 

-I haven’t

 

-Yes, I nod, and Tim smiles, a gorgeous sombre smile.  He seems so real, so strong that I am frightened.  I am not brave enough to try again.  I am not brave.  To give you up is more courage than I know and to try again, to love again, how?  So I just hold his hand and pray for strength.

 

* * * * *

 

 

Magdalena was born on the eve of a new year, perhaps she is a goddess.

 

* * * * *

 

And here the stories fall away.

 

There was once a pub, a small sort of joint Canadian-Irish-Scottish pub in a mediocre city that bordered a greater American metropolis.  And there were frightened people who gathered frequently, as though the physical presence of others could cure a deep-seated loneliness.  The people, like the chairs and tables, did not match but fell into a comfortable disarray.  The ages mixed, awkwardly aware of the cross-section of lives and experiences but reassured by the affects of alcohol.  There political conversations thrived, ancient ideals were upheld and the modern day was dismissed.  Individuals found comfort in a pint and intellectual equanimity.  A pub where the word sociable meant more than cheers, more than camaraderie.

 

And there was once a busy street, full of people of purpose and direction, lives to attend to and standards to attain.  And there were bystanders, sitting on benches, listening to the activity and watching the cars and people.  And there was a building best forgotten, where time stood still despite the commotion outside.

 

And there was once a room that held captive a sad and confused heart.  The room acted as safe-hold, a playground for irrational thoughts and paranoias, and a dungeon for the weak.  There were no princes on white stallions or feisty heroines to rescue the endangered or dismayed.  There was only darkness and sedatives and misery.  But at some point the curtain rods bent under the pressure of the years and the panels fell to the littered floor, revealing a blinding and real sun.  The sad heart looked up from the fetal position and drew strength in deep breaths of sunshine.

 

And there was once fear and fleeing and now here sits an active and conscious soul.

 

 

* * * * *

 

 

 

I no longer expect you to come through those doors, your bike over your shoulder, a healthy and beautiful glow to your smiling face.  I no longer expect the moment of awkwardness, I no longer pray for the moment you forgive me.  I no longer believe it was all a dream and that you are alive and healthy somewhere, and that we may meet again as grad students and fall in love over a cup of coffee in an Irish pub.

 

I suppose what bothered me the most is that you never questioned my leaving.  You never called, you never asked why or tried to change my mind.  The way you used to, the way you would have, back when you loved me.  Did your silence mean despair or gratitude?  Did you not want me to see you at the end?  Did you reach out for me, say my name, if only with your heart?  Or did you hate me for giving up?  Did you notice me leave at all?

 

These are the questions I must leave here, with this building and its memories.  I will pretend, when I walk away, that you have forgiven me and that you remember once upon our lives that you loved me and that I loved you with equal abandon.  And I will pray that you are safe within those walls, protected and loved.

 

Tim taps me on the shoulder.

 

There is traffic, as though everyone is rushing home to someone, as though the world has given in to some image of life in motion as pleasing and right.  I stand and laugh and people glance my way and I see myself in the robes of the mad poet, seeing meaning where others cannot, hearing like the blind and actually feeling the world around me.  Noticing the threads of grass poking through the pavement, I see where life has continued unabated.  For all the doubts and questions you raised in my mind, for all the delusions and frustrations and beauty you pose as my history, I have confronted you with myself as one piece.  A blue jay swoops down and snags a crumpled bag from the local donut shop, hoping for a crumb.  I want more than a speck, more than the menial, more than the everyday.  I want to see what world lies beyond redemption and forgiveness.

 

-end-

 

 

 

Still Life: Part Three: Leanings: Art Gallery

-open-

 

-scene-art gallery-

 

The street is full of activity.  The five o

 

’clock hour has people rushing, barely glancing at each other.  The doctor is absent.  I try to pretend that he has found the courage to approach the beautiful girl but I am sure his absence is nothing so romantic in nature.

 

I have been like a zombie for months.  I cannot seem to sleep through the nights and when I do, I awake with the dawn, everyday.  I come to this bench and sit, like I always have, only, everything seems different.  Maria no longer returns.  I have not seen her since that day at the motel.  The doctor’s visits are sporadic.  He is changed too.  He never speaks of it, but I sense a whimsy in him now.   The greatest difference is that I am clean.  I have not taken a pill, not a yellow, blue, pink or white one, in eighty-seven days.  I check off the days in a portable calendar that I carry in the pocket where my pill case used to sit.  I bought the little day planner in the pharmacy near my home the last morning I spent with Kid.  I check off the days and carry it around like a bible, like something sacred and necessary.  Whenever I panic, I take it out and stare at the ridiculous cover photo of a cat dangling from a branch until the moment passes.  Then I count the days off, one by one, until my heartbeat and breathing return to normal.  I cannot explain the significance of the checkmarks.  I need them.  I live for them, because in there, somewhere, is the knowledge that I am hidden behind them.  Freedom through checkmarks.

 

The doctors at the clinic are worried.  They fear a relapse.  They prescribe more pills.  I could open a pharmacy with all the bottles that line the top of my fridge and that thought makes me laugh.

 

Sobriety is strange.  I feel frightened most of the time.  The fear, I find, is easier to deal with than the numbness that was my life before.  I ignore the fear mostly.  I watch others and ignore myself.  Life is floating along and I am not sinking.  I simply have not begun to swim yet.

 

* * * * *

 

I cannot say that I have not thought of you in months.  That would be a lie.  I think of you everyday but I have made changes.  I moved, for one.  I bought a house, actually.  A rather small house but it has a garden and I have to keep the grass trimmed.  I painted all the rooms in soft bright colours and I bought some plants.  A lot of them have dried up but some have flowered.  A lot of light comes through the large front window and though blinds are probably a good idea, I like that I cannot hide from the sunshine that pours in.

 

I live on a busy street.  People are constantly driving by and kids seem to congregate in the nearby park.  I can hear their laughter even with the windows closed.  Flower Child helped me buy a new computer and set me up with all kinds of new software and internet nonsense I do not need and find rather overwhelming.  I am rarely online.  I like to check the news  and check for up-coming book launches.  I went to a few readings for some local writers and attended a trade show too.  I have been busy, sort of.  I try to keep busy, not to hide from the pain or to avoid it, but just to be active, to be in the community, not just watch life as it passes my windows.

 

I stopped all the pills.  I am even afraid of aspirin.  I have decided that it is better to feel, to feel anything, than to be numb.  At first, all I felt was pain.  I was tired and headachy and sad.  Sometimes angry.  Sometimes, I felt so completely ridiculous.  Also, invisible and terrifyingly vulnerable.  After a time though, I started to feel accepted at various events.  I remembered things I learned in school, realized that I was more intelligent than I had been giving myself credit for.  Soon I found myself speaking out at things, giving my opinion.  I was shocked at myself some of the time.

 

Flower Child makes little comment.  She smiles that slow casual smile of hers and talks only of social topics and trends.  I think she is pleased that I respond with opinions and insight and little apathy.  I am a part of the world now and I find I have things to say.  I am still uncertain if I am making any sense, but I feel that I am, and that my words count, if only for a little.

 

Funny, I feel like my eyes are open again.  Like my time with you was a dream from which it took me years to awake.  I think I would live the dream again, knowing it brings me here.  I like this place.  I can breathe here.

 

Maria arrives at the building and pauses.  I have not seen her in months.  She no longer returns to the roof, or the cafes, or the art gallery.  She withdrew completely and now I understand.  Her stomach precedes her as she walks, a slow measured walk, one hand on the small of her back.  She turns from the building and sees me, crossing the street to where I sit.  I look away as she approaches, thinking myself as invisible to her as I have felt myself to be for the last few months.  I have been sitting for hours, am sore and aimless, assuming myself less harmful if I remain inert.  She pauses before me, the wind causing the unzipped portion of her coat to flap noisily.  She is dressed well, more severe than usual, in dark clothing, a simple skirt and sweater.  Her hair is pulled from his face, which appears more strained and colourless than usual.  She is quiet for a moment, then smiles cautiously.  -Can we? she asks, nodding her head in the direction of the art gallery

 

I stand and together we fade into the nameless mob.  We return to the café outside the art gallery.  There is a trendy group of well-dressed, clever, forward-looking gorgeous men and women.  I cannot hear their words, but their tones, the confidence in their expressions, the force in their gestures, all suggest this other plane of existence, where problems can be handled if only artfully spoken or aptly described.  I feel pale and small beside them, inadequate.  Their glances toward us are abstract.  I could be removed and no one would notice.

 

Maria points to a table in the centre of the room.  I shake my head but she laughs and sits and here I am in a sea of people with Maria as my lifeline.

 

* * * * *

 

 

When I am content, I do not need you.  I do not need the memories.  I do not need the smile that defined my moods.  When I am calm, I feel like a real person with my own two feet beneath me.  You helped me stand, you were the reason I fell.  I crawled toward you as often as I pushed you away.  Still, you live in me.  I recognize you as part of me.  I would not know myself without my memories of you.

 

Love seems so unnecessary at times, usually when I feel reassured that for all your faults, for all the words spoken and withheld, you loved me.  I may have forgotten this or, in anger, not believed, but truth be told, I always knew you loved me.

 

Let us build a house together.  Let us be who we were.  Let us be twenty-nine again and unsure but willing to try.  Let us win.

 

Dreams like this are unhealthy, I imagine.  What would we give to rewrite the past?  Would I give one moment, one memory so deeply ingrained in me?  I cannot say I would.  I cannot say I would wish to.  I long for the past too much.  I am missing the present for a future that was decided years ago.

 

You do not belong to me.  You will not belong to me.  You are not mine to hold any longer.  These are the facts, indismisable, the building blocks of my life from here on.

 

Still, a thought of you now and then cannot hurt.  I would miss you too much if you were not in my thoughts some of the time.  I miss you now.

 

Strange, having to love and let go.  To love and forget and know it is for the best.  To choose myself over you.  To choose my well-being.  I think I like this ability to choose but I am on unfamiliar ground.

 

 

* * * * *

 

 

We sit for a time without speaking.  The waitress, a chesty girl with multi-coloured hair and a plastic smile, brings us coffee.  Maria thanks her.  I find words tripping along the edge of my tongue but no sounds emerge.  There are things I want to say, things I think I ought to tell her, things about which she would not understand or care.  Things I think she has already guessed.  I would like to tell her about you, give her my story, compare notes.  Ask her why we are so tied to the past, so caught up on the what-ifs , ask her if I was justified.  She could give me absolution.  I wonder, could she give me peace?

 

Maria absent-mindedly rubs her belly.

 

-I have left my husband, she says.

 

Heads turn as she speaks, the faces of the curious and the bored.  -I have left him, and his son, this morning when they left for the day.  To school and work, to the lives they have lived without me until this point.  I doubt they will notice my absence.  It did not take me long to pack, I took very little.  Her voice, though trying for lightness, is sardonic and sad.

 

I am uncertain how to react.  No one questioned me when I left you.  They made their judgements but no one questioned.  No one thought to, or cared enough to understand my reasons.  I only remember being told that I was pale all the time.  I have gained no colour since.  I am still this pathetic colourless person.  No, no I have gained some, I am not so transparent anymore.  Strange, I am not accustomed or certain of this new skin but I am not entirely displeased with it.

 

-Why? I ask, for what other question is appropriate?

 

She laughs.  -For me, of course.  Now, I am at the edge, I have stepped off and I am afraid but I’ll be fine.  Her voice rings with false bravado.

 

-Were you tired?

 

Maria’s guarded eyes fall to the table, as though she could not bear to allow me beyond.  Or perhaps, she was afraid of what my eyes would reflect.  The curvaceous waitress fills the moment by bringing more coffee, setting the mugs on the glossy enamelled surface, the steam curling up and disappearing.

 

-Very.

 

* * * * *

 

Before Maria, I followed the same path everyday, without fail.  The same route, the same scenery, and seemingly the same people.  Nothing changed, other than the weather, not even the strange desire to follow the same path.  A strange sort of security, knowing the destination, knowing the familiar points along the journey.   Knowing that little of anything would be different, that nothing could affect me or wake me out of the numbness.  I relished seeing the closed storefronts first thing in the morning.  They would open and the customers would come, the same people, or the  same sort of people, everyday.  Nobody meant anything and I thought I needed it that way.  That it was possible for me to get by without loving someone or caring about another’s safety or happiness.

 

I had never noticed before now that when the sun hits certain buildings they look crisp and new.  I never saw how the mothers gently, lovingly move their children along toward home.  I only saw those walking hand in hand, those in love, the ones who should not be on my street.  Now I can smile at them.  I can remember love and holding hands.  I see Maria as a gift now.  She was not you, just a way back to you, but more importantly, back to me.  I used to find joy in the everyday.  I want to find that joy again.

 

* * * * *

 

 

Maria speaks.  -When I was a little girl, I always dreamed I would be a princess, the one who got the fairytale, the dream home, the perfect life.  I always dreamed that material comforts would make my world.  But they never did.  I trashed most of the house this morning.  I broke the vase and the stereo and the TV.  Ripped cushions apart.  I destroyed everything except my son’s room.  I tried, I thought it would be good for him to learn now how little these things matter, how transient they are.  But I couldn’t.  I couldn’t destroy his fairytale.  Because, maybe, maybe he’ll understand how to get the fairytale in a way that I couldn’t.  I can’t be his mother, not anymore, but maybe he’ll find his way if all he holds dear is still there for him when he goes to bed tonight.  I wish I could make him understand that to save his mother I have to leave.  I have to save the girl who used to believe in something more.

 

Maria stops. There are no tears for the world she leaves behind but I sense that there is a deep-seated hate for herself that she cannot communicate.

 

-I wish, she begins, but the words trail off and silence returns to grip the table.

 

* * * * *

 

Maria tilts her head.  -Will you be all right?

 

Maria’s concern confuses me.  No one has concerned themselves with me in so long.  Flower Child, she does not worry for me.  She believes in the inevitability of the human spirit.  We are all phoenixes and thus shall rise once more, without fail.  Therein lies the path to divinity, enlightenment, whatever.  Flower Child has held me close when I cried and found me something to smoke when I needed to mellow.  She would walk beside me to my grave but never interfere if I chose to fall the six feet, never once offer an alternative.  She would nod and say -It was all you, baby, your choice.

 

I sit frozen.  I am numb but in a way I have never known.  I cannot reach for my pills.  This is something new. These are not the words, the ones I longed for, your fear, your frustrations, your words, but in them lies the confession.  You have sent her.  I do not know how, but you have sent her to me.  These words are a confession, a soul at sea, every drunken slurred word deciphered in the form a Portuguese adulteress expecting a child.  Here you are, here now.

 

-Why do you ask?  I ask, testing you.   Always fear driven, always vague, I need confirmation.  Do you hear me now, speaking to you through her?  I have not changed.  I am still so afraid.  Just tell me you forgive me, somehow, from her lips, tell me and I will believe.

 

-Why do you ask? I ask again.

 

She studies me with her large eyes.  I have watched those eyes before, as they drifted through the gallery, pausing, scanning, narrowing.  I am afraid of what she will see.  She sighs and looks away.  -Why must life be so complicated?

 

-I have never known it to be otherwise.

 

She nods.

 

Unwillingly, I speak.  -I am in limbo.  I have no one and no one wants me.  I walked away from the only person who ever loved me for a time and now I have no idea what comes next.

 

-We are all of us in limbo, Maria says.  -We can never know at any time that we are not loved, by many, by one alone.  We can never know who loves us.

 

-And when the love ends?

 

-Limbo, she replies, -then others appear.

 

* * * * *

 

 

The sun is setting but the café is still full of the younger set.

 

-Why do you no longer climb to the roof?  I ask.

 

-There is no need, she says.  -I found that I hadn’t really lost myself there at all.  I thought for so long that I’d find her, my younger self, the one who was independent, the one who wasn’t frightened, I thought she’d return to me if only I stayed still, visible, where she could find me.  She looks down and rubs her raised stomach. -But I returned from a different direction.  Maria smiles  -She’s a girl.

 

I shift in my seat.  Those around us look toward us as she grabs my hand and sets it upon her belly.  -Can you feel her? she asks excitedly.  -Gabriella, she says.  -Possibly Isabella.  I want a name people will remember.  Her voice sounds far away, as though I am listening through a fog.  I feel the bottom of my stomach fall out.  I nod but I am not certain.

 

I do not know what you are trying to tell me.  I remember no childhood, no life, no feelings of loss until I met you.  No sense of time spent, time wasted, time passing.  No knowledge of love or wanting or even dreams before you.  How does one live without a past?  To give you up, the memories of you, of us, of times together, to live with no past.  Like painting, the canvas empty, how do you choose the first colour, the first step?  How do you proceed on new legs, uncertain, like a child?  I need the past, do I not, to give me direction?  to give me a sense of future?

 

Maria laughs.  -She is Magdalena.  She will be a goddess.

 

Several people glance in our direction.  I remove my hand from her belly.  Maria laughs away my embarrassment.

 

-What about your son? I ask.

 

-He is named after my husband, she says.  -We call him Junior.  I have lost him already.  My husband owns him.  He owned both of our lives.  But he will not own Magdalena. He does not own her and I will never allow him to hurt her.  She will own herself.

 

-I’m sorry, I say, although I am not quite sure why.  I am certain I have failed her but I am not sure how and now I am losing her too.

 

Maria stands to leave and gathers her things.  Her shadow falls across the table, a golden halo of sunlight surrounds her.  -You have done me no harm, you have nothing to be sorry for.  But if you need forgiveness, I forgive you, though I don’t think I’m the one you wanted to hear that from.

 

She reaches across the table and takes my hand.  I stand without question and follow her outside, where the sun has disappeared and the building looms in the distance.  She kisses me lightly.

 

-You won’t believe me now, but life, even survival, is worth living.  I am not frightened anymore.  I don’t need rooftops anymore.  One day, you won’t need that bench anymore.  I promise you.  Goodbye.

 

The traffic does not stop.  People walk by, talking loudly.  Green lights turn red, engines rev, bicycles pass, heels click against pavement.  I do not see her leave but suddenly, I am alone and the world seems crowded and misplaced.

 

The strange thing about fear is that courage comes at the oddest times.  I turn back towards the gallery.  These halls terrify me, I can get lost here, here is the unknown, here is the terror.  I pay the five dollars with an egotistical toss of money and walk purposefully toward the atrium with its many hallways.  The last time, I followed Maria.  No one is here to guide me.

 

The taupe walls are unchanged.  I choose the first corridor and find myself in a sea of ridiculously tepid photos of lighthouses.  Nothing frightening here.  Keep walking, I tell myself.  I walk briskly through exhibition after exhibition, photographs, paintings, sculptures, just pieces of art with no real meaning.  There is nothing here to harm me.  I want to laugh with happiness, with relief.

 

I turn a corner and there stands Maria at the edge of the building, eyes closed, features wooden.  The photograph is large but not overwhelming.  Maria has been captured perfectly, the black and white of the photo gives each detail a crisp look.  The caption under the photograph reads  -A Woman Lost, by M—– F—-.  There is a small photograph of the photographer on the wall to the left.  It takes me a minute but I recognize him. The stupid kid with the camera on the street that one day so long ago.

 

I pass a hand across my face.  Here she is, for the generations, this moment as truth.  I want to run after Maria and drag her back to the photo.  I want to laugh and cry and scream -I found you!  Here you are!  Maria!  But no, I would not bring her back to this moment.

 

I take one of the photographer’s cards.  Perhaps I will look him up, get a print, if only to not forget that I found her, in hopes that I will find myself one day.

 

-close-

Still Life: Part Three: Leanings: The Apartment

 

-open-

 

-scene-the apartment-

 

Kid is angry.  He paces back and forth, straightens his postures, attempts to gain stature.  His button-down is untucked, his jeans hug his hips, riding low.  His hair is tousled and his eyes are red.  He did not sleep well, I take it, if at all.  I was surprised to receive his call this morning, I almost did not answer, for what needs to be said?  I only came to kiss his face once more.

 

-She doesn

 

’t know anything about us, he says angrily, running a hand through his hair.  He has not shaved in a while, his five o’clock shadow gives him a rugged older look.  If only he was.  Then I would know how to speak with him.  That is a foolish thought.  As we grew older, we grew more reticent, not more mature.  -She has no place in this.  There’s no reason to end this.  You need me.  It’s you that comes to me, not the other way around.  He brings his face close to mine. -I can give you what you don’t have right now.  I’ve heard my parents talk, I know about you, what you need.  Don’t end this, not now.  He runs his hands up my arms and grips the sides of my face.  -Please need me.

 

I cannot think of a witty comment or some platitude to ease the tension.  In a pathetic attempt, I say -She seems like a nice girl.

 

He rubs his cheek against mine.  He is so strong and scared.  I cannot pull away, so I let him continue.  He kisses my jaw, my temple, his eyes are closed.

 

-Look, I say, pulling away in a feeble attempt to gain an ounce of maturity.  I once thought I was mature, adult, but I feel childish in his presence.  Am I to play the adult?  -I don’t want to hurt you.  I don’t want to ruin your life either.  I am going to bow out gracefully.  We should let this go.

 

He lays his hands on me and pushes me to the floor.  His expression is vacant with only a shadow of anger and determination in his eyes.  He drops down beside me, is on top of me, pushing his way into me.  He is rough, his kisses too hard, demanding, his anger stretching even to his fingertips.  The pain is almost unbearable but he finishes quickly and rolls off.  -I’m sorry, he whispers in a shaken voice.  He starts to cry but I hold him to my chest while he mumbles apologies.  My temples throb but I do not reach for my pills.  I just hold him.

 

* * * * *

 

 

-Where were you? You asked as I entered.

 

-At the pub, I lied.  -With Flower Child.  You left me there, remember.

 

Silence.  I took off my coat.  I smelled of sex.  I could not allow you near me so I stayed near the door.  You were nestled into your infamous armchair and made no attempt to approach.

 

-I’m going to take a shower.  I smell like smoke, I said by way of explanation.

 

-The pub closed at two, you said.

 

-I know.  I didn’t want to come home.  I went to Flower Child’s.  I almost didn’t come home.

 

-You were at Flower Child’s?  Your voice was not suspicious or disbelieving, only monotone  and unemotional.

 

-Where else would I have been?

 

You smiled a tired sorry sort of smiled.  -I knew you must have been there.

 

My stomach twisted in disgust, at my own actions, at your trust in me, at your disregard of me.  I tried so hard to justify my actions in my head as I stared at you in your cocoon of an armchair.  You were drunk.  You were horrible.  You deserved my betrayal.  You were the man I loved.  You trusted me.  You let me come home and I lied to you.  You were such a coward.

 

-I need to take a shower.

 

* * * * *

 

 

No more than five minutes have passed and Kid rises, helping me to my feet.  I rebutton my pants and pull my shirt down, sitting on the sofa and listening as he rummages in the kitchen for something.  He returns with two glasses of water.

 

-It’s bottled, he says, -not from the tap.  He chooses the armchair in the far corner.  He drinks quickly.

 

-Are you hungry? he asks.  -Have you eaten today?

 

I glance up sharply, those were the last words I spoke to you.  Have you eaten today?  Ridiculous words.  Kid swallows nervously.  He is watching me intently.

 

-No, I say.  -Can we call out for something?

 

Kid nods quickly, reassured.  He jumps up and finds a menu from a box near the television and dials.  I barely listen as he orders.  He hangs up and resets the phone on the floor near the armchair.

 

-I’m sorry I hurt you, he says.

 

-You were angry.

 

-Is that an excuse? he asks and I do not know how to answer him.  I can deal with anger, you trained me perfectly.  You never showed remorse.  I do not know how to forgive someone when I have never been asked to do so before.

 

Kid and I sit in silence until the food arrives, then slide to the floor and eat as though it is our last meal.  Wordlessly, he clears the dishes into the sink and returns to the livingroom.  He slides down beside me and pulls me near.  He kisses my neck gently.

 

-Come to the bedroom, he says, and I let him take me.

 

 

* * * * *

 

 

4am.  It is probably trite to note the time, as though emotions differ based on day or darkness.  The apartment is black, even with the windows open and the blinds drawn.  I can hear him breathing, but I only see his silhouette and I have no desire to wake him.  Would this have been our goodbye if I had confronted you?  No, you never had the strength.  It would have required sobriety, something you could not have given me.

 

The last afternoon we spoke, the day before I left, you had asked -Are you home already?

 

-It’s six, I replied.  -I’m not early.  I brought food.

 

-I’m not hungry, you said.  You waved a bottle at me and pointed toward the overflowing ashtray.

 

-Have you eaten today? I asked.

 

-What?  Food?  Don’t need food now, fuck food, fuck eating.

 

I should have answered you.  I remember opening my mouth, I remember looking around, then simply setting the food on the table.  I picked up the bottles and the clothing littering the floor.  I straightened and cleaned.  I did what I always did.  I did not say another word to you that day.  I crawled into bed and curled up at the edge, unwilling to sprawl out, even though you were dead asleep on the sofa.

 

I did what I always did, and so did you.

 

* * * * *

 

 

I am in pain, but only from the bruising.  Emotionally, there is nothing Kid could do to hurt me.  He was never real anyway.  He was simply a body, hard and young, and confused.  I fed off his confusion to mask my own, to delude myself.

 

Kid confused the sex with love, easy enough to do when you are young.  I cannot pretend that I loved him in any way, other than as a recreation of you.  I loved you through him and hurt he and I in the process.  True love, the kind that lingers even as the years pass and the words go unspoken, cannot be found in dirty motel rooms and drunken midnight encounters.  True love comes early in the morning, when the sun drapes its rays over the bed as you lie side by side, holding each other’s hands and dreaming of the future.  We cannot return to these moments, using the present to return to better times.  We can seek solace and we can hide but we can never return.

 

Kid wears none of this.  Sweet kid, future stockbroker or accountant or whatever.  He will have a comfortable life, status quo, no heavy baggage.  If he remembers me at all, I will have been of no consequence.  -I was young, he will say, -and foolish.  Society allows us our youthful indiscretions.

 

* * * * *

 

 

Daylight finally peeks through the windows.  His breathing has changed.  He sighs and rolls over.  The blanket I had pulled down to cover us has wrapped around him.  I have already pulled my shirt on but I feel chilled without the blanket or Kid’s arms around me.

 

He lifts a picture frame from the night table.  The girlfriend.  She’s much prettier than I thought.

 

-I’m falling in love with her, he says.

 

How am I to answer him?  Should I congratulate him, say -Yes, I remember love, or -no, don’t do it, run, she’ll break your heart.  Two options, stay in love or go.  Are there any other choices?  Who would believe he would turn toward the heartache?

 

-Hmmm.  He gathers me close and tucks his head into the curve of my neck.  I allow my fingers to thread through his hair and kiss him softly on the forehead.

 

-Your apartment is a mess, I say.  -No woman wants a messy man.  You should tidy up more often.

 

Kid laughs, a genuine hearty laugh like one I have never heard from him before.  It reminds me of his father’s laugh.  He scans the dishes stacked in the sink and the empty milk carton that sits like a king atop a mound of books and compact discs and magazines on the desk.  He laughs again.  Lastly, his eyes fall on the nearly overflowing ashtray.

 

He reads my mind.  -She smokes, he says.  -It’s her only flaw.

 

I nod.  -She’s beautiful.  You should love her.  Help her quit.

 

-I thought you were love, he whispers.

 

-I wanted to be.

 

But I was only a lover, not the promise of his dreams.

 

* * * * *

 

 

Kid and I come together once more, and I try to memorize every inch of him.  These fingers that trail down my arms, they are long and slender, and as gentle on me as I imagine they are on the strings of his guitar.  His forearms, strong and defined, hold me with confidence and compassion.  I catch the gentle hairs that sparingly spread across his chest in my fingers and watch as the act makes him tremble.  I run my hand down further and catch him fully before lowering my mouth to find him and take possession.  These are the things I will remember, how he arches, how he moulds himself into me, how his eyes slide shut one last time as he is spent.  I want to remember him as himself, as someone real, as a part of my life, a part of my past.  I want there to be other memories, other bodies for me to recollect.  Other thoughts and feelings from a time without you.

 

We shower and our hands follow the trails of water as they descend.  We kiss gently and as we wash, the bruises fall from my memory.  We help each other towel off and dress before returning to the living room.  He gathers the blankets from the floor and throws them into the bedroom.  I stand, uncertain, by the sofa.  He pauses in the bedroom doorway.

 

-Will I see you? he asks.

 

-No.

 

-So, this is the end?  His voice trembles.

 

-Yes.

 

Strange, but I do not feel the world falling apart.  I feel my feet on the floor, the solidity of the floor and even enough strength in my limbs.  I am not confused or acting out of fear.  This must happen, and Kid knows this too.  I turn to leave.  Kid sits in the armchair and while his back and shoulders have moulded themselves into the cushions, his eyes are alert.  His chin, though tilted in sadness, is raised to watch me leave.  He reaches out a hand, but it simply hangs there.  How would I have given anything to have you raise a hand to stop me as I left.  Your face had been buried in blankets, and you, barely breathing, would not have noticed God himself arrive.

 

-close-

 

 

 

Still Life: Part Three: Leanings: The Pub

Part Three

Leanings

-open-

-scene-the pub-

The rugby team is on the prowl.  Two thirds of the pub is possessed by broad shouldered testosterone giants spouting inebriated jock jargon.  Intoxication promotes raised voices, competitive boasting, and bi-curious glances.  The air is thick with smoke, not entirely tobacco, and the lights are dim.  People brush together as they try to pass booths and bar stools without spilling any lager or ale or alcohol of their choice.  The televisions, though muted, are tuned to the rugby match overseas while onlookers shout their encouragement or howl in dismay, despite knowing that the game is a rebroadcast and they already know the outcome.  The dimness is pleasant, the patrons are comfortable and the familiar surroundings are relaxing.

Flower Child sways as the band performs Stan Rogers and Stomping Tom covers, the crowd pounds on the wooden tables and pints jump and splash.  Feet stomp, sometimes to the rhythm, sometimes not.  Conversations turn to politics, to education, to sex, to rent payments.  Eyes glance and connect, pause and continue, connect and continue.  The scouts scout prospective mates, the tired douse their problems with a liquid anaesthetic, the contented merely lift their pints in sociability at a passing familiar face.  There are enough familiar faces tonight, a typical Saturday night.

Flower Child, in corduroy overalls and braided ponytails, is alone for the moment.  She is at once innocent and enticing.  She neglected make-up today, her freshness, her wholeness attracts nonetheless.  She is natural in every respect.  She glances my way and smiles.  She holds her joint low, her hand relaxed.  Her other hand circles her usual pint of Strongbow.  She signals to the bartender for another before scanning the crowd with a bemused expression.  Her head nods slowly to the music, a slower romantic ballad, the kind that makes her mellow.  She knows it will only take a few minutes before someone, some stranger or past lover, approaches.  She seems content, the music ridding any thoughts of loneliness.  When lovers are scarce, there is always a song, an artist, a poet, an object of beauty in which to fall enchanted, in which to be absorbed or with which to commune.

The chiropractor is here with his friends, middle-aged men and women who keep mostly to themselves in a large group near the front of the pub.  His bald head is tinged with sweat as he leans forward to debate with one man.  His arm is around the shoulder of a woman who looks so like him as to be his sister.  She has a wealth of rich reddish-brown hair that tumbles over her shoulders and is trapped beneath his arm.  He seems not to notice this and she seems not to mind.  He is speaking rapidly.  His friend interrupts frequently and suddenly they both burst out with laughter.  A quick shake of hands and they leave off their debate as friends once more.  The chiropractor removes his arm from around the woman and signals to the waitress.  He gestures in a circle to indicate another round and the waitress nods and heads off to the bar.  He glances around and catches me watching.  I am embarrassed but with a slow wink and a wide smile he sets me at ease and turns back to his companions.

Kid arrives, his arm around some young girl.  I have not called him since that night, I have not wanted to relive it.  It has been weeks now, a month or more maybe.  They weave in and find a darkened corner booth.  I am surprised to see him here, he rarely comes.  I do not presume that he came to see me.  I would never give myself such credit over him.  Despite the low lights and the smoke’s fog, I can make them out clearly.  They sit close together, she shouts a whisper into his ear and he laughs.  She is twenty-something, beautiful, marriage-material.  Her hair looks soft, a glistening blond that sweeps her shoulders and shines like a halo.  Her lips are wide and tinged with rose, glossy and inviting.  Her cheeks have a rosy-pink glow, a youthful innocence that seems out of place against the battered reality of the pub and its regulars.  Her shirt is tight and outlines her breasts as she leans forward.  She is a mass of contradictions that turn my stomach.

His hand rests lightly on her back.

* * * * *

The waitress sets another round down, collecting the myriad of empties that clutter the table.  I drink swiftly, downing a quarter of my pint.  I should have ordered another.  One is clearly not enough tonight.

-My neighbour got married, Flower Child says.

I have met the neighbour, George something, Gary maybe, business guy, suit and tie.  Nice enough, tries not to look too disdainful at all the people who traipse through Flower Child’s front door.  Quiet guy, unobtrusive boring type.  Probably painted the walls taupe.

-Oh?

-Yeah.  Plain girl too.  They’ve been dating for some time, I guess.  Flower Child shrugs.  -I never really noticed her until they came over to tell me they were married.  Flew to Vegas for the weekend, not spontaneously or anything, they planned it!  Can you imagine?  Planning a wedding in Vegas, who does that?  Flower Child snorts.  -How ridiculous.  Still, though, I guess they were in love or something.  She smiles and looks serenely out over the crowd.  People in love amuse Flower Child, the thought of settling down, cohabitation, his and hers, are all foreign concepts to her.

I do not know how to respond, of course.  I see Kid in the corner with the girl.  His eyes rove about the room but he has yet to see me and I am glad.  -That’s nice, I say.

-Nice?  Flower Child snorts again in that delightfully arrogant way of hers.  -It’s hardly nice.  It’s typical, typical of people Bob’s age, the ones frightened of getting older, of getting old and decrepit.  She laughs and leans forward.  Bob, right.  I knew it was an ordinary unremarkable name.  -I’ll tell you a secret to this whole love thing, she continues.  -It’s all about timing.  Fall in love young, big dress and lots of presents.  Conform to the norm while it’s expected and all goes well.  Fuck around, take your time, screw it up a few too many times and you start to get scared.  You start to think: I’m not good enough.  I need that other person to tell me I’m okay because I’m loved.  People get scared, terrified.  No marriage must mean you are so unlovable, so ridiculous, so these desperate 30/40 somethings marry and realize how shallow the idea is, how limiting.  And then they’re terrified again, you see, because they either have to stay married and possibly unhappy  for the rest of their lives to be normal or get divorced and start again in the hopes of getting it right before they die.  So you see, it’s just a fear of dying alone, unloved, with no validation that we are loveable or have been loved.  All that ring means is whether you were worth it, even once.  Oh no, to be old and unloved and pathetic, these are the worst things we could be.  So you see, Flower Child laughs with a self-satisfied smile, -it’s all about timing.  If you’re not careful, you’ll end up getting married in Vegas.

I study her for a moment.  It is so easy for her.  I do not think she knows how to be afraid.  She has never felt fear or loss.  Perhaps she would not be so cavalier.  I am not afraid, I have no desire for love, and I cannot imagine it happening now, not even in the abstract.

Still, what kind of person gets married in Vegas?  Plans it, no less.  The desperate?  the drunk?  the cowardly?  It is quite enticing.  If no one is around, there can be no objection, no delays.  Family prejudices would be rendered silent.  A person could follow an uncertain path without heeding the warning calls.  Still, what kind of person does it?

Bob, apparently.  Poor Vegas Bob.  I hope he will be happy.  I hope he never knows loss.  I hope he never falls out of that love.  I hope he never finds himself here, or in any pub, trying to forget his choices and finally understanding his reasons for making them.  I hope he has no regrets over giving up the fairytale.  Maybe there is no such thing.  I raise my glass.  Here is to you, Vegas Bob.

* * * * *

I have never told Flower Child about Kid.  She knows, of course, knows there is someone, knows I am occasionally missing when she calls.  She knows, somehow, that I was unfaithful to you.  Only, in her words, I would have been  searching for solace, comfort, seeking God even.  She would not have judged me.  Her silence on the subject is itself an indication of her acceptance.  I wish that acceptance was a source of comfort but instead it feels stifling.  Strange, I almost wish someone would take me aside and yell at me, tell me that I have done wrong, tell me that I am horrible and make me acknowledge that I have made mistakes for which I am not outwardly paying.  Where are my physical consequences?  Unfair that I live with this in my head but no sign is evident to the rest of the world.  I should be as deformed on the outside as I feel inside.

I finger the rim of my pint with one hand, the condensation making the glass slippery to touch.  I could break it, use the sharp edges.  To what?  Hurt myself?  Deform myself?  Others would stop me.  They would send me back to the doctors again, who would only give me more pills, more talk, more “discourse”, but never a cure.

I shake my head roughly.  These thoughts, they creep up on me so quickly, so unexpectedly.  They have no place here.  I try to slow my breathing down.  I need a drink, I suppose.  A quick drink to calm down, a drink will settle me down.

Kid was at the pub the last time you and I made it out with Flower Child and her new love.  You were absorbed in an argument with Flower Child, as usual.

-Sensitives, Flower Child continued, -are not like the rest of us.  They can see things, feel things, that we cannot.  They can sense sickness and they can heal with their hands and the bounty of the earth.  We would do well to return to a more holistic time.

-Holistic?  You scoffed.  -I only know one cure, you said and ordered another drink.

Flower Child retorted -Have you never made love beneath the stars?  Felt their power?  Sensed that the world was larger than you, and yet, that somehow, you are an integral part of the earth’s grand plan?

To be fair, even I was sceptical of Flower Child’s grand romantic notion.  But Flower Child was open to the possibilities, and that is what makes her different from us.  You were simply shaking your head in disgust now, not even listening to what she said.  There was more squabbling between the two of you but I tuned out, noticing Kid enter with some friends and settle in a booth.  He looked so young then, in a baseball cap and tennis shoes.  I was gazing at him unconsciously when your pint flew across the table and landed in the lap of Flower Child’s new friend.

-Enough, you yelled, -enough nonsense.

You were so angry.  I set my hand on your forearm to calm you down but you stormed away, knocking over another pint on the table.  Flower Child’s friend leapt up to chase after you but she held him back with soothing words.  Some lager had also spilled on my pants.  I gave her an awkward look, but she smiled, genuinely, and patted my hand.

-I pushed too hard today, she said.

-No, no, I replied.  -His temper, he’s so horrible lately.  The pills, they make him so irritable.  He should not have drank so much.

-We’ll talk tomorrow, all right?

I nodded and turned to leave.  Kid stood now at the bar and our eyes met briefly.  I could see that now he understood why I had turned to him the night of that party.  If you had not stormed away and left me in the pub to catch a cab home, I would not have returned to his apartment with him that night.  But you did leave me and he replaced you.

* * * * *

-Do you know what I said to him?

I look up startled.  How did she know what I was thinking?  She could not have.  The key turns in the lock. -Who?

-Bob.

-Oh Bob, your neighbour, Vegas Bob.  I shudder.  To be know as such.  -What did you say?

-I said, -Vegas, Bob, honestly?  Why Vegas?

-What did he say?  I ask.  I am curious.  Could the dull neighbour have said something enlightening?

-He didn’t even look ashamed.  Flower Child scowls  -It was the quickest way, he said.  -Easiest way to be happy.

I nod, I have nothing to say to that.

-But honestly, Flower Child continues, no longer looking at me but off into the distance now, past the rugby players, the smudged windows, the pub itself.  -Happiness isn’t to be had quickly.  It’s not to be found in commitment to another.  It’s here, she presses her chest, -right inside, the whole time.  No one can free it for us.  There is no completion to be had, only a continuum, shades of happiness, shades of love, as we change, as we evolve.  She shakes her head fiercely.  -I wouldn’t buy into a happiness to be found elsewhere, like in a far-off fairytale.  It’s here, with us, all along.

Her eyes rest lightly on the chiropractor for a moment.  Her eyes soften.  -Why is that so hard for people to understand?

I can only stare at her.  She has it, I think.  It all makes sense when she speaks.  A sage in a pub full of drunks.  I drink quickly.  She has it all, everything I lack, all that I wish.  She has it all and will give it to you without reserve so long as you do not ask to keep her.

* * * * *

The band has paused and the waitress brings them some pints of dark lager.  The noise of the pub, entirely covered when the band plays, seems irrationally loud now.  I look over at Flower Child, who is watching me with mellow, non-judgemental eyes.

-What happened with the blond?  I ask, not out of interest, only to shatter this noise infested silence that grips our table.  Silence gives way to thinking, to memories.  I want no memory tonight.  Flower Child awakes from her reverie for a moment and smiles.

-She was nice enough, she says.  -Good in bed.  Stayed for three days, was high for most of it, then started wearing my clothes, cleaning and such.  Moving pictures even.  She had to leave when I caught her doing the laundry.  I dislike it when people play with my surroundings.  She was, of all things, domestic in the end.  I hate domesticity.  Flower Child laughs.  -I don’t need a wife.  Flower Child shrugs off the memory, relaxes once more and gives me a wink over the rim of her glass.

I remember the feel of Flower Child’s lips and look away to keep from staring at them.  Being kissed by Flower Child had been far different from being kissed by Maria.  Flower child’s lips were softer from use, they explored more, roamed.  Her bottom lip was full and I remember how easy it was to catch between my teeth.  I wish I had participated more, wish I had let my guard down and allowed her to touch me more, or maybe I should have touched her.  I wish it meant to her what it meant to me.

Maria’s lips had been cold, slightly cracked.  Maria did not have full lips, the bottom lip small, the top lip nearly imperceptible.  There were ridges, though, that I could have traced with my tongue had I not been so awkward, so worried about the externals.  I was so exposed, despite the closed blinds.

A broad-shouldered and muscular man approaches and slides in beside Flower Child.  He does not say anything, just smiles and they clink glasses.  No words are spoken for a moment.  The conversation starts slow.  Names are exchanged, shy glances, coy gestures.  He reaches into his back pocket and takes out a pack of cigarettes.  Flower Child declines but nods in my direction.  I take one, only because I feel I should not contradict Flower Child.  I lose myself in the smoke and the atmosphere and the words she said that fill me with fear.

Kid walks by to the bar, orders two drinks, turns and tries to catch my eye before returning to the girl.

* * * * *

Time seems to be passing very slowly and yet my drinks are disappearing one after another.  Gin and seven slides down so easy tonight.  I remember you used to drink so quickly that the ice cubes hardly had a chance to start melting before you would order another one.  A double of this, a triple of that.  You were fond of brandy and cognac but I could never stomach the stuff.  Tasted awful and hit too quickly.  You became immune after a while.  There was no such thing as too much for you anymore.  One more round bartender, I can hear the words now, one more round for me and my friends here.

I was never much of a drinker.  I could always stop.  I could not handle the dry taste in my mouth, the clouded vision, the inability to focus.  Drinking was so in the moment, at the pub, with friends.  It was never planned or anticipated, never the focus of a night.  I did not need it.  And I hated the consequences; the sickness, the headaches, the spinning.  The next morning.

Staying sober has lost its appeal though.  Watching others, how they behave when drunk is almost worse than the consequences.  I am tired of being the sober one, the one who wants to think about the future, the future that cannot exist without you.  Maybe I should take your way out.  Drink myself stupid everyday to find no tomorrow remains.  That is what you chose.    Tell me, was that what you wanted?  Are you happy now?

I lean forward and rest my head on my hands.  I feel a gentle tap and find Flower Child watching me, her expression grave.  I shake my head and fake a smile.

-I’m fine, I say.  -I feel fine.

* * * * *

The restrooms are at the back, in a low-lit area to the side, not visible to the main room.  The distance seems insurmountable and I lack the energy to move.   My stomach is twisted in knots and my limbs are numb.  My heart has joined the confusion in the pit of my gut, my insides heaving and I find breathing difficult.  Why has the room shrunk so?  Why are the rugby players larger and more covered with sweat than usual?  Why is it that there is not one inch of space, no air that I can call my own?  The band has started up again and the ballad is now an enthusiastic anthem for the hopeful.  I am not welcome anymore.  I leave Flower Child and her new-found rugby interest and squeeze through to the back.

I debate between the bar and the restroom.  Another pint and I would be drunk enough to relax.  Drunk enough to ignore my disappointment with Kid, with Flower Child, with you and Maria.  Drunk enough not to hate the me in this outfit meant to impress whoever.  And I so hate them, every last person crammed into this shit-hole, every clink of every glass, every noise and every face.  These people are despicable, they are pathetic and needy, why is there no space?

I reach the back, there is a bit of air, only to be turned once more toward the crowd.

-Wait, Kid says, his hand still upon my arm.  -Hi.

* * * * *

Illogical that I should feel betrayed, feel let down.  Feel used and old.  I assumed his age would make him treat me better.  I remember you at that age.  I imagined he would return the same affection, that I would feel the old rush that comes with falling in love, the desperate need to see each other, the need to touch and feel the intensity returned.

Why is it that the person who believes the most in love is the one left alone?  left vulnerable and unguarded? left frightened and disenchanted?  I have never known how to deal with disappointment.  It sits at the base of my stomach like a hundred pound weight and I cannot shake the feeling that I have not measured up to some unknown figure of worth.  I have never wanted much in the world, very few prayers have I uttered and only when I felt that if this person loved me or this certain event happened, life would be perfect.  I think I am undeserving of the absolute.

Perfection is possible.  I have seen it too often to doubt it but I do doubt its attainability.  I know that Kid is not what I long for, not my description of love, not even my desire.  But he is here and you are not and I believe in love.  I believed in love the day I met you, the day we made love in the living room with the blinds open, the day I left the flat.  I would like to say I still believe , if not in love, at least in the possibility that somewhere in the world, in the dimensions, in parallel realities, that I loved for real, just once.

I want a chance to return to the moment you first slid your hand gently across my back.

* * * * *

-Why have you not come to see me? Kid asks, his arm baring my way.

I have no answer.  How can I say: you are too young, too much like the one I left, I need you to be there when I need you, and only then.

-She has nothing to do with us, Kid says.  His eyes are distracted, impatient.  He thinks this is about the girl.  I want to tell him:  I don’t care who you fuck.  I am not a moralist, I feel no guilt here.    So some pretty young thing is being cheated on, it is not my fault.  I bear no responsibility here.  She is his problem, this is his guilt, not mine.

-I know, I say instead.   -She’s very pretty.  She looks nice.

Platitudes outside a pub restroom lack innovation.  People interrupt and walk through.  New ballads begin and end.  Kid clenches his jaw, searches for words, finds little.  The low light confuses, too dim for coherent thought.  Flower Child passes through, raises an eyebrow, says nothing.  Kid drops his arm, suddenly conscious of others.  I study the posters littering the walls, advertising lagers and ales and ciders and laughs.  My stomach has rejected my heart and twists and flips like a high-wire act.  The pain in my upper chest intensifies, my rib cage expands to near breaking, my skin fights to hold everything in place.  Time passes.

What if the girlfriend walks through? I think.  She would never suspect that only a short time ago the two of us were naked, hungry, possessive and playful.  She would never question our involvement.  Would he pass me off as a friend of his parents, as no one of relevance?  Would he introduce me to her, pretend that I’m an acquaintance he was drawn into conversation with, someone he spoke with so as not to insult.  Would she mistake me for one of his professors, speak to me with slight reserve and undeserved politeness.  Her voice would be soft and lingering and he would glance down at her, only for a moment, with a tenderness he would never think to bestow on me, then look back up, hopeful that I had not caught his slip.  Would he regret bringing her here, as though this place holds some larger than life significance for either of us.

-We should meet, later, he says.

I shake my head.  -No, no, it’s not necessary, really, no reason for-

-But we…

-As you want it, I reply, pushing in the restroom door and entering a stall, locking it behind me.  Distance from him feels better, feels logical.

* * * * *

I went to a counsellor.  I never told you.  You would have yelled.  You hated the thought of involving others, of others knowing our business.  But I did not know what to do anymore.  I could not help you.  You were lost to drink.  I was helpless to help you and you did not want help.  I thought I was going for us both.  I wanted to know what to say, how to deal.  I was not managing.  I was a mess.  Trying to be supportive without support was tearing me in two.  I was drained, I was so tired, but mostly I was scared.  I went for me.

-Tell me, did either of your parents drink?  The counsellor asked.

My parents?  God, it had been so long since I had thought of my family.  You had been the only family I had known for so long, my family, my world.  My parents were nice strangers who did not bother me much and tried to take little to no notice of my actual life.  I do not begrudge it of them.  They were kind and good and faded into my past before you and when I see them now they are little more than ghosts to me.

-No, not really.  I mean, father drank some, not too much.  Mum never did, occasional gin and seven here and there.  So rare.  I don’t have a problem with other people’s drinking.  I have a problem with my boyfriend’s drinking.  Can we focus on that?

We did not.  The counsellor wanted background, filler so that more sessions would be required.  Were my parents good people?  Treat me right?  Do drugs?  Drink?  Swing?  Work too much?  Provide all the essentials?  Home, food, love and attention?  Were there any other serious relationships in my past?  Someone else, a failed romance perhaps?  Thoughts of suicide?  Depression?

-My boyfriend is drinking himself to death.  I need your help, not questions, help.  Words to say to make him hear me.  Please, help me talk to him.

One and only one session.  I was too impatient, the counsellor said.  This was a difficult situation, it was going to take time.

-I don’t have time, I said through gritted teeth.  -He’s dying.

-You’re overdramatic, he said.  -Calm down.  Here’s a prescription.

Valium, my first pills.

I have never been one to cry but the tears came the entire drive home.  My eyes blurry and red, my contacts swimming, I stumbled in to find you in front of the television, a round of golf on.  You glanced up and asked me for another beer.

-Don’t you want to know where I’ve been?  I asked.

Big sigh from the armchair.  -Where have you been? You said in an apathetic tone, not even sparing a dispassionate glance.

-Nowhere.

-Doesn’t matter.

My legs gave out and I crumpled to the floor.  The same old words.  It doesn’t matter.  But it did matter.  It mattered to me, you mattered to me.  I loved you.  I loved us and it did matter.  Why could you not see that of all things, love mattered.  True love, the stuff of fairytales and trashy novels, was real and dying and you could not even lift your chin.

I cried.  I sat and cried and you slumped in your chair and fell into oblivion.

* * * * *

Why did you not come for me?  I did not drop out of sight, I did not move far.  I still frequent the same shops, the same pub, know the same people.  Why was there no effort on your part?  Was I not worth even a courtesy struggle?  I would have fought for you.  I remember every detail of you, every moment, everything.  I remember your face, every inch, the birthmark on your back, every cut every scrape.  No, no you did not have a birthmark.  Kid, Kid has a birthmark, a small one, a round pinkish one.  How could I have gotten confused?  I know you, your back, every curve, every muscle.  I know your back.  I know it, I know it, I remember, dear God, if nothing else, I remember you.  I remember you, I will not forget you.  My God, how could I forget you, how I could confuse the two of you?  He’s not you, he could never be you.

How many times must I have this conversation in my head before you cease to exist there too?  How many times must the door slam for the last time in my head.  The cat, she jumped at the sound, scratched me right above the eyebrow.  Every glance in the mirror, the same scar screams -How could you leave that day?  How did you just walk away?  Memories of your touch, your words, and now you live upon my face in a tiny white line above my eyebrow.  I hate mirrors now, because it is no longer my face I see.  I see that night on an incessant loop, like the tragic ending of a movie replayed with every mirror I pass.

Inside the stall, I kick and pound at the warped plywood walls.  They rattle and shake but the general noise of the crowd covers my temper.  She is younger, she has more energy.  A young man should be with a young woman.  Life makes sense that way.  He can take her home to Mom and Dad.

They are all married, even when single, when sleeping around, whether using or being used, they all belong to someone else, they will all have families, homes, lives elsewhere someday.  They are the normal ones, the ones who do not feel confined in their own homes, in their flats, who see walls as shelter and not entrapment.  They will walk down the aisle, stumble over the words, throw confetti.  Babies, mortgages, minivans and such, the stuff of normal people.  I gave that up a long time ago, to be with you and now you are not here and I have nothing.

You can only hide in a public restroom for a certain time, then people come looking, seek you out, ask questions and offer to get you a cab, offer to call someone for you.  There is no one here now.  There is never anyone when I crumble.  Someone will come soon though, eyebrows will raise, a snide look, a compassionate shrug, but useless, all nothing, nothing to help or change this pathetic life.

Another pill.  One more pill, a little white one that slides right under my tongue.  This one does not just level me off.  The white ones control my emotions, stop the emotions.  I just let it dissolve and wait, calm comes slowly through the bloodstream.  And so I breathe.  These pills do not work as well as they used to.  I can still feel.  I am shaking and there is nowhere to put my hands.  I push against the plywood, the ridiculous plywood walls.  I want the numbness, I want this room to stop spinning.  I want to stop feeling.  I want to stop hating you.  Why did he bring her here?  Why here, where you and I spent so many nights.  I hate him.  I do not want hate anymore.  I want the anger to stop.

You?  How could I hate you?  You loved me, you were sick and I left you.  I left you.

* * * * *

Last call.  Flower Child has abandoned the rugby interest for the fiddler, a shaggy haired man with a beautiful intelligent face.  They are snuggled down in the booth, their hands hidden from sight.  The stretch of bar from the restroom seems like miles.  Why return to the table?  I approach the bar for a glass of water instead.  I cannot drink alcohol once I have taken a white pill or I will collapse.  My head feels near to exploding as it is.  I sit on a lopsided stool and nod to the lonely old men sitting at the bar, the same ones who were here when we arrived, the same ones who sit on the same stools everyday.  There are groups of young women who look depressed since Mr. Right did not show, and girls who are too drunk to know the time or the name of the guy that holds them up.  The bouncer has given up and settled into the corner with pizza from the 24/7 pizza place across the street, chatting with one of the regulars.

Kid has left with the girl.  She’s barely of age, right out of high school.  If she was anything but a nice girl they would be naked by now.  Lust would have its way.  Chances are they kissed once beneath the streetlight, her parents peeking through the closed curtains.

-close-

Still Life: Part Two: Low Grade Sex: the apartment 2

open-

–scene-the apartment-

The cab driver is annoyed.  The fare is well over twenty dollars, no destination in sight.  How am I to know where to go when everything closes at two?  The night is long and favours Flower Child and the blond whore.  Unfair that Flower Child should find comfort every night while I sit miserable and confused.  The cab driver is foreign, does not care what my story might be, only seeks to end this drive, certain that an end does exist.  His anxious eyes invade the rearview mirror once more and I look away, afraid that he might see my indecision.

I hold the chiropractor’s number in my hand.  I could ask the driver to stop at a pay phone, but what if the chiropractor declines, or is already in bed with someone.  The humiliation would be too much.

The east end of town, the university no more than a kilometer away.  I tell the driver the address and he sighs, turning the cab around in a pharmacy parking lot and we head back three blocks.  He stops abruptly and I toss the bills at him.  There was not enough for a tip.

The apartment is dark save for an eerie blue light that glows through one window.  He is awake, God, I hope he is alone.

I cross the dark street quickly and slip into the foyer.  I lean on the button and wait.  No answer.  I lean and pray.  Tonight, I need Kid for Kid, and not for Maria or you.  Or maybe, for you both.  I need a place to sit and a drink.

* * * * *

There were times, early on, when we stumbled home, you and I, or took a cab, scarcely concerned with where our hands roamed in the presence of others.  Around my waist, the back of my neck, pressing yourself into the small of my back.

I was daring, -Take me, I would whisper, in the cabs, in alleys, on park benches.

-Now? You would whisper back.  -Here?  Wait until we’re home, then I’ll touch you. I want to touch you, every inch, kiss you here, and here.   Your hand would run down my back and slide back up my side.  -We need to be home.

I always waited until we were home.  I went where you told me, waited for you, thought love could never be more powerful than when we made love.  Your weight, heavy on top of me, felt like the weight of love, the promise of love.  But it was your eyes that spoke to me, even across the most crowded room, your eyes on me, the way they devoured me.  Your spectacular eyes, always so pensive, so blue, like the sky before the rain comes.  To have your eyes, your hands, your mouth on me again, what would I give?  To have to past again, if only for tonight, in Kid’s arms, to find you again in his body.  To be with you again.

* * * * *

Kid opens the door in low riding jeans, a slow smile upon his lips.  I never visit him this often, twice in one week.  I have never needed him this much.  Flower Child’s drunken lust has made me envious but tonight my option stands eagerly before me in denim.

I sidestep him and head up the stairs.  He reaches for me but I shake my head in a coy manner.  The alcohol has made me bold.  No, Flower Child’s kiss has made me bold.

-I need a drink, I say.  I take him by the hand and lead him upstairs.  His other hand trails down my back and he fingers the waistband of my pants.  We stumble into his apartment, the blue light of the television our only reference point.  Kid turns me to face him and tries to pull me close but I evade him.

-A drink, I say again.  He smiles and disappears into the cubicle-sized kitchen, reappearing with a bottle.  He approaches but I push him away, onto an armchair across from the sofa.  I take a drink quickly, right from the bottle, and glance around the dark room, the shadows playing against the iridescent blue.  He tries to stand but I motion him down.

-Tell me, I say, -tell me about school.  How is school?

He shakes his head, confused.  -Good, he says.  -I have exams soon, in another week or so.  I have to study.

I nod.  -What are you taking?  Business?  Some sort of business program, right?  Your father, he said it was business.

He shrugs and slides off the armchair to the floor.  -Marketing, really.  I can’t decide, really.  On my major, that is.  He starts to crawl across the floor and settles at  my feet, sliding one hand up my leg.  I stop him before he reaches my thigh.

-Are you working?  Part-time, I mean?  Your father, he said you had a part-time job.  That’s very-, his hands pull my shirt over my head and tosses it across the room, -responsible of you.

Breathing is difficult now as he burrows his head into my neck, his teeth grazing my skin.  His left hand slides inside my pants.  I push him away to regain my balance but the attempt is futile and he crushes me against the sofa.  The bottle is angled awkwardly beneath us and he lifts himself only long enough to pull it free and let it fall to the floor.

-Another, I say.

He’s frustrated, I can see, but he stands and returns to the kitchen.  I take this time to stand and pace the room.  I was not prepared, I had no right to play this game.  Kid returns and gestures toward the sofa but I shake my head.  He snatches a blanket from a heap of clothing and whatnot, and lays it on the floor.  We slide down.  Soon, we are naked and alternating between drinks and kisses.

-Do we have anything harder? I ask, holding the bottle upside down to let the last few drops drip onto his chest.  I lean over and lick him slowly, tracing circles with my tongue.  -I want something harder.

Kid ‘s laugh is slow and shaken.  He stands and I watch him cross the room.  He’s beautiful.  So young and hard and perfect.  I let my head fall back as Kid reenters with another bottle.  He settles on top of me, kissing and stroking.  I take a swift drink.  If I just stay drunk, I can pull this off.  There will be no guilt, only pleasure.  No thinking, only lust and sweat.  Another drink, another touch, breathe, drink and touch.  My eyes slide shut.

* * * * *

I am sober, or at least I can think moderately clearly now.  It is still dark, must be close to six in the morning.  My back aches from the hardwood floor.  I am not as young as I used to be, age has seeped into my joints and muscles.  Kid’s leg weighs heavily against mine.  He must have dragged some pillows down though I cannot remember when.  There’s one pillow under my head and a second he cradles against him.  A quilt rests lightly over us.  There are three empty bottles at our feet.  When did we have a third?  My head throbs lightly but I feel relaxed, comfortable, satisfied.  I raise slowly, as to not wake him and feel a wave of nausea as it rushes up my throat.  I manage to fight it back.  Kid looks contented.  How can he sleep with a smile on his face?  He must be dreaming.

Standing is difficult, my legs are weak and my spirit tired.  There is a barely visible pack of cigarettes on the coffee table.  Odd, he does not smoke.  They are not mine, I left my empty pack on the pub table.  Menthols?  Regardless, I steal one and settle down in an armchair by the window.  The street lights are still on, giving the pavement a ghostly glow.  A lone hooded figure rushes by.  Kid’s even breathing adds a pleasant background music.  I let one cigarette dwindle, light another.

There is a black acoustic guitar leaning against one wall, a red pick caught delicately between the strings.  It is a gorgeous instrument, expensive, the black leather strap curled around the base.  I did not know he played.  I wonder if he is any good.  I wonder for whom he plays.  The smoker of menthols?  Why did I not know that he played?  You never played guitar.  You were not musical in any way.  You could not carry a tune.  I never cared.  I remember the time you held me close and sang a soft Celtic ballad we had heard that night at the pub.  The tune was off, but your voice was calming and your arms felt real.

No, you never played guitar.  You were a cyclist.  Your black and silver bike stood along one wall in the foyer.  How often did I trip over it or nick it slightly.  You noticed every ding, every mark on that bloody bike but you never saw us falling apart.  Of course, a bike could be cleaned or repaired with relatively no effort.  Humans do not repair as easily.

No, I do not know Kid at all.  How long has he known how to play?

* * * * *

A smile and hello, a smile and hello, and that is how we forgave each other, me for being oversensitive and you for being insensitive.  And we carried on, nothing settled or solved, or even acknowledged other than the desperate need of one to smile for the other.  All I needed was your smile, your acknowledgment that you still loved me.  I could carry on with what and why and all the questions still left unanswered.  But how I need your smile to finish my day with a smile upon my lips and the weight not so heavy upon my heart.  How I need your smile now.

* * * * *

After an hour, I rise from my seat and cross over to Kid.  I pull the blanket back and run a cold hand down his back.  He shivers a little, his back creasing down the center.  This is fun.  I trail a finger down the crease between his shoulder blades and stop at the small of his back.  He moves perceptively this time, rolling onto his back.  The blanket slips, revealing the length of him.  He is so young, so healthy.  I pull back and stand.  I need the washroom.

I trip over my shoes on the way to the washroom and curse lightly.  He does not stir.  I flip on the light and curse again.  I have been surrounded by darkness since entering the pub last night.  The floor is littered with moist towels, the walls mildewed and the counter smeared with toothpaste.  The spot covered mirror reflects pallid skin and dark rings under my eyes.

Do you remember how I looked that last afternoon?  Probably not.  I do not know how you could even sit up straight, with so many chemicals running through your system.  Do you remember what I said?  Probably not.  I do not know what convinced you to spend the day with Flower Child, drinking and getting high.  She never told me why she came or of what you spoke, merely kissed me lightly on the cheek as she left.  I have never asked her since.  I do remember feeling confused and jealous, and you said -It’s great up here.  I have never felt so high.

Well, I have been high.  And now I am coming down in this tiny apartment where nothing is clean or tidy and everything is in disarray.  I have come down and there is nothing here to which I can lay claim.  That high did not belong to me.  Is that why you never came down?  If you had, would you have had to look to find yourself again?

I am pathetic, miserable.  I feel ridiculous.  Who was I seducing?  The kid is one raging hormone, he does not need urging.  I only need to take his hand, climb onto him, go down on him.  I could have seduced a regular at the pub as easily.  I rush back into the living room and search frantically for my jeans.  They have somehow fallen behind the stereo and take a moment to root out.  I pull a tiny silver case from my pocket and swallow a pink one quickly.  Pink to calm down, to relax, to breathe easy.  I feel a cold ankle entwine with mine.  I look down to find him grinning up at me.

-Can we take it to the bedroom? I ask.

-Can we do it without the alcohol? he asks.  I nod as reply but remain motionless.  He stands and leads me to the bedroom.

* * * * *

I feel lost without love.  Love made sense.  Wanting someone, giving to you, living for you.  Day to day made sense.  What other reason was there for waking?  For walking the streets alongside everyone else?

I flounder without love.  I do not think my own life worth the effort of everyday.  The useless ordinary acts had seemed necessary when done on love’s behalf.  Dishes, laundry, dusting, waking up were all just things that happened between times in your arms.  Arms that would reach out and hold me if I needed them, if the everyday proved too much.  Nothing ever really seemed like too much.  I took that life for granted.  Was not everyone entitled to love?  Was my life not made more real and substantial by your love?  This life now is unnecessary, insubstantial and inadequate.  I am floundering, making a mess of it.  I try to change but life seems too complicated without love.  Love of self, love of others.  I cannot afford the risk of loving again.  I will fuck it up.  I will expect too much, want more than I deserve.  I will try to trap it so it cannot get away, but It will.  I cannot hang on to it any better than I hung on to you.  You slipped away, despite my efforts, despite how much I clung to you, to the idea of us.  To a life of love.  Our love.

* * * * *

I did not hear the phone ring.  I awake to find a still steaming tea on the bedside table.  Kid’s back faces me, he is hunched over talking quietly.  He has a birthmark on his shoulder, a small reddish blotch in the shape of a penny.  Odd, I never noticed it before.  We are always in the dark, Kid and I.  We stay hidden from ourselves as much as from others, I suppose.  He nods his head frequently.  I reach over and rub the back of his neck.  He leans into my palm.  Is this what Flower Child sees, willingness?  an arch of the neck? a need brought forward through flesh?  I trace the outline of the birthmark delicately with one finger.  Kid finally replaces the phone.

-You made tea, I say.

He turns slightly, his eyes unable to carry the smile he attempts.  His jaw clenches as he debates his words.

-Who was that, I ask, -on the phone?

-My parents are coming to visit, he says.

Kid takes one deep breath and leaps from the bed, barely pausing to pull on a pair of jeans.  He grabs at strewn clothes, swipes clutter into already bulging drawers, lifts blinds.  I step from the bed, slowly find my shirt and begin to button it.  I suppose I do not have time to shower.  There will be no pleasant after-sex chatter.  Did I need as much to carry me through?  Seems ridiculous but I feel cheated.

-I’ll go, I say.

He nods.  -I think you had better.  They want to meet her, my girlfriend.  Have I told you about her?  She’s nice, you’d like her, you know, if you ever meet her, you know, at like one of my parent’s parties or something.  Anyway, we’re all going for lunch.  He is talking quickly, he is nervous.  I wonder if it is nerves before the get-together or fear that we may be caught.  He would have much to explain and he would not know how.  I can picture his parents, the look of horror on their faces.  Had they found us in bed, could they have forgiven us?

The top button of his jeans is undone.  He continues to tidy, shoves dishes into the sink, pulls a shirt over his head.  I approach from behind and slide my arms around his waist.  He sucks in hard as I finger the hair just below the waistline.  I slide the button through its hole.

-Kiss me, I say.  He complies. The kiss is long and fierce.  I push his shirt up and run my hands over his chest, then slide them around to the small of his back.  He is aroused again but I push him away and smile.  -We don’t have time, I say.  -I’ll come back another day.  I turn away and dress quickly, my clothes feeling damp and smelling of sweat and smoke.  I feel nauseous once more.  He stands frustrated in the center of the room.

-I have to shower, he says finally.

-I’ll go, I reply.  He disappears into the bathroom and the shower starts.  No steam appears under the door.  The apartment, still unkempt and untidy, seems particularly dirty this morning.  I retrieve the condom wrappers from where they have fallen on the floor, not wanting my friends to be utterly embarrassed.  They do not need those for evidence anyway.   His parents will know, they will smell what happened here last night, only they will assume it was her, the girl.  They will think she is a slut. I let myself out of the apartment, amused by the thought.

I see his parents pull up in a minivan as I step into a taxi.  They do not see me.

-end-

Still Life: Part Two: Low Grade Sex: the pub

-open-

-the pub-

Flower Child is vocal, never allowing a pre-conceived notion to remain as such.  She questions, argues, experiments, believing that life cannot be accepted before experienced.  Her life frightens me by its constant activity.  At the moment, she is curled up with a new friend, a beanpole with long blond hair and a ruby red dress, filled out nicely but presumably artificially.  The girl is classically sexy, with long lacquered lashes, pouty lips glossed to perfection, and a well-cultured lack of intelligence in her eyes.  One manicured hand circles a flute of sparkling white wine, the other inconspicuously under the table fingering Flower Child’s sweater, causing Flower Child to move perceptibly in an aroused slither.  The beanpole is not Flower Child’s usual type, although I would not presume to define Flower Child’s tastes.

The beanpole leaves to get another flask and Flower Child leans across the table, pushing aside several glasses.

-She’s delicious.  I’m going to have fun tonight, she says, licking her lips lightly and casting a glance toward the beanpole.

I smile knowingly, but I do not know, not Flower Child’s promiscuous indulgences, not even guilt free sex in Kid’s arms.

-She’s different, I say.  -Not your typical choice for a Friday night.

-I have a type? she laughs.  She stops for a moment to think, drinks quietly, turns the liquid over in her mouth slowly before swallowing.  She gazes over at the beanpole for a second.  -She’s a willow, she says, -long and lithe.  Look at her bend, her curves.  Can you picture her, draped over you, her hair flowing.  She stretches upward, you can run your hand down the length of her.  She moans, you can trace every rib, move your hand toward her jaw, sprawl your fingers on her neck and watch her lean into your palm.  She licks her lips, all her lipstick is worn off, you can see every crease in her lips.  Can you imagine her twist for you, like a dancer.

Flower Child stops and laughs.  -No, I don’t suppose you can.

* * * * *

The chiropractor is here.  He has his arm around some man’s shoulders and is arguing vigorously with another man.  He shoots a glance over at Flower Child, who smiles brilliantly but makes no other attempt at contact.  He is very handsome, in a weathered way.  Flower Child has already had him though, so he is untouchable in my eyes, though she would argue to the opposite.

At what point do we age, at what point is hanging out with your friends more of a casualty than novelty?  At what point can I say: Flower Child, are you in the triple digits?  Are you proud of all the encounters?  the casual, sexual relationships?  Are you an aging whore or a woman with no past ties and a myriad of memories?  Was it worth it?

I cannot say that this, the pub, the drinks, the people, were all worth the time I have spent.  This pub, these relaxed nights listening to Celtic tunes, the taxi rides home, the years that have passed without question.  When life is over, can I say these tides were a poem, no, a play, a comedic tragedy- look! everyone has died.  All loose ends tied and etc. etc.  The dramatic irony apparent and the conclusion merited.

The chiropractor is handsome though.  He reminds me of Kid, all grown up.  He lifts a pint and drinks heartily, but it’s not the alcohol that is making him vocal.  He seems to have ideas, something to say, something meaningful and relevant.  I wish I was nearer to him.  I would love to hear what he is saying, to know what he thinks, how he handles situations, how he interprets life.  He glances toward us and his eyes rest on mine for a time.  I flush.

Flower Child is watching me.  I smile, like a fool who has forgotten the next line.  Was it my turn?  Did I miss my cue?  I do not want to play this part any longer.  How am I to choose another?

I laugh it off.

She smiles and says  -She’s beautiful, isn’t she?

I had forgotten about the beanpole, the willow, however defined.  She is still at the bar, trying to fend off some testosterone driven rugby player whose arm is holding her prisoner against the bar.  She stomps down on the rugby player’s foot and he releases her with an angry word.  My admiration for the beanpole raises slightly.  Flower Child was watching her the whole time.  She keeps twisting impatiently, slithering almost.  She rarely shows such anticipation.  Unlike the doctor, whose desire is kept aloof, who hides his attraction behind a casual slouch and conversation, Flower Child revels in the excitement of the night.  No one need question her intentions for later.  When all the regulars have stumbled home to their empty houses, Flower Child will slip from her tight top and slide down onto the willow, press herself into the softness and call out in pleasure when finished.  Then she will sleep with a smile upon her lips and relive the night in her dreams.  When she wakes, she will feel no guilt or displeasure, only comfort and a body curved next to hers.

-You should leave, I say.  -I don’t want to keep you.

-One more drink, she says, her face brightening.  -One more drink and we’ll leave together, we’ll share a cab.

* * * * *

.

-Because I didn’t want to bring a gun to a knife-fight, you said, sitting down wearily on the sofa.  You looked tired.  You always looked tired.  I should have left you alone.  I was so stubborn that day.  Normally, I was the peacemaker, the one to acquiesce.  I pushed the issue.  I was tired of hiding from it, pretending that I did not care or that it was something with which I could deal.  You looked so tired but I was relentless.

-What does that mean? I asked.  I already knew the answer but I needed you to say it, needed the certainty of knowing what you wanted.

-Maybe you should move out.  You would be happier.  You wouldn’t worry so much, have so much on your mind, you know.

-You don’t think you’ll be the only thing on my mind if I go?  I’ll be sick without you.  No, no.

-Just listen

-No.

-I can’t deal with these problems right now.  I want to, but I can’t.  I can’t handle any of this, not with you paralyzed in the corner, watching me all the time.  Please.

I sank into the armchair.  You slid off the sofa and crawled across the floor, laying your head on my lap.  I stroked your hair softly, straining against the urge to push you away.

-So I’m not worth it, am I?  I whispered.  -After all this time, I’m not worth the trouble.

-That’s not what I said.

-You didn’t need to.  Asking me to go says it all.

-That’s bullshit.  Christ, you’re always making things up.  No, I don’t spout out all the shit I’m feeling all the time, but it doesn’t mean I’m not feeling it and I don’t need you making up what I mean.  Fuck, why does it always come down to this.  You want me to be something I’m not.  I’m not a fighter.  I can’t change.  I never asked you to change.  I’ve loved you as you are , only ever loved you, wanted you.

-This isn’t about love.  It’s about worth, about fighting for us.

Silence, as always.  Your hair needed to be washed and felt wrong under my fingers.  I pulled my hands back to grip the sides of the couch.

-Do you want me to leave?  I asked.

-No.

-What do you want?

-I want everything to stop.  If you leave

-I’m not leaving.

-Listen to me.  If you leave, you can have a real life.  I’m no good anymore.

-Don’t say it. Don’t say

-Will you listen to me?  Leave and start over.

I pushed you away childishly.  As good as a gun, telling me to go.  I went to the bathroom and vomited.  I sat on the cold tile floor and flushed the toilet.  When the sounds of the tank filling finally faded, I heard the fridge open and the pop of the cork as it left the bottle.

I vomited again.  As good as a gun.

* * * * *

I wish Flower Child had not drunk so much.  I had wanted to talk to her, though of what, I am not sure.  She reminds me of you tonight.  Would you shudder if you heard those words?  How alike you and Flower Child are, how drunk and ridiculous, I would say if you were in front of me.  Flower Child reminds me of you that one night in particular.  We were expected at a function, the twentieth anniversary of friends, Kid’s parents actually.  You were completely wasted by six in the afternoon and I had to attend alone.  I was never so upset with you.  I thought, this is it, this is the end, tonight I end it, tonight I say goodbye to you and the alcohol and everything I hated about you.  And I hated you that night, and all the pitying looks and sympathetic smiles.  -We understand, everyone said.  No one reproached me that night.  They  would have all encouraged me to leave you then.  No one knew anything at that point, they just thought you were the inconsiderate lover, the always absent lover.  I hated you so, and Kid, he was there and so attentive.  I had met him before, of course, many times, and admired what a handsome young man he was becoming, like all people do of their friend’s children.  He was too young, I would think, but my eyes followed him and I was not blind to his returning gaze.  He is too young, I would say to myself all night.  He kept approaching, seeking conversation.  He was not shy.  I loved his attention, his curiosity, his sobriety.  His eyes would sweep over me with appreciation and I knew what he wanted before we made it to the cloak room.  Only, I never knew I would cheat on you.

He was so easy to be with that first time.  I never expected the ease of it all, the way I let you slip away for those few minutes.  No one noticed our absence from the party, not even his girlfriend at the time, who was off giggling with her friends.  He slid back in beside her with a smug smile, one an older person would have interpreted, but she, young, probably a virgin still, smiled back unknowing.  I was jealous of her then.  I wanted him again, desperately.  I left soon after, his new university address burning a hole in my pocket and the taste of him on my lips.  A taste that turned sour when I returned home and my key stuck in the door.  I fidgeted with it for a few minutes and panic rose in my throat.  You knew, I thought.  Somehow, even though an hour had not yet passed, you knew I had cheated and you had had the locks changed.  I had ruined us with one simple act.  You had wakened and understood that I had committed the unforgivable.

The key turned moments after the initial panic, and still you lay in the same spot as when I had left.  You had vomited and the smell was overwhelming.  Any thoughts of Kid, of guilt and ruin, seemed ridiculous.  You knew nothing, not even where you were or who cleaned you up.

I did clean you up, after vomiting several times myself in the washroom.  I washed the floor and put you to bed.  I held a cold compress to your forehead until the moaning stopped.  You reached for me once while you slept, or at least, it seemed that you reached for me.  As I curled next to you, I could feel Kid’s lips as they traveled across my chest, remembered how his fingers pushed my clothing aside, how young he tasted.

I did not call him for a month, but I did see him again while I was with you.

* * * * *

-What do you do?

A small crease appears between the beanpole’s eyebrows.  She looks to Flower Child as if to ask if she must answer me.  I do not care if she does, I hate casual conversation, and the possible answer seems more distressing than this ridiculous pause.  Flower Child is distracted by other friends who have arrived and require hellos and welcoming kisses.  The beanpole purses her lips in disappointment.

-Who are you again? she asks.

-I’m a friend of

The beanpole has already looked away.  She is scanning Flower Child’s friends as they move to the bar.  She tucks her hand in the back of Flower Child’s waistband.  I look away, repulsed.  Flower Child turns back and kisses her wildly, knocking glasses from the table and causing quite the spectacle.  Across the room, the chiropractor is watching Flower Child’s display with a mildly amused expression.  He catches my eye and raises an eyebrow.  I open my mouth to say something, then merely shrug, realizing how absurd I am for trying to speak across a noisy and crowded bar.  He nods though and turns back to his friends.

Flower Child and the beanpole separate somewhat.  Flower Child whispers something into her ear, then slides out of the booth to fetch more drinks, I presume.  If life has taught me nothing, it is that life is better spent not sober.

-I’m regional coordinator for a non-profit company that finds placements for newly immigrated women below the poverty level.

-What?

The beanpole has spoken, I think, of her own accord?  And she what?

-I’m regional coordinator for a not-for-profit organization that helps poor immigrant woman find employment.

I will confess, I am rather impressed.  The beanpole speaks well when she does attempt speech.  I laugh, despite myself and the beanpole raises her nose in disgust.

-No, no, I say, -that’s excellent.  I think, you know, I mean, that’s excellent, really, excellent.

She sniffs unpleasantly.  Oh no, I have upset her, Flower Child will be pissed.  How was I to know the prostitute was a saint?  Honestly, how ridiculous.  Why could she not conform and be a waitress or an aspiring actress and not some perfectly perfect woman of the new millennium.

-And you, the beanpole asks condescendingly, -what is it you do?

I tell the truth.  -Nothing.  Nothing at all.  I sit on a bench all day and try not to harm any one.  That’s it, nothing.

I try not to be smug but I rather enjoy the surprised look she gives me.  And there you have it, ms upwardly-mobile-save-the-world-by-day-whore-by-night.  I sit.  I watch others.  That is how I live, that is my life.  In what way is your life better?

As if by magic, Flower Child reappears at my elbow and slides back in beside the blond.  She looks for reassurance from us both and I smile obligingly.  The beanpole rolls her eyes and slips her fingers down Flower Child’s side and inside her shirt from the bottom.

Flower Child frowns slightly but I raise my drink, as does she.  She takes a long drink and smiles quietly.  Silent acknowledgement and thanks and comfort is restored.

* * * * *

I did not leave.  You knew I would not.  You knew, which was why you were able to mention it at all.  It was not that you had faith in me, trust in my loyalty.  You were telling me what you would do in my shoes.  If I was hanging off a cliff holding onto only your hand, you would let go.  You wanted me to know.  Strange what we can know and yet, the implications, the reality of the knowledge slides by our common sense and hides in the recesses where we never think to look.

Flower Child is drunk.  I have never seen her so uninhibited, which speaks volumes, since Flower Child is unaware of the sensibilities of inhibition.  Alcohol generally calms her.  The beanpole has made her giddy, awkward, anxious and impatient.  She giggles lightly as beanpole leans over to kiss her, white powder on her tongue.  Their tongues entangle and I cannot help myself, I stare as though at a peepshow, as though I paid for the sight.  The passion is superficial, urgent.  Flower Child twists and slides the beanpoles closer to the booth’s edge.  They stand, their hands hidden under clothing, Flower Child tips and stumbles.  They break apart, laughing.

-We’ll catch a cab, Flower Child says.

-No, no, I say.  I have no desire to be caught in a crowded space with two wriggling and lust-filled people pawing at each other.  Flower Child catches my look and shakes her head, leaning over me and kissing me full on the lips, her tongue tracing the lines and curves of my mouth.  I taste something odd but sweet, intoxicating, the white drug no doubt.  She pulls back reluctantly, my bottom lip caught between hers.  She starts to laugh and pulls me along, off my seat and toward the door.  I seek for some way to stall, some way to delay.

-The chiropractor is gone, I say in an uncharacteristically sulky voice as I am lead by the hand.

Flower Child laughs and replies -Like him, don’t you?

-No, no.

Flower Child laughs again.  -He’s a good guy.  You know the sort, strong on the outside but soft of heart.  I’ll give you his number.  He’s an excellent kisser.  Couldn’t get anything out of him though.  She winks.  -Know what I mean?

The beanpole is angry, she does not want me involved.   She storms out the pub door and into an awaiting cab.  Flower Child finds this childish display amusing, knowing the blond will wait for her regardless.  Her laugh is infectious and I find myself laughing for the first time in months.  The regulars glance our way, they have never seen us this way.  Some are disgusted, others mildly amused.  There will be looks the next time we return and I suppose I should care.  These people will remember me, this behaviour.  My hand is in Flower Child’s, we leave the pub, the door swings shut and the noise remains trapped within.  The cold air is crisp but pleasant.  We pile into the cab, the beanpole already curled in a fetal pout against the far door.  Flower Child drops my hand and concentrates her attention back on the blond, whose lips jut out seductively for an instant before Flower Child takes possession of them.  I settle in and watch, keeping my hands to myself.  Flower Child and the beanpole are entangled, their hands hidden from view, their sighs becoming more heated.

I give the driver Flower Child’s address and stare out the window but their reflection plagues me the length of the ride.

-close-

Still Life: Part Two: Low Grade Sex: busy street

-open-

-scene-busy street-

Early morning, daylight pokes through the skyscrapers, the street is quiet and empty.  The air is thick with a cloudy smog that seems to seep into every pore.  My throat feels clogged and heavy.  The bench is cold beneath me, I had had to wipe dew from the seat before sitting.  My pants still feel damp though.  The hours pass, my shoulders wilt as the sun rises higher, the street comes to life, the people flood the sidewalks.  The rooftop is strangely empty.  The thread that holds me together has drawn thin and I feel vulnerable, alone on this bench, surrounded by many with lives of their own.  One man emerges from the crowd, his silver cane tapping the sidewalk in a steady rhythm.  The doctor coughs as he approaches and sits, his body facing forward, two strangers on a bench.  He is wearing a long gray trench, and carries a long umbrella in a matching shade.  How drearily appropriate.

We do not speak for a time but it is a comfortable quiet.  I would rather not ruin this perfect silence with idle chatter.  I have no idea what the doctor is thinking.  He remains shrouded to me but I feel no need to unravel his secrets.  I know that we will speak eventually.  We always do.  We are nothing if not creatures of habit.

I focus instead on a couple of men walking briskly up the sidewalk, their hands in their pockets, their coats zippered against the cold air.  The one glances up toward the rooftop, a common habit of regulars on the street.

-Hey, he says to his friend.  -you see that crazy lady lately?  The one that

’s always up on that roof?

-Nah, his friend answers, also glancing up.  -It’s been a while, eh?

-Hmph, yeah.  Hey, maybe she finally did it.

-Oh Christ, the friend says in disgust.  -Don’t say shit like that.  ‘Sides, we’d have heard if she’d bought it.

The man nods and turns toward the bench.  Our eyes meet and I sense his recognition.  Though I do not remember him, he is one of the faceless who pass me everyday, he clearly remembers me.  He does not speak but I know his thoughts: Well, that crazy one is still here.  The other one must be around here somewhere.

And so we are linked, Maria and I, in a way I never fathomed. The silence seems endless as he scans my face then turns away without another thought.  The air is too thick, my tongue is too thick, too large for my mouth.  I cannot breathe.

Doctor takes pity on me.  -Hmmm, he says, and that is all.

Time passes and the doctor shifts, I think to stand and leave.  Instead he turns slightly towards me.  -It is true, our lady of the roof no longer shows, he says.

-She has not shown today, I say, -at any rate.

-She has not come for a while.  Tell me, when was it the last time you saw her?

I try to think.  Maria stopped going to the roof a few weeks into our acquaintance.  -A month perhaps, maybe more. It was a rainy day, I think.

-No, no, the doctor says and laughs. -I remember that day.  You and I were here together.  When did you last see her?

I shrug and am unable to respond.  How does he know?  I start to shake.

-She has a certain scent I think, Doctor says.  -A light floral, you see.  Your scent has changed after she stopped coming to the roof.  He laughs once more.  -Now, he says, -tell me about her.  Is she as interesting as we thought?

* * * * *

I tell him of the days she and I spent together, of the endless talking, of her husband and son.  I omit the failed attempt at intimacy, focusing instead on her voice and her stories.  -She’s beautiful, I say.  -She talks as though I am the only person she will ever speak with again.  She is afraid of saying too much but of never actually saying anything important.  She speaks like a caged bird, one who is unused to the freedom of the open door and so sings loudly from within, trying to find an alternate way out.  Marriage is her birdcage.

I never felt trapped with you.  At first, there was only the desire to create a perfect co-habitation that mirrored what I perceived of other couples.  I was good at the submissive role, the homemaker.  I liked things tidy, clean, well-organized.  I liked couple-hood.  I liked lying in bed with you, liked how you would lay on your back and stare at the ceiling while you spoke, as though it was a blank canvas upon which you sketched the details of your day.  I loved how you would fold your hands behind your head and keep your reading glasses on until the last possible moment before I dimmed the lights.

I never felt trapped.  Toward the end, I only wished for you to say -Stay.  I felt useless, redundant.  What was I compared to a bottle of sherry?  I never stopped tidying during those last few months but I resented my new-found role as housekeeper and longed desperately for the days when I was the lover.

* * * * *

Maria, in a nutshell.  Catholic girl, Portuguese upbringing, married the man her father chose.  He was handsome, charming, would bring her flowers and listen to the soccer match with her father on the trans-Atlantic radio broadcast every Sunday morning.  The women cooked, set out dinner, cleared and washed the dinner plates.  The wedding was large and her parents wanted them to move nearby.  Husband said no, they needed a home in the city.  A small apartment, barely making ends meet, Sunday dinners with the parents.  Picture perfect.

He was only verbally abusive at first.  She started on birth control almost immediately but it was hard to get away, to keep it a secret.  The family was concerned when two, then three years passed with no news of a baby.  Maria was good at keeping secrets, she could lie easily and felt little guilt.  The pregnancy was an accident, seven years after the wedding.  He had started to beat her after their third anniversary but he became gentle during the pregnancy.  He began again once the baby was born.

She began climbing to the rooftop of the building shortly after they moved out and into a large duplex, some twenty minutes away.  Closer to his work.  He hit her when she arrived late, when dinner was not prepared, when she forgot to clean his shirts properly.  He discovered her on the roof purely by accident.  He was amongst the gaping crowd, caught up in talk about the crazy woman who always climbs to the rooftop.  I noticed him that day, I noticed his recognition of her and the way his face flushed with embarrassment and anger.  He said nothing to the police trying to talk her down.  He left quietly and waited for her to return home.  The beating was savage, her son crying in the corner, screaming “Daddy no, no.”  She spent the next two weeks in the hospital.  The baby inside her, the one he was not aware of, died while she was there.  He said he was sorry for the child.  She continued returning to the roof, and he continued to beat her, though less savagely, and she was not deterred.  It made sense for her to return, for here was where she lost herself, here in this building, so surely one day she must reappear.  Husband stopped the beatings after a while, murmuring the dead child’s name over and over whenever he became angry.  Maria never spoke the child’s name.

There is nothing more to be said of Maria.  I have described every inch, every story other than the motel room nonsense.  I fall silent, fearing my sudden confession has revealed more than I intended.  The minutes pass and the silence stretches.  I watch a man argue over a quarter with a newspaper vending machine.  Would his life be changed if only he had that quarter again?

-You don’t believe her, do you? Doctor asks.

-Of course, I reply dispassionately.  -It must be true.  Why would someone lie in that way, I mean, it must be.  Still though, it seems, seems too easy, too fictitious.  She didn’t sound sincere either.  Still though, why would you lie about it?  Why else would she come here?

-There must be a reason.

-Right, right, I say.  -There must.

The doctor nods but I do not think he believes either.

* * * * *

I have always wondered what it would be like to forget every miserable moment in my life.  Would I remember you at all?  I’m sorry, I did not mean that, not really.  I never mean to demonize you, but my recollections of you are so faint sometimes, that I only can remember the bottles being waved in my face.  I can still smell the alcohol if I sit quietly.  I still feel like vomiting when I get the sudden scent of liquor on breath.  I could forget all these things and possibly remember the first moment your lips touched mine.

I cannot say I left you with few regrets.  I regret not telling you early enough how much the alcohol bothered me, always attacking the immediate circumstances and not the root, dwelling on the menial and petty.  -Where were you? I would ask and the shouting would escalate.  Dinner with friends, how embarrassing that you did not show.  I was counting on you.  I regret not meeting your parents.  Who did you most resemble?  Did they drink too much? not at all? worship a god you did not have evidence of and did not believe in?  I pretend to know my heart, my history, yet I know nothing of yours and still pass judgement.

How can you love someone and only concentrate on all the negative aspects?  How can that be love?  Is it not demonizing?  Vilifying?  Deconstructing and destroying?  What about the way you used to laugh so openly, such a unique laugh.  Such stormy eyes.  Searching only for a glance, a smile, an acknowledgement of love from me.

I wonder if I withheld too much.  If I had been more open, more giving with my affection in public.  I never thought myself conservative.  I always thought it more appropriate to hold back, to not be so obvious.  Coy and subtle.  Public displays were never your thing and I played along.  We were looks and slight gestures, little comments under our breath and shoulders touching gently in a crowded room.  How I would lean in to you, hoping you would understand what the gentle push was telling.  We were never the type to declare love often.  Not in public, or even everyday, at home, in notes, before bed.  Only on very special occasions, in front of the closest friends, or when alone and happy.  The early times, before the drinking.

Is this public enough for you?  I love you.  I love you.  I love you now, loved you then, I know only how to love you.  It does not add up to much, does it?  Only words you cannot hear.  Only words, too late.  You wanted more than words but what else did I know how to give?

But I do remember every moment I spent with you.  The memories come when they want to, so subtly at times, I hardly recognize that you are on my mind once again.  At times, you were aggressive, gentle, loving, dangerous.  Sometimes frightening.  I remember you throwing things when you were unhappy, lamps, china, shoes, anything your hands reached out and touched.  I was terrified of your anger, for it drained me more as time passed.  I would rather remember the better moments, when the anger faded, and you would reach for me, when you seemed to need me.

* * * * *

Time stretches on and still there is silence.

-Of what should we speak? Doctor asks.  I say nothing, for words seem inadequate, I suppose.  I would like to tell him my story, to see if he would understand or leave.  I never speak my story.  I find it easier to lie, to invent plausible simple stories, to reinvent myself.  The doctor deserves more than my pathetic story, he deserves something with action and romance and intrigue, like so many movies now, something to trigger his imagination, to feed his ideals and reward his preconceptions.  I have no strength to invent things for others when I cannot imagine a time when I might be happy again.  Happiness.  The efflux of the soul, Whitman said.  Flux is just another word for change and loss, the reverse sides of coins.  My penny is firmly stuck in the mud on the side of misery.  Deserving misery maybe, but misery nonetheless.

-Do you think me depressed? I ask involuntarily.  Where did such words come from?  Why would I say such a thing?  Depression, a simple term, too simple to describe my melancholy.  The doctor does not care for this, why would I drag him into this?  I should not have spoken.

-Are you?

-I’m not depressed.  I take a pill for that.  I’m all cured of depression now.  No, now the doctors at the useless clinic I go to tell me that I live through others.  Others live and die for me, fall in love for me, get sick and depressed for me.  I am too afraid, apparently, to live my own life.  So you see, I am not depressed, only scared.

-No one dies for you, he replies.  -Every one in his or her own time.

-Maria, she was one of them.  Dying for me each time she climbed to the roof.  I could never, but I loved to watch her.  To stand at the edge of the sky like that.  But she was doing it for show, I know that now, and now she is as good as dead to the people on this street.

-Are there others?

I think of you.  Dying for me?  You never lived for me, now you exist in my memory like a newsreel on a loop, in black and white, playing the same scenes over and over.  I call it love, Flower Child calls it obsession, Doctor would call it depression, Maria would say it is sadness.

The pause is long.  I listen to an entire conversation between some teenagers across the street.  Some nonsense about who likes who, who has slept with who, who has no date for the prom.  God, to be a child, to think of love as a fairytale again.  To have innocence again, and perhaps happiness.  Those are the things I wish for, not this silence, not this bench, not this person I call myself.

The doctor also hears the teenagers and he smiles, like a man who has known love, and passion, and all things those children will come to learn.  I am suddenly envious of this man of whom I know so little.  Was he successful?  Is there a wife at home?  A pool boy?  Someone who makes him tremble?

-I tried to find love, I say at last.

-What did you find instead? he asks.

Maria, on a cliff.  Kid, in the safe cocoon of youth.  Flower Child in a promiscuous bliss of spiritual sexuality.  Doctor, alone on a street, listening to live vicariously.  But since I cannot say this, I say -Hundreds upon hundreds of people living out irrational quests because little has revealed itself of any value.  Hundreds upon hundreds of stories, lives, mixed up, revolting, simple and conceited in the assurance that they need to do something, anything, to prove that they exist, because not existing is too irrational to ponder.  And love, love pretends to hold them all together, to live beside, within, around, in the very air they breathe, and these people, these mindless imbeciles keep reaching for love out of frustration even when they know there is nothing there and they pretend to be satisfied with that and call it happiness.

Without so much as a smile, the doctor nods.  He takes a deep breath and nods again.  -Well, he says.  -Goodness, that‘s quite a lot.

I laugh despite myself.

* * * * *

I find it amazing how people find one another, slip casually into a routine, call it love for lack of some greater or lesser definition.  They meet, in clubs, on the street, meet somehow and connect.  Maybe she was sick, slumped across his lap, spent the night in nausea-induced closeness.  Maybe he glanced at her lips, entranced, across a pub floor, sent her a drink.  Maybe she could not stop staring at the breasts of the sales clerk and left quickly, going home to cook dinner for the husband and kids.  Maybe they met in the washroom of the public library and entered a stall without a word, two men with no names or pasts.  Maybe he rolled his eyes back as she went down when the lights darkened and the previews began.  Maybe he popped the question out of insecurity and cowardice because being with someone he cares about is easier than taking the chance with the woman he loves.

How many people confuse sex with love, never questioning the love as a sexual vehicle, never questioning the sex as pure desire to pure skin?  How many die without truly loving someone due to fear or exhaustion?  And yet, every time you lifted a glass to your lips, I felt pushed further from the routine, from a life of everyday to wanting a life beyond alcoholic normality.  You terrified me into action.

-You cannot make others love you, Doctor says.  I laugh and he looks hurt.

-I don’t want love, I say.  -Not anymore.  Only sobriety, a little bit of dignity maybe.  A chance to change my surroundings.  I don’t want love.

The doctor nods slowly and as easily, we ignore the lies I have just spoken

I pretend to know my heart, what I define as love, exact measurements of forever after, an uncompromising paradigm of true love.  Precise standards I cannot ignore.  Standards I have based decisions on for the last twenty years, standards I have held up as indisputable.  Standards which brought you to me and caused me to run from you.

Doctor and I, we have been sitting here for an hour now.  The streets are filled with the working class, the professionals, the bums and the trash who never had a chance to change.  Depression feels even more pathetic in the face of poverty, more appropriate in the shadow of wealth.  I turn my head in vain, searching for a thought, a change of topic.

The doctor is distracted.  His chin up, head tilted to one side, he is listening to someone approach.  I scan the crowd, a few men in gray with matching briefcases, women in well-tailored ensembles with perfect accessories.  No one stands out more than another.

The doctor slouches suddenly into a relaxed pose, casually sliding his retracted cane under one leg.  He turns his head toward me and nods and I feel obliged to begin a conversation that is apparently already in process.

-Who is it? I ask.

-Can’t you sense her? he asks as reply, turning his head and smiling as a tall beautiful woman in elegantly fashionable clothing walks by.  She is very trendy, with a beaded choker at her neck and bangles jingling on her wrists.  She is young, early twenties, with high cheekbones and a wide and generous smile, her lips the colour of blackberries.  Her long charcoal coloured overcoat swishes with her hips, causing a slight rustling noise and coordinates perfectly with her steel coloured skirt.  Her knee-high black boots make a smart click on the sidewalks.  Her boots remind me of Flower Child’s CFMs, only classier, trendier, more appropriate for daytime, I guess.  I refrain from mentioning it to the doctor.  She walks with her head high, with determination and purpose.  She glances at our bench and her rich brown eyes take him in quickly.  She smiles and the doctor, unknowing, smiles back.

-She’s beautiful, isn’t she? he asks.

-Yes, I reply, watching her fade into the crowd as easily as she had appeared.

-She smells like wine, roses and berries.  No, something more exotic.  Mangoes and orchids, tropical and warm.  She probably tastes like fruit, sweet as strawberries.

-She smiled at you, I say and watch as his face alights. -You should say hello next time.  Bashfully, he looks away, a pleased and smug smile upon his lips.  -I’m surprised though.  I thought you were immune to the trappings of love.

-We are none of us immune, my friend, he replies, his head high as strains to hear the last of the beautiful woman’s steps.

-close-

Still Life: Part Two: Low Grade Sex: the apartment

-open-

-scene-the apartment-

I stand on the sidewalk and stare at a window on the second story of an old but distinguished apartment building.  An hour or more has passed but still I stand, indecisive.  The street is not completely dark, the moonlight poking through the gathered rain clouds.  Rain showers down lightly, enough to chill me to the core, my overcoat now thoroughly soaked through.

The blinds are open.  There are no lights visible within the apartment house at all, no soft lamp yellow or television blue, as there should not be at three in the morning, I suppose.  The world within this complex is asleep or absent.  Again I am alone, even on a city street in an unfashionable and questionable neighbourhood.  The cabbie who dropped me off had warned me of this neighbourhood, though I do not think he cared, it was just habit.  -There are criminals about, bad people, he said.

-No, I replied, -only me.  He was gruff and apathetic and disappeared quickly with a palm of bills and I was forgotten by him as well.

The longer I stare, the more certain I am that life has ceased around me, mine, Maria’s, the cab drivers.  There are a multitude of windows facing me but they are as absent of life as I am.  Strange to find a mixture contentment and heartache in that thought.  But I am only concerned with his window.  Open blinds are a good thing, he is alone.  I only have to approach, to cross a street and find comfort in the arms of a willing body that is not Maria or you.  I only have to move.

The front door opens.  Kid stands in the darkened doorway, in boxer shorts, his hair tousled.  His eyes are small from sleep, he is not quite awake or aware.  He steps to the side, opens the door wider.  He says nothing as I cross the door and enter the foyer.

* * * * *

Kid is twelve years younger than me, a student at the local university, the son of friends.  He is beautiful, clever, inventive and well-endowed.  He is tall, with dark hair and boyish good looks, an irrepressible smile and eyes that alight when he looks into mine.  We hide nothing from each other physically, we communicate nothing about ourselves other than through touch.  We are silent lovers who follow rules of our own invention.  We keep our affair discreet.  My friends, his parents, need never know.

I am barely within the foyer and already his hands are in my hair, holding my face, his fingertips pulling at the waistband of my jeans.  We trip on the first step, and shirt buttons tear at the second.  His lips are hungry, but I match him touch for touch.  He tastes like Coronas, lime and salt.  We are almost naked before we reach the flat.

As always, he is not the focus of my desire.  Maria is in my blood tonight.  Other times, most times, you were on my mind.  I know where to touch him, how to touch him, how to be with others in his arms.  I know the taste of his sweat and I am not afraid of his raw innocence.  I am comfortable despite the intensity, I am never surprised, even as I see her face instead of his.  He is at all times other people and yet there is no question of my position within this encounter, no vulnerability or uncertainty.  His body mutates to suit my warped fantasies.  The sex is always beautiful because it cannot be otherwise.  My mind will not allow it.

He knows too much for a boy his age.  Sometimes I think he forgets about me during the sex, that he’s using me, that I am some other person he desires but cannot touch.  I would like to believe as much, if only to lessen the guilt I have not quite grown accustomed to yet.  Let us both share the weight and we will not bend under the pressure.

We trip into his apartment and drop to the floor once the door has shut.  The first time is intense and over quickly.  He lifts himself off of me and grabs my hand, pulls me up.  I can barely see him, he leads me through the darkness, around the couch and into the bedroom.

I watch Kid walk across the room.  Physically, he is beautiful.  His youth keeps him strong and tight.  Of course, there are many other young men with similar qualities.  I wonder if the attraction has anything to do with being his parent’s age and that I am friends with them.  I would be ruined if anyone were to find out and the temptation does not seem worth the risk.

I sit awkwardly on the edge of the bed.  He crosses back to me and settles down beside me   He rips open the condom wrapper and I help him put it on.  Sex should not be so simple, so instinctive.  Even the consequences are covered with synthetic fabrics, like putting plastic on a sofa to protect it from wine stains.  Physical costs are diminished.  I wish I knew how to pay for the emotional damage I am committing.  I am a vandal, pure and simple.

Kid tastes pure.  As he strokes, I nibble at his neck, letting my teeth sink in lightly.  His breathing always grows more laboured when I touch him.  He so wants to please.  I wish I felt the same.  I cannot take pleasure without guilt.  Always guilt, always shame.  Why him?  He is the wrong one.  Wrong, all wrong.

I keep my eyes open this time, watching him, his intensity and drive.  I relax and watch him, hoping to feel something for him, something more.  Flower Child’s Tantric horizon has escaped me once more.  Sometimes I hope that Flower Child exaggerates for some misguided effect.  I close my eyes and see you, feel you inside me instead.

He rolls off, stretching his arms above his head, his eyes closed.  His face is red and covered with sweat.  I trail a finger down his jaw, then lick the sweat.  He tastes real, alive.

* * * * *

The luscious nape of Kid’s neck reminds me of the first time you and I shared a bottle of wine.  A white wine, I think.  A blush wine came next, a red wine, some vodka drinks, Bailey’s, long island iced teas.  Soon there was never a bottle missing.  Soon, the bottle was empty before I finished my first glass.  The nape of his neck is a bottle of Chardonnay, the one I saved for a special occasion, the one you drank without me that last night, the one I smashed on the sidewalk as I left.

Kid snuggles closer.  -When will you fall in love with me?

He is never offended when I remind him that he is just a child.  I fear that he occasionally believes I will love him in time.  He continues to appease me when I show up at odd hours, partly out of love, but mostly out of an adolescent hormonal greed.  Convenient sex without the fear of reprisal.

-I love the smell of you, he says, laying his hand against my back.  Within minutes, he falls asleep, cradled against me.  I remain silently awake and my hands graze his back, the well-defined shape of his shoulders, the feeling of youth.  Your back was so distinctive.  Every arch, every angle, defined lines but never harsh.  As we aged, your back softened to my touch.  I used to place my fingers at the base of your hair and settle my palm against the curve of your neck.  You always moved into my palm, your shoulders rising to greet the twist of my wrist.  From there, I would trace one shoulder blade, then the other.  I would trace your brother’s tattooed name and wish once more that I had been there to hold you when he had died.  Below the opposite shoulder, there was a tiny scar, from roughhousing as a child, you said.  As you would tighten, the crease of your spine would become more apparent.  I have tasted that crease a million times in my dreams since I left you.  The hollow of your back tasted like sweat.  And then I would travel lower and place a hand on either thigh, and that was all it would take before you turned me over and switched our positions.  The moment I waited for, to be taken by you.

Could you have defined me so dearly?  Did you know my shape, my taste, my perfections and flaws?  What of me did you know?  Did I twist for you? curve into you?  Did you long for me, lick your lips at the thought of me?  Remember me.  Want me still.  Can you not see me, the horror I live in now, knowing you will never touch me, knowing that we are finished.  How can it all be finished, tossed to the side?  I refuse it, I refuse the truth, the finality, the nothing of me without you.  I roll away from him and sit up.  He groans and sits up sleepily.

-I need the bathroom.

I have forgotten his name.

* * * * *

The bathroom is disgusting, possibly the dirtiest, grungiest place I have ever been.  Twenty-something boys have no respect for cleanliness.  The lighting fixture is missing and the glare of the bulb is overwhelming.  I wipe the smudged mirror with a hand towel that hangs on the doorknob.

My eyelids are heavy and the tiny scar above my eyebrow glows a  hideous iridescent white.  I look weary, weary being the polite term.  Horrible, wretched, distraught, ridiculous are probably more apt but all the doctors suggest using the polite terms.  We are as we see ourselves.  So I lie and tell myself I am weary.  I lie and tell myself I am okay.  I am fine without you.  It always returns to you.

There is no need to ask why.  I am a screw-up.  A failure.  Nothing.  We are what we tell ourselves.  Why is it the truth only comes when no one is here to contradict me?  To tell me no.  To tell me the polite terms.  You were not a coward, no no, you had problems confronting fear.  I did not fail you, us, no.  I tried to survive, to find a life beyond us, something better, something healthier, something real that could evolve as we did not.

I feel that I have to wait.  That I am being made to wait as though to prove myself all I claim to be.  I have the ridiculous certainty that I will see you again so long as I wait patiently, like a child, promised a trip to the zoo for behaving.  Have I behaved poorly?  Have I not been a good child?

No, rotten, deplorable, pathetic.  Faithless.  These I have been and more.  I have not proven myself in any way,

I return to the bedroom.  I grab for my jeans and remove my small pill case.  Pink for panic.  I sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor, the garbage-strewn puke-green carpet.  As my heartbeat returns to normal, I swing my legs over and lie on my back.  Kid has fallen asleep and looks so peaceful, so young.  He is such a boy.  I had no right.

* * * * *

Morning, sunlight shines through the open window, dust dances in the streams of white light.  Kid is gone, there is a note, gone for coffee.  I may well fall in love over a cup of coffee.

There is nothing to do but stare at the floor, littered with clothing and video games, CD’s and condom wrappers.  His shelves are equally cluttered, textbooks, more CD’s, beer cans and a hideous array of baseball caps.  The sink is piled high with dirty mugs and plates, open cookie packages and cereal boxes cover the counters and an empty carton of milk lay caught between four or five pairs of running shoes.  The walls are covered with sports players and rock stars.  He seems to love hockey posters.  A girly calendar hangs in one corner, with crudely written notes jotted on certain dates.  A backpack lays near the door, a binder falling out, sheets of paper lay strewn about.  Stacks of unopened printer paper and textbooks surround his computer, and a small light flashes on his printer.

I crawl from the bed and look for my clothes.  The yellowed sheets fall from the bed to the floor.  Is nothing clean?  Is there no space that he has not covered with his youthful disregard?  I feel dirty and want to shower, but a glimpse of the bathroom turns my stomach.  The toothpaste lies on the grungy bathroom tile floor, a towel is curled up beside the tub, and a pair of jeans hangs inside out from the doorknob.

The door opens and Kid enters with a tray of Tim Horton’s coffee and a small box of donuts.  He pushes aside some rubbish on the counter and sets the stuff down, reaching for me.  I push him away and reach for a coffee.  The jolt from the caffeine and the heat are refreshing, cleansing.  I let him kiss me then, and it is slow and comforting, my disgust with the apartment fading the deeper his kiss takes me.  He pulls back and heads for the bathroom.  I wait until the door closes then quickly swallow a yellow pill, the coffee scalding my throat.  The bathroom door opens.

-Can you stay? he asks.

-No.

* * * * *

Sunset and the smell of the campfire.  You held me close.  I hated camping.  Hated the bugs and the smoke and the hassle of putting up a tent  and the unpredictability of the weather.  You should have been with someone who liked the outdoors, who could hike and kayak and cycle better than me.  I was never good at the things that came so easily to you.  You could make people feel at ease, always turning the focus on others, remembering details anyone else would have forgotten.  A favourite flower, a cat’s name.  A silly anecdote about someone’s father.  It never occurred to me that you were hiding, asking of others but never revealing yourself.    You never wanted people to know who you were.  You were vocal enough about certain things, the “big” stories, politics, healthcare, world events.  But you were so shy in other respects.  –It’s all perspective, anyway, you would say.  –Mine is as valid as the next guy’s.

-You are the strangest boy, I would say back and you would smile, the most captivating smile, the kind that made my heart stop.  You often said silly things just to make me smile, knowing that the smile meant more, meant that life was not just good but as it should be.  Us joking, us laughing, small touches, small courtesies, little things that lovers do.  The secret code:  I love you with a brush of my hand.  I adore you in the twinkle of an eye.  I choose you with a gentle nudge.

I suppose I should have worried that it would end, an inevitable fight or misunderstanding.  But some days, the happiness overtook.  The desire to share with you, the words bubbling in me at the most inappropriate times.  Silly words, like

I am so happy to see you today.

I am so proud of you.

I am so glad that we are friends too.

Friends in the best sense, the fun sense, the goofy times-like-this-should-never-end sense.  The kind of times that seemed otherworldly.  We were lovers but at our best times we were best friends.  Not so much soul mates as just plain old mates.  The boring kind of story no screen-writer would care to write.  Not the kind teenage girls long to see.  Just mates.  Friends who loved each other beyond measure.

Sunset and campfire.  Your arms, the smell of you.  I thought that in that moment that I knew you.  The one you did not reveal to others, the one that knew me best, the person with whom I could share the most personal look or touch.  Your arms, the strength of you.  You were invincible.  Who could challenge that strength?

-It’s beautiful, you said, a long sigh of contentment, drawing me closer.

-Beautiful?  I laughed.  –Beautiful would be back at home, in our bed, no bugs, I replied.   You growled playfully.  –No this, this is lovely.

-Lovely?  Your voice was doubtful and slightly disappointed.

-I’m sorry, not manly enough for you?

You growled again and with one motion trapped me beneath you.

I spoke the only words I knew to be true.

-I love you.

* * * * *

Love.  It is a sickness I am sure.  It simply has not been diagnosed yet.  Like alcoholism.  Like cancer.  Like the things that tear us to shreds without thought; insensitivity, carelessness, forgetfulness, withdrawing.  The things that cause us to die or disappear.  And we vanish, either way.  Nothing remains but an empty room where once love was before it set out to destroy us in our innocence.  We were never invincible.  We were never strong.  It was all delusion before the heartbreak.

* * * * *

Sunshine has dried the last signs of the night’s thunderstorm.  Kid and I stand on the sidewalk, cautiously away from each other.  A hideous yellow and teal taxi pulls up.  Kid walks with me to the taxi.  Any awkwardness forgotten, he leans me against the car, kisses me so softly, so deliciously.  He trails his lips across my eyelids, down my jaw, stops below my ear.

-Love me, he whispers.  I smile, touch his face, kiss him.  The cab driver glances our way, his gaze slightly repulsed, and I pull away.  I straighten Kid’s hair and brush non-existent lint from his shoulder.

-You will love me, he says in a smug youthful way, swinging the cab door open.  -One day.  He raises his thumb to my lips and kisses me once more.  He sounds like you, that first month.  He walks backwards a bit, then turns and I watch the curve of his back as he returns to the apartment.

-close-

Still Life: Part Two: Low Grade Sex: motel room

Part Two

Low Grade Sex

-open-

-scene-motel room-

I am confused.  We face each other, stripped bare of clothing, hands to skin.  I feel ridiculous.  The unquestionable desire I had felt has worn off in the presence of reality.  Maria stands like a goddess, beautiful and intriguing, mystical and holy.  Touching her now ought to feel like a natural progression.  We have touched a million times before, hand to elbow, a gentle hair tuck, the lightness of lips to soft skin as we wished each other goodnight.

Without clothes, she is not the same person.  She is weightless, all curves and soft colours, and I find myself embarrassed.  I wait to see a sign of bashfulness on her part, an innocence, a remnant of the girl I found on the roof.  Her skin looks like satin and I wait again, for her to approach or turn, for both our sakes.  I cannot move, although inside, there is only fluidity in my joints, and a disturbing liquid warmth.  I swallow and wait.  I stop breathing, but somehow I continue to exist.  The walls melt away into a blur and I see only soft movement and light air.  She steps forward.

She brushes her lips against mine, grazes her hand over my chest, curves lower.  I respond awkwardly, pulling her toward me, meeting her tongue.  I do not know how to kiss a woman, where to put my hands, where to put my mouth.  My eyes do not close but I can no longer focus, as brown hair becomes a soft shoulder, lips turn liquid as they slide across my skin.  We continue this way, kissing and touching.  Minutes pass.

I shake my head, to clear my thoughts, to dissuade her actions, to deny my own.  Maria withdraws, steps away, laughs lightly.  A sudden chill comes over me where her hands have left.  I cross the room to an armchair and sit, pulling clothes onto me, to shield me, to cover my chill like a blanket.  I hear people walk by, children laughing in the room next to us, cars passing.  The world has continued, unaware.  Maria stands a moment by the blind covered window, then returns to me, taking my hand and leading me to the bed.  I respond as she wishes, unable to think of an alternative.  We slip under the covers and lie on separate sides of the bed, not touching, only breathing.

* * * * *

Maria did not stop going to the roof in the first days of our acquaintance.  I would wait for hours, show up at dawn, watch as the lunch crowd poured out of banks and brokerage houses, watch as the stores closed for the day, watch and wait.  She always showed, but I could never predict when.  We would meet in front of the building, Maria crossing the street to where I sat.  One day a café, the next a gallery, the next a crowded deli.  We were always surrounded by people, we could barely hear each other, yet we spoke for hours.  No, I am wrong.  Maria talked for hours.  I loved the sound of her voice, but more so, her stories, be they banal and ridiculous, or sad and irrevocably lonely.  I wondered how she could speak for so long and what it was that kept her from speaking at home.

Her life was a pseudo-tragedy, one which liked to revel in its sadness, overcoming adversity periodically, like the end of a weekly one hour drama.  Within minutes I understood her reasons for going to the roof, though she never named these directly.  There was a husband, a son, a home, expectations and boredom, deep anger and fear.  There were reasons and excuses, but I remember best the look of hope in her desperate eyes.  She seemed a million miles away from the silent girl who climbed to the roof daily without intent.  I imagined that hope mirrored in mine, equally desperate, but I question that now as her fingers stray close to mine, only to curl back in disappointment.

* * * * *

How many times did you and I lie in bed and never speak?   We never spoke of passion or need, not even of the everyday.  There are times I cannot recall a single conversation we had between ourselves.  You were quite vocal in public, particularly at the pub or at dinner with friends.  Flower Child loved to raise your temper, loved to anger you with her avant-garde ideas.

-You cannot be so bloody naïve! you shouted at her once.  I remember the barkeep glanced up, saw it was just you, angry once again, and returned his attention to his newspaper.  He was used to your temper, knowing it was more a display of volume than physical power.  Others in the pub looked over though and I slid further down in my seat, the vinyl booth covering squeaking slightly.

-This is not medieval Europe, you are not a pagan, there are no mystical connections between people.  Wake up.  It’s just your way of avoiding a real commitment, real responsibility like the rest of us.  How pathetic, you growled and turned away in disgust.

You were always too logical, too normal for people with ideas, with alternatives.

And yet, in bed, I asked you -Do you love me? and you replied -You know I do.  But I did not know.  I was uncertain at all times.  You would not elaborate or give my questions second thought.  Love happened and remained in your view.  You said you loved me and therefore the question itself was redundant.  Love did not alter, develop, deepen or evaporate.  Love was and remained, despite years of physical changes, financial circumstances, chemical addictions.

A lover’s bed should be a haven, a place of warmth, not of convenience or expectation.

* * * * *

Yet this bed is one of discomfort.  The bed sheets are old and worn, the bedspread is a thick curtain-like material with heavy stitching.  There is no sweat on satin, only a cold dampness that seeps through the paper-thin sheets and skitters along the surface of the skin.  There is no motion, no passion or fevered heat, only solitude in a small double bed.  Two figures, side by side, separated by mental barriers with no relevance to the physical.  There are no lovers here, only two strangers who have tried something and failed.  I have failed again.

I feel every spring through the thin and worn mattress.  The springs are hard, hit my back in every wrong place, feel cold and merciless.  I wish I was on the floor, on hardwood or tile, on unforgiving flatness.  This mattress hints at comfort, encourages action and rest, passion and release.  Focus on the mattress, only on the irrelevant, only on the everyday.  The doctor tells me I spend too much time in my head and not in the real world.  This is the real world, with its awkward after-passion and dull curtained rooms, shoddy mattresses and sad heartbeats.  Were I really self-contained, I could pretend that this was not so, that I was in the desperate confines of my room, that a small white pill, once swallowed was freedom.  Flower Child would shrug her shoulders and move on to another, declaring simply that Maria is not kindred.  Spiritual sex is still to be found, she would insist, if not here, then elsewhere, with another body.  Divinity is in the pleasure for her.  There is no divinity in this room, God does not exist in this space, for where can spirituality hide when we are stripped bare and only used bones and skin make a sad excuse of a human being?

-Did you love him at one time? I ask.

-Yes, she replies.  -No.  I don’t know.  I must have.  But I would remember, wouldn’t I?  People remember love, don’t they, if nothing else?  If not the details, they must remember the feelings.  Maybe it’s better that I have forgotten.

Maria takes a deep breath, pushing the air out slowly.  I cannot think of anything to say so I remain silent and listen as Maria’s breath quiets and her heartbeat slows.  Every item in the room, from the lamp and its garish shade to the keys on the night table cut at the light.  I can focus on nothing but the things present, only the sheet that rest over her, thinly covering nothing.

* * * * *

I have a bizarre respect, a perverse admiration for those who can bed someone new on a nightly basis.  There must be a freedom with the fear, and not this sense of hiding or deceiving.  Someone new, a new body, unexplored territory, possibility with consequences you cannot fathom, both incredible and life altering.  The spread of disease, the threat of viruses attacking from within, are romantic to the bored and depressed.  Would not a disease make me pitiful at least?  I could play the fallen hero, the tainted, in need of healing and respect.

At this moment, three in the afternoon, Flower Child is having a test done to determine if she is still healthy.  She takes these tests regularly, every six month, maybe every three, to protect herself and to respect others.  She is not ashamed, takes the tests freely, seeks to be health conscious and aware of herself, within and without.  They draw her blood and call her within a week for her to return for the results.  She keeps me informed.

Touching you, I wanted to feel that love was clean and pure.  We knew the clichés at first, we practiced romance, fine tuned the strings of love.  I got selfish, wanted the romance everyday.  You changed without wanting to, the unexpected slapped you in the face, and you hid from me.  You wanted a release and I would not let you go.  In anger we turned from what made us real and I turned to self-pity, you found a pub.  In the end, there was a sour taste, mildewed thoughts and sick dreams.  Your breathed alcohol, your thoughts muddled, and I played victim.  I am not sure why and weakness is itself a weak excuse.

* * * * *

No inspiration can be achieved in a dank, dirty motel room.  No interesting conversation flows through the air.  I can hear Maria breathing, long, slow and deep, but I know she is not asleep.  Her eyes are closed, lightly, and she appears comfortable in all respects.  I cannot bring myself to let my lids slide, though they are heavy and tired.  Every dim dusty bulb is on, yet shadows plague me.  An outsider, peeking in through the window, would believe us to be lovers lying side by side after the passion has cooled.  There are no lovers here.

Sometimes Flower Child’s world is infinitely more rational than the one in which we restrained ourselves.  Maybe she is naive, but she is fanciful too, light-hearted and imaginative.  She allows for experiences without previous prejudices, with an open mind and an awareness that the moment itself is valuable.  I should apply that principle to this moment.  I should try to learn something from this attachment to Maria, for it must mean more than a simple attraction to a beautiful and vulnerable woman.

Maria stirs.  Her hand slides into mine and she sighs.  The sheet rests lightly over us, rising and falling with every breath.  We inhale and exhale almost simultaneously, our rhythm is almost sexual.

-Why do you climb to the roof? I ask.

-It passes the time, she says.  -I thought the edge of the world must be like that, open space.  There is no noise, no sense of time.  I forget that I am married.

* * * * *

This life is so complicated.  Why must we always have to qualify everything we say before we even say it?  Would not want to appear over-emotional, no not even that.  Would not want to appear to have emotions, feelings that need to be dealt with or acknowledged.  A simple I love you  cannot be said because modern times have decided there is nothing simple about I love you.  There must be an agenda, a manipulation.  Not real emotion in real time.  Nothing can be whimsical anymore.  Nothing to be believed can be heart-felt.  We are only free to love those for whom our love is not inconvenient.

I was never the convenient sort.  My feelings were outdated, the kind to be found in movies or fairytales.    I thought that once love was, it was in every sense and that the body could not contain it.  How could a person look at me and not see that I loved you in the purest sense.  How could you not see it?  I felt like a store window, always on display for any person to see.  There stands a person in love.  Love in the smile on my face, in the crinkles at the corners of my eyes, In the tilt of my head as it angled towards you, always toward you.

I am not modern, uncomplicated, independent.  I have depended on you for years.  You are the life I lead in my head, the years of my life as they do not appear on the outside.  The person who never seems to leave home is always on some trip with you.  In here I lie with you, curled in your arms.  In my head we have travelled far, we have conquered, we have known wonders.  We are more than we could ever be.  These thoughts, they are not memories, but the memories are intertwined. I have forgotten what we were and what is fiction.  Could we have been so in love or was it all dreamed over time?

I fret.  I am foolish.  This unknown world, this unseen make-believe world is more familiar to me now.  Tell me your name again for the first time so I might remember the real world.

* * * * *

I have never spoken to Maria of my time with you.  I will not speak of you, there are not enough words.  In truth, I tried to replace memories of you with her stories but they do not have the staying power I had wished for.  Now, I can only remember moments when we were entwined.  When sober, you were wonderful, to me, to yourself.  You were generous and patient.  Our first night together, the day I moved in, our six month anniversary.  You were so shy at first.  You wanted the lights off, the blinds pulled, the phone unplugged.  God forbid we be caught being sexual, how embarrassing.  I knew you in those moments.  You were honest, healthy, happy, sober.  I knew you then.  I loved you then.

Then I realized that love was the great deceiver, a hallucinogen, a mirage that fades when you require its substance.  A cheap narcotic until you discovered alcohol even as I still clung to the initial romance.  You changed and withdrew without so much as a frown or a conversation.  Instead of -Why are we together? you would say -Bartender, another round.  Instead of -Can you see our future? you would add a couple shots and say – Cheers, and down three.

-I’m happy with the way things are, you said.  The arguments started so slowly sometimes.

-But I think-

-No, things are fine.  You always want to change things  It’s fine damn it.  None of it matters anyway.

-God, don’t you know how to say anything else?

-If I did, you said, derisively, -would it matter?

-Why does it always have to be a debate?  Why do you have to challenge everything?

-Look, I’m just trying to get you going.  Jesus, relax, okay, just shut-up about it.

-Why can’t we just talk?

-Look, I’m sorry, just relax, forget about it alright.

-You know what, just fuck off.

-Hey relax

-No, I yelled, -some shit matters, okay?  Christ

-Maybe to you.

-Well it should to you too.

-Well it doesn’t.

-Right, nodding my head in defeat, -right.  Well fuck you too.

You slept on the couch that night.  I was getting used to having the bed to myself but I hated it.  You never apologized and I let it slide.  Another argument in a growing pile.  Couples fight.  Everyone knows that.  It just seemed too much to me.  People should not focus on the little things all the time.  Real life is so unromantic, so many times about the nonsense and not the grand ideal.  You always said my head was in the clouds, and that nothing really ever mattered.  But you were wrong.  You mattered.  You mattered to me.  I do not believe you could say the same.

* * * * *

The hour is up, Maria has to get home.

We dress in silence, on opposite sides of the bed.  I pull my sweater tight around me.  The search for the rest of my clothing is short, with only a pair of jeans and shoes.  An imprint of our bodies has remained on the mattress to mock me.  Maria appears busy, gathering and straightening, she has not even glanced back toward the bed.  She has dressed and is gathering her things.  There is not much: a purse, sunglasses, keys.  Lastly, she pulls the cord and the blinds rise, flooding the room with dim sunlight.  The sky has darkened.  Perhaps it will rain.  The room is still dank and musty, even with the blinds open.  My skin crawls beneath my clothes, every part of me aches.

Maria does not leave immediately.  She sits on the corner of the bed and stares out the window.  I have nothing to say.  How do I admit failure once again when she is unaware of the past?  How do I explain the significance of our attempt when I am uncertain of any actual necessity for importance?  There were no rules, no reasons for this encounter and I feel angry that I have to think in such terms.  By what ruler can I measure why she has sought solace and why I am the one she chose?  Were there others?

She looks around to see if she has misplaced anything.  Finally, she leaves, casting no glance in my direction, closing the door quietly behind her.

-close-

Still Life: Part One: the girl of the roof: art gallery

-open-

-scene-art gallery-

There is no one on the street this morning, almost as though the world has forgotten to awake. I have risen early, despite myself and the alcohol last night. My eyes are sore, my ears ring and every joint, every muscle and fibre revolts. Memories of the pub’s dimness and dull company assault my senses. I could have spent the entire day in bed, but one glance around my stale flat changed my tired mind. The unmade bed, the laundry piled in the corner, the dirty dishes about the room. The shades half-drawn, the empty pill bottles, the shredded magazines, the candle stubs and discarded matches. All signs of a sad person, a tired and distracted person. However, since there was no one to care if I stayed dormant or not, I chanced to escape and forget about that world for a moment.

The sun is playing a game with the clouds, weaving in and out, teasing brilliance. The shops are opening, people begin to flood the street. The girl of the roof approaches the building, today in a flowing dress of a filmy white material. She seems puzzled, her face anxious. She pauses at the door, opens it, then lets it fall closed again, staring at it as in distress. She turns, frustrated, and her gaze falls upon me, upon my bench. I look away, embarrassed for being caught, but glance up quickly to see if she has moved on. She stands, hands upon hips, watching me, her face relaxing and her lips border on a smile. I look away once more and contemplate rising and walking away. Would that be too obvious, I wonder? She has already begun to cross the street, darting in between the cars. I am confused by why she is changing things. I shake my head and still cannot look toward her, hoping she will understand and move along, sense my anxiety and just leave me be. She has crossed the street but now she pauses, only a few feet from me. I meet her eyes with a question in mine. She is on unfamiliar ground, she wavers, looks to me for guidance. I stand, I am uncertain.

She sprints away suddenly, down the sidewalk. She glances back, nods for me to follow, gestures for me to hurry. She wants me to follow. How ridiculous. I cannot. Still, she will disappear soon if I do not move. So I do. It seems like the appropriate thing, if not the wisest. She glides without hesitation through the city streets but looks back from time to time. We weave through the streets, the sidewalks are more crowded now, it is difficult to see her, but I follow.

* * * * *

There was once a time when I was adventurous. Flower Child and I would jump on trains at a moment’s notice and find ourselves in Toronto, Montreal, or in little towns of which we had never heard. We once walked along the Seine and bought drawings from the Parisian artists and spent the evening in an English-speaking bookstore listening to a poetry reading from a fellow Canadian, our only possessions in the backpacks casually tossed at our feet. We sat in a café in Dublin and watched the people pass on Grafton Street. We followed the twisting alleyways that looked sinister, just to see if we could find our way back. We made our lives exciting, adventurous, we were young and that was our right and privilege as youth.

You were not as adventurous. We never saw distant lands, you were content with the familiar, the solid. I loved that about you at first. You offered me a home, a place one would not need to leave for where else could one be loved so completely. Here was the adventure, here was the excitement, wrapped in your arms, lying by your side. We had no need for travel. I did not notice us age at all, when did thirty come? I was content with age, with home, with you.

I have no need for adventures now. I am frightened of them, truth be told. Flower Child watched me age and forgot, or chose maybe, not to age with me. She is still on the open road, and I am often envious now but too afraid.

* * * * *

The gallery is small, contemporary, attracts goths and freaks alongside the tourists. There is a tiny café outside, without name or norm, full of people like Flower Child with too much time on their hands, their dreams larger than their ambitions and pocketbooks. There is a woman in the corner with a laptop, her eyes intense, a wry smile settled upon her lips. A man, his legs crossed, leans forward toward another man, his tie trapped between the table and himself. They are talking art, no doubt, maybe politics. The atmosphere is energetic.

The girl of the roof pauses at the door only to see if I follow, then slides through the heavy glass doors and disappears. The middle-aged woman at the entrance counter stops me. There is a charge, five dollars. I have lost the girl now. There are five different hallways leading off the atrium entrance, each guarded by sculptures of various sizes and themes. The one hallway boasts two crudely shaped naked men, entwined, violently passionate. Two more of a similar style, yet more loving and gentle, embrace on the other side. The plan of the gallery tells of an E—- exhibit down that corridor. I follow it quickly and find myself surrounded by enormous photographs.

I find her sitting across from a massive photograph depicting two men, one white one black, their bodies interlocked, horns upon their heads. I sit beside her.

-Maria, she says.

How virginal, I think, but do not say as much.

I stutter over my name and she smiles indulgently, as though I am child and one must move gingerly to avoid frightening me.

She laughs, a lengthy and genuine laugh. She reaches out her hand and settles it upon mine.

* * * * *

Maria. I never would have imagined such a name, such a person. I sit beside her and yet we say nothing, presume nothing of each other. I only know that we sit and that before her there was you. You occupied my every sense, my thoughts and meaning, my knowledge and heartbeat. She is filtering her way into my consciousness, she is pushing you to the side slightly.

Up close, I can see that Maria’s age hair is coarser than it looks from afar, with more than the occasional grey strand. Her eyes are amazing, a deep brown, dark and deep, with threads of light weaving toward the centre. Her skin is rougher in texture than I would have thought, and lacks radiance, her makeup sparse and not concealing the crow’s feet at the corner of her eyes. I cannot guess her age, her movements spry, her face weathered.

-Are you an art lover? she asks.

-I appreciate art, I say. How mundane, how predictable I sound. -I would not pretend expertise. I cringe at my own words. -Truth be told, I know nothing of art.

Maria smiles slightly in response. -Take this piece, Maria says, leaning forward. -Isn’t it amazing?

The photo is large, oversized really. The two men are larger than life, their features so precise, so exact. You could follow the trail one bead of sweat makes as it slides down the length of skin. Is it real, or has the photographer merely turned the heat up? Maybe he sprayed the model with water just moments before. I turn and ask Maria if she has wondered the same.

She laughs. –Nothing is ever as it appears. I like to think that it’s sweat, that it’s real. Real lust, I guess, and real sweat.

* * * * *

.

-Tell me about yourself, Maria says.

-Nothing to tell, I reply.

-There must be something, she counters. –Everyone has a story. Your bench, why do you sit there?

-Why do you watch me?

-Why are you there every time I find myself upon that roof?

-Why are you so sad?

Too many questions. I can feel my chest tighten. This is not how it should be. No one should know these things about me. Why would she ask me such things? I open my mouth to explain that I cannot answer these questions, not these particular questions, not these, not now.

She studies me closely. –You’re very pale, she says in a sorry voice, as though she were to blame. –I used to be pale. Maria nods, as though she has answered all of the questions herself.

-I like it here, she continues. –I come here often. The corridors are like a maze. You can hide here for hours if you want to. No one knows how to find you. It’s a small gallery but there are so many corridors and small rooms and they all interlock. They designed it very well. You feel like it’s much larger than it really is. She looks to me for agreement but I have never been here, I have no idea.

A moment passes and she speaks again. –Do you sing in the car?

-What?

-In the car, do you sing when you’re alone, you know, sing along to the radio? Even when the windows are down and everyone can hear you.

I try to focus. How can a person make you feel dizzy with just words, words thrown at you too quickly to make any sense? –I have no car.

-No car? Me neither, not my own anyway. Do you walk here? Not here, I mean, to the building.

Too fast, she talks too fast. What is she saying? Cars? Words flood around me, I feel buried. My chest has tightened to near exploding and I cannot breathe. Cars? Walking? What? Too much, too much. Flower Child, sometimes she rambles, but I can usually keep up. Sometimes she rushes her words in her excitement but never this, this jumping about. I wish the doctor were here. He speaks slowly, calmly, he never rushes.

Think. What did she ask? Did I walk? -Yes, I answer, -I mean, usually. Sometimes, I take a taxi, when it’s raining. But only sometimes.

-Is it far? A far walk?

-I, um, head shaking, searching for clarity, -I yes, I guess, a bit, I don’t notice at all, really, anymore.

-Do you go everyday?

I lie. Even under pressure I lie. Lies come more easily than the truth nowadays. I used to be truthful. Now I lie to anyone. My entire life is a lie, a joke. –A couple times a month, maybe. No more.

Maria stares straight ahead. She smiles kindly, like a mother to a child. -You’re lying. That’s okay, she says as I gesture weakly in opposition. -We all lie. I go to the roof two, maybe three times a week. You are always there, every time, no matter the day or time. Wait, no not every time. There was a time, you didn’t come for nearly a month. That was some time back though, months back. And once last week, you were not there. Your blind friend, he was there. He looked lost without you, like the bench was too large or something. Like he feared someone else might sit and occupy your seat.

Too fast, too fast. I feel like the words are tumbling at my feet and building higher, I will be drowned soon. I have no way to catch them, to move through them, I am surrounded.

Breathe, I tell myself. Breathe, catch your breath. The heartbeat will slow when the breathing is natural. Must catch my breath.

-I don’t like the truth, Maria says in a flat voice. –Stories are better. Do you know any stories?

* * * * *

Once upon a time, there was a girl who loved a boy. But he loved someone else. Well, no not really. The truth was, he was afraid. He chose what he had, the love in his bed and not the one who lit his eyes. He chose a house and a car and a picket fence and two golden retrievers in the back yard. He chose security, a life without risk. And the girl? She chose to stand-by and watch as he lived out their life with someone else.

And she watched. She would drive by slowly in her car and watch the happy home. She watched her fairytale unfold as he made a family with someone else. She watched and time passed, the years passed and she grew old. She grew forgetful. One day, the boy moved away, far away, but the girl continued to return to the house and watch for the boy she loved.

The girl grew older and soon was dying. In her memory, she could remember only the boy and his eyes and how they lit up upon seeing her approach. She remembered the last day, when his eyes pleaded for forgiveness and she turned away. She wished she could see those eyes now. She searches for his eyes, ever changing, dark grey-green like the night sky before a storm. She would forgive him this time, if only she could find him. She would forgive him at last, so that she could begin living, even here, as she dies.

No, I do not know any stories.

* * * * *

One of the sculptures, two bodies intertwined in abstract clay is entitled Soulmates. Maria gives a little sigh.

-Do you believe in soulmates? she asks.

-Yes. No, I

-I don’t, Maria says, interrupting, though I had little else to say. –We meet people, they seem to fit, but they don’t, not really. Life isn’t a puzzle, there’s no right fit. No. But maybe, there are many souls to connect to, to know intimately, to latch onto and let go of when the time comes. Don’t you think?

Letting go is not an option, I think but I stay silent. I would need to forget my entire life to let you go.

-I don’t think it works that way. I think we’re lost from the beginning and our soulmate is like the light from a lighthouse or something. We start to believe we are found, that we’re home, safe even. We concentrate so hard on the light that we miss seeing the rocks and waves that drag us down. Soon we are dying and we cannot figure out why, or even what went wrong. We have no idea why we are sinking. It is our soul they seek and we give what we have, all that we have, until we have nothing, not even the strength to tread the water. And then we drown. Dear God, we drown.

I stop speaking, unaware that I had even begun. Words came flooding out but I cannot remember what I have said. Maria’s expression is shadowed and I am frightened that I have driven her away. She watches me for a moment with a sympathetic gaze. I cannot endure scrutiny anymore. There have been too many doctors who have done the same, watched me with distant sympathy and analytic compassion.

Maria reaches out and brushes her hand lightly across my cheek. She strokes my forehead, my cheeks, runs her thumb against my lips. The urge to turn is too strong and I wrench myself away, sliding over on the bench to the very edge. Her touch is wrong, these are the wrong hands. I stare at the floor, knowing she watches me still. Stop stop dear God stop.

She stands and is gone before I know what is happening. She is gone.

* * * *

Once upon a time there was a sailor. He travelled far and wide to find his fairytale. He was told, once upon a time, that there was a fairytale to be had and so he sought by night and day for he believed it to be rightfully his for the taking. He searched countless countries, stopping in small capeside villages and large cities filled with foreign people who did not speak as he did. Still he sought, for surely the fastest way to his destination was to keep travelling.

The years passed and the sailor grew tired and weary. His bones ached and his heart yearned for home. He returned to the village of his birth only to find that it was not as he remembered, nor were there any still living who knew him. He went from person to person, asking –Do you know me? They shook their heads kindly but to them, he was a stranger. As time passed, he found he could not remember his own name. He wandered the lonely streets and said to any who would listen –But I sought it. It was mine to have and I sought it. Where was it to be found?

I do not care for stories.

* * * *

I cannot stay here. My hands are clammy from gripping the bench’s vinyl padding. I am unsure what I should do, if I should follow. I seize upon the moment and stand, more out of fear than any desire to follow Maria. I walk, my steps loud on the marble, mingling with the other intrusions of the silence. A child, far off or perhaps in the next room, cries, and a mother quiets in a seductively maternal voice. A loud and obnoxious man berates someone with his intelligence. The walls are confusing, there is no direct path and people seem to appear from anywhere, the paintings perhaps, sculptures coming to life. There is a janitor, he gives me a disinterested glance, life before him in the shape of a broom. I should bribe him, take his place, assume his duties. Maybe he has a nice family at home. I have not belonged to a family for a long time. Does he appreciate them?

A nasty look tells me I have stared too long. I rarely make eye contact with anyone anymore. I am too afraid that people can read me, know instantly how I suffer, how I pretend. Everything I say or do is lie now.

I loved the way you and I could share a joke from across the room. I knew your thoughts immediately. I knew when to approach and save you from some boring person talking your ear off or when you needed space. Strange the way we could speak with our eyes and only we knew that secrets were being shared. Strange how withholding eye contact meant one was angry or upset, that we had to tread lightly.

You always tried in the beginning, when you knew I was angry or upset. First, you would try to joke your way out of it, then eye contact, lastly touch. You would capture my hand in yours and just stare at it, as though you had found a precious stone. I always pulled away, I do not think you could have. Too fast, I would always think, I cannot forgive this quickly, this easily. I do not know what price I wanted you to pay. I think I was afraid of how quickly I was caught, how the simplest touch wrenched my cold heart back to the shelter of your love. There was nothing I would not forgive of you when you asked it of me. I could not, will not, even now, forgive the alcoholism, the demon that stole you from me. The way that you found a better and I was left on the sidelines. You stopped trying. I never expected that you would stop trying, that you would no longer reach for me or that you would hide your eyes from me, that I could not read you or find myself reflected back. The beauty, the soul I had once met there in your eyes was gone and the person I found there instead would not speak to me.

* * * * *

I turn a corner. There is no one in this room, only oil and canvas and me.

I cannot find Maria. I can imagine her sweeping through the many halls and muraled corridors, barely pausing to spare the portraits a glance. I imagine her eyes are wide one moment, narrow in contempt, then shine brilliantly at the brightness of a certain photograph. She would remain at all times in motion, fidgeting, anxious. She would be too hard to follow if I did find her, but my solitude is wearing on me. I need a drink. I try to pace myself but the turns are perplexing, the lighting too dim, the paintings overwhelming, the sculptures small and mocking or large and looming like shadows.

I am scared of this room. Only an iridescent blue ball hangs from the ceiling. How am I to understand art when it comes so large and self-contained? This piece is so imposing, monstrous even, that I turn to the empty walls, which only serve to enclose me more with the massive blue shape. Deliberately, I focus on the walls and edge my way from the tiny room.

I am never without my pills now. I slip the tiny case from my pocket and quickly swallow a pink one. The pink ones are unpleasant without water but they deal with the panic rapidly. I back up to a wall and try to close my eyes. The doctors all advise sitting but there are no benches in this room or the next. Strange, is one not expected to sit and admire the works on the wall? I would pay handsomely for a bench right now. I back toward a corner, hands on either side as though to hold the walls in place. Plenty of space, there is plenty of air, no cause for alarm, no cause to scream, everything is fine. I repeat this again and again.

I open my eyes. Study the terror, the doctors say. Before me is an empty wall, this room devoid of art, a room forgotten. I would have expected the walls to be white. I do not know why, I suppose to enhance the artwork. The walls are not frightening, they are just walls, paint and plaster. The walls are taupe, the sort of colour one forgets on sight, or never notices in the first place. Are they the same in every room? I had not noticed. Why would I have? No one is here to examine the wall colour. You would have laughed at me for noticing the walls.

My breathing has slowed somewhat, I no longer heave and struggle for air. My pulse slows, how well the pink ones work. Why was I panicking in the first place? There is nothing frightening here. I push myself from the corner and take several unsteady slow steps. I make my way into a room full of lively landscapes and pastoral paintings, my steps gaining surety. Here again, taupe walls. The walls now seem completely ridiculous. Such beautiful, inventive and strange creations, photos and portraits, sculptures and still lifes, are mocked but such ridiculously mundane walls. How can beauty be anything but diminished against the mediocrity of taupe?

* * * * *

You always said I had a gift for the inconsequential. I could name every state in the U.S. -Who cares? you would ask, -this is Canada. We know too much about the States as it is. But I thought it was impressive. I notice the little things most of the time. I notice birthdays or special days and odd events and such. I noticed the first time you had beer with breakfast, the first time you threw a dish at the cat. I noticed the way you would clench your jaw when the doctors spoke of pills and therapy and missed work. I remember your anger and your lose of sympathy and how fear underlay it all. You would not have cared for taupe walls. I imagine you would have frowned at me in that way you had of making me feel childish and said something like: -so? Or -you have too much time on your hands.

Is it strange to miss your anger, your dismissive nature, your drunken rhetoric? Flower Child thinks so. She says time should have given me perspective, should make me realise what I knew as I walked out the door that last evening. I had expected that to be the case. I expected to grow more reassured by my actions, not saddened by my discarded role of victim.

Once upon a time, I loved a boy and he was my fairytale. But in the end, I am alone and have forgotten a time before you.

* * * * *

Maria is in the next room, white dress against taupe walls. She leans in closely to one of the photographs, and her eyes sweep across it with intensity. Somehow, we have returned to the same room, the same photograph.

-He is a genius, she says.

I look up for a moment, confused.

-There will never be another like him.

I am not certain who spoke or of whom we spoke. I am exhausted by how you press upon my thought at all hours.

-It is difficult to turn your eyes away, Maria says.

I know.

We leave in silence, never touching, heading off in different directions. We make no plans to meet again.

-end-