To be read while listening to Miles Davis’ Kind of Blue. Preferably
on LP, and preferably just the track “Blue In Green” on repeat.
It was 9 o’clock on a
Saturday night. My window was open, just enough to let in that tauntingly warm
breeze. It was the kind of night most guys my age were out in those
color-splattered stone caskets, with the pounding heart beats and whining death
rattle. Not me. I sat in the middle of my self-shaped Tartarus, the gasping
canvases praying for a life my barren hands can‘t give, waiting for the next 60
dollar sensation the yellow pages sold me. Most guys my age walk around,
selling their cocks with hair gel and flipped collars. Most guys my age talk
about the new TV shows, the football scores, their cars, their paychecks,
anything besides books, pain, or death. Most guys my age don’t even think of
those things. I guess I make up for it. I do it for my whole failed generation.
And when the whole
Darwinian dance sickens you, when the whole humping-dog society makes your mind
sputter, you take solace in the solitude. You see yourself as the lone
intellectual in a world of letdowns. Your feet feel the cold, but at least you
don’t kneel at the altar of trends, right? You tell yourself you’re a warrior.
You’ll create, you’ll endure the flagellation of failure, and when the wave
crashes, you’ll be the god above the rubble. Them, their rich blood and cheap
smiles, they’ll all be frail old bastards, shitting themselves, being pestered
by their grandkids about why they never bought your paintings while you were
still alive. You tell yourself you’re not alone by default, but by choice.
Suddenly your isolation is a form of protest. You’ll stand, hand in hand, with
the heroes. You start to throw laurels of mental praise at Ginsberg and
Rimbaud, Wilde and Van Gogh. They stood up to their fruitless peers, and were a
beacon of salvation. Then, finally, when the cerebral zeitgeist bursts, you
realize they were all just unshaven bastards desperate for a fuck, just like
you. They’d throw out all the accolades to just have a night they didn’t cum in
their palms.
My fingers stung. The
cigarette had burned down to my knuckles. The fucking things, I barely
remembered to smoke them anymore, I’d get so lost in thought. I took the stick
of cinder in my hand, and rubbed it on the nearest canvas, spreading the ash around
in a series of swirls. It looked like a chalk drawing a kid raised in a
crack-den would make. Maybe I’d just re-invented art, right there, I thought.
Impoverished impressionism. Maybe.
I sat there, staring
at this mess in my hands, wondering how in hell I’d thought I’d made anything.
The whole art scene is dead. Modern art murdered it. The impressionists beat it
down, left it moaning and bleeding, and then Andy Warhol put the bullet in its
skull. Modern art blurred the line between skill and shit so much that while
the public got smoke in their eyes, we painters got lost in the abyss. There’s
only room now for performance art and cubism. Cubists, those fuckers have it
easy. “Can you draw a square? Do you know your colors? Congrats, you’ve got a
showing at the Met tomorrow!” I wasn’t trying to re-define art. Just to define
it. Just to do something to make painting mean something again. Something to
knock the white-haired bastard out…
My train of thought
was cut off by the knock at the door. I got to my feet, and for a second,
started to straighten myself out, flattening my shirt, sweeping back my hair
and all. It was second nature. No matter how long you’re used to it, you never
fully realize that she isn’t gonna be studying your looks. You can ride her
till you’re blue in the face, make her act out every filthy desire, and even
pour your heart out to her, every secret in the silence of your soul, and she’d
still forget your face by time she hits the streets again.
My feet were thumping
the hardwood floor like slabs of raw meat as they hit the deli counter.
Gradually, I walked towards the door. I opened it, and took the obligatory
moment to examine the piece that had arrived. She stood in that doorway,
slumping slightly in that pose only Bob Fosse found sexy, but all women somehow
adapted. She was about 6 foot, slim build, bordering on emaciated, green eyes,
brown hair. I observed all this with a slight sense of glee. “Just what I
wanted” I thought. Then again, no shit. It’s New York. Dial the right number and you can
custom order sex. Her build was kind of frail, and her arms swung with leisure
where, to the untrained eye, you couldn’t see even a hint of apprehension. But
I knew it was there. I could sense it. Certain guys, we get to a point where we
can just tell, without a scratch or a sigh to be noticed, that this is a girl
who’s been knocked around in her time. Maybe as a kid, maybe from a client, or
maybe from some guy she just loved too much. But it was there. That tenseness.
She’d see the hits coming, and she’d take them, like they were her obligation
to endure. That wasn’t my bag, slapping a lover around, no matter why she’s
there. But I’ve known plenty of pricks who felt otherwise. Yet, even then I
knew. There was something strange about her. Something that set her apart. I
just couldn’t tell what it was.
She said her name was
Chloe. I told her that if that’s what she wanted to hear, it was fine by me. I
was walking her to the bedroom when we passed the room of canvases, and my
stupid little ashtray art lay in the middle of it. Then Chloe did something
strange. She asked a question.
“What’s that?” she
asked. The usual banter, I guessed. Didn’t know why I got excited. “A canvas.”
I replied dismissively. “I know that, but what is it supposed to be?” she shot
back, with the faintest hint of indignation, another thing the untrained man
wouldn’t catch. She was smarter than I gave her credit for, I realized. I
decided to reply with a joke, knowing she wouldn’t get it, but wanting to give
myself a laugh. “It’s what would happen if Pollock was a pyro.” I chuckled, and
then there was another strange occurrence. Instead of just nodding in senseless
agreement, I saw the faintest hint of a smile crack her right cheek. She had
understood my joke.
I walked over to open
my window, and took a moment; let the city skyline sink in. Normally I’d be in
the bedroom and halfway done by now, but I figured I’d alter my routine, in
keeping with the spirit of the night. Back when I used to have people over I’d
stare out this window, and would swear to everyone that I could see Empire,
Chrysler, World Trade, every fucking building in New York. And not just the tall ones.
Everything from the Statue of Liberty to the smallest hot dog cart in Central Park. And the wind. You could taste the city in
the wind. It wasn’t that I particularly liked the city air. The city was my
air. Anybody else who came to that window said I was just tricking myself, that
from here you couldn’t see shit besides the building next door. But I knew I
was just seeing what no one else could.
That’s when it hit me.
It was the way the light of the windows next door were flickering as I was
staring off into the distance. That’s what was different about her. It was her
eyes. They weren’t particularly interesting, but I’d looked at them. I normally
never look them in the eyes. I’ve grown to know what feelings float in the eyes
of these girls. That specter of sadness, that shade of worthlessness, you can
see the shards of her shattered soul drifting in the swirls of blue or green.
Some guys would see the tortured soul as a turn off, but then there are guys
like me. To us, there’s beauty in sadness. We thrive off the hurt. We wanna
heal the wounds, we wanna be a hero, and yet once we got our rocks off we couldn’t
give two fucks what becomes of them. It’ll probably be the same with this one,
I thought. For now she’s something special, but when all is said and done,
she’ll be another pretty face faded in the dark.
I walked in and threw
myself on the bed. I liked to let the girl get acquainted with the room, on her
own terms, let her see what could be fun, let her get ideas. I’ve never been
the guy to lay out exactly what he wants. After all, she’s the professional. To
me, it’d be like going into a restaurant, and telling the chef how to cook the
special of the day. These girls, they do this as an art form, as a sport. They
lay their lips on you, and pull every wild dream in your head out into the real
world. To me, that explains the sound sleep and the hollow feeling in the
morning. I just lay there, watching her scan the place. She unzipped her bag,
and reached in. I couldn’t see what she was searching for in there, but it
didn’t take long to figure out.
“Do you have, like, a
CD case or something?” she said, turning to look, not at me, but almost over my
shoulder. Never make eye contact, never get personal. I’m sure that’s a rule
they learn very early on. Never been any problem before. So why was I suddenly
so hungry for that connection? I wondered. I raise a hand to point her to the
shelf of CDs over in the corner. Very nonchalant, and very conscious of the
nonchalance. It was weird. At that moment, I didn’t get up because I didn’t
wanna look too eager. Fuck, I was acting like some grade-school kid with a crush.
What the hell was wrong with me?
I watched as she knelt
in that new-aged prayer before the chair, with the CD case on top. I could
barely see her outline, in the hazy darkness. Her figure moved like an erotic
ink blot, burning the night in her dutiful dance. I heard the clacking, like
the hoofs of a stallion careening down cobble-stone road. Clefts of light crept
through the sliver of drapes that dangled limply at my window, falling on her
like failing spotlights, capturing moments and flickering features. In the
hopeless light, her head swings from side to side in a slow, whiplash way, like
a Valkyrie poised to strike. I heard a howl of wind, and then she disappeared
into darkness.
Her finger slid down
the center of my chest. Her lips followed suit. I was livid with anticipation.
My hands gripped the edges of the mattress, my neck thrashed, my lips were
pursed in the come hither coo you only get when your 15, and getting blown is
what makes life worth living. My mind was running like a madman, trying everything
I could not to let it all slip away too soon. I had to make this great. I had
to make her wild, I swore. No matter how long it ran, no matter how much it
cost me, for tonight, I had to make this girl see god. I had to sow the seeds
of Dionysus tonight.
My heart jolted with a
sudden adrenaline. I grabbed her wrists and flipped her on her back. For a
second, her eyes flared with that blasé fear they all get. The flaming fear of
being beaten, quickly doused by the knowledge that they can’t stop it. But not
this time, I assured her with my writhing waist. I bit at her neck, that light,
playful, primordial passion that’s forgotten in the real world, the world where
sex is no longer an adventure, there’s no longer fear of your parents coming
home, where that rush of sharing your bodies in disdain for the world is lost
with the days of proms and pep-rallies. My hands ravaged her body like some
mad, hungry animal. She’d been moaning, but by now it had grown louder, more
intense, less cerebral. You could hear it shift from acting to uninhibited
craze.
Now the gates swung
open, but I had to plan my actions. This wasn’t to be a mere invasion. This was
going to be an occupation. My skin was charged with fervor, as my tongue
surveyed every inch of her, scavenging for every place that would make her
shiver. I tore in, my hips striking her inner thighs like some saintly
stabbing. She howled like a cat on the fencepost in the early morning hours. I
roared and panted, making the hours turn minutes, beating off the world with
every movement, alive in the moment, one with this nymph that lay, framed in
sweat and bed sheets. Finally, I let loose my wild yawp, the kind of wail that
typically dispels that specter of love from the air. I rolled off of her, and
fell to her side, almost eager for the moment her princess withers and the
whore returns.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ When I woke up, she wasn’t in the bed
anymore. Shit, I thought, she probably got tired of waiting. Probably in the
other room, lounging around, waiting for me to come out with the cash, and get
her outta my door. I got up, my back crackling like a downtown New Year’s
night, and I sauntered to my dresser to find my roll of bills. My hand ran
along the top, feeling out some loose change, a watch, some brushes, and a
pocket knife. But I didn’t feel the roll. Shit, I thought. Meant I had to open
my eyes, wake my ass up, and do an actual search. Son of a bitch. I pressed my
palms into the concave trenches of my eyes, and ran my hands down my cheeks,
opening to the sizzling dawn, where the light leaks through the shades just
enough to disorient you. I looked all along the top of the dresser, but
couldn’t find the roll anywhere. Damn it, I thought, where is it? I started to
get nervous.
Did I spend it, and
forget I had? What am I gonna do about Chloe if I haven’t got the scrap to pay
her? She’ll be furious with me if I don’t give her the money. Then she’ll never
come back, she’ll refuse to see me again.
My head was whirling
with the shrapnel of nervous thought, those little blips of fear overlapping
each other so that no concern is ever really thought out. Just biting little
worries that cut at you like the lash of branches when you rode your bike too
close to a bush as a kid. I gotta find this money, I screamed in my head. I
probably just put it somewhere else, I couldn’t have spent it. I wouldn’t have
ordered a girl if I didn’t have the money, would I? Dumb bastard, I realized,
of course you would’ve. You’ve done it before. Use the money to eat, to buy a
new album, get some paint, then call over the girl, then stiff her twice; once
in bed and once with the bill. She storms out pissed, and then you just sit on
the floor and wait for some big guinea bastard to burst in the door and knock
you around for a bit, “teach you a lesson.” Pull this trick two or three times
and the place will stop answering your calls. But that’s the beauty of a free
market. There’s always somewhere else to go.
There was no money in
the bedroom. Not anywhere. Shit, I thought. Coulda sworn I had it. Swore there
was a roll on my dresser.
I finally settled on
the fact that there was no cash here, but I had a couple hundred in the bank.
I’d get Chloe, tell her she had to come with me to the bank, I’d get her the
money, and hell, I’d even toss in a little extra for her troubles. Might be the
first time a guy ever tipped a whore, I chuckled. Then I stopped. Why would I
say that? Why would I call Chloe a whore? After she comes here for me, talks
with me, laughs at my idiot jokes, brings me to life for a few sweet moments, I
call her a whore? I act like she’s some common street trash? I was disgusted
with myself. I gotta make it up to her, I thought. Even though she doesn’t know
I said it, I’ll still feel guilty if I don’t do something. I know, I thought,
I’ll take her out for breakfast after we hit the bank. That’d be good, getting
her a nice meal, if she hasn’t already raided my kitchen, helped herself to a bountiful
array of Spaghetti-Os and Ramen. My whole pad, from sink to shitter, was a
hellhole. The more I thought about it, the more furious I became with myself
for not even thinking to clean the place up before Chloe got here. By now she’d
seen the place, and regardless of our night together, she’d look it over and
decide I was just like all the rest. A disgusting, slut fucking bastard. The
kind of guy you don’t bat an eye at, let alone come back to. I had hoped to get
up before Chloe, fix the place up, maybe even run down and get some decent food
for breakfast. I was going to, but I had such a sound sleep, and a good night’s
sleep in New York
is a commodity you cling to. How could I have been so selfish? After everything
Chloe and I shared last night, I couldn’t scrounge together the most minimal
morning hospitality? That’ll be the kind of thing she’d notice, I knew. She was
sharp. I was sure Chloe was just gonna take the money and run, and never look
back. I’d just fucked up the best thing to come along in years.
For a moment, my mind
jumped back to college, in that way that whole years can splatter across the
mind’s screen for a flash, then drip down and disappear, slipping away in a
sigh. Sitting on the lawn at 4 in the morning, watching the soft, white rivers
of smoke drizzle upward, dancing in the starlit sky, intertwining and swaying.
Being to that brim of intoxication you can only get in college, where you just
drift, serene, filled with every answer in the world, but so confident you
didn’t even wonder about one for proof. That night, the moment subconsciously
relevant to me, an observation was made. That kind of stoner drivel that gets
spouted out by your typical literary smoker. Little proses here and there,
falling out in between guffaws and gas. On this night, someone on the lawn, who
it was I don’t know, as I was too caught up in the smoke ballet, someone said
“Love is sand. Sand on a beach. Little, individual specks of it are unnoticed
alone, but together make up almost the entire world. Some people make something
out of it, some people walk all over it, but almost everyone encounters some
small amount of it in their lifetime. And if you try and grab hold of it, it
will just slip through your fingers.” I remember us all saying how insightful
that was, and then returning to the topics of Fassbinder, and which professors
we’d want to nail.
Why did I suddenly
think of that? I wondered. What bearing did some off-handed statement about
love have on me losing Chloe to that disgusting phonebook brothel? I tried to
think, and drummed my fingers on the dresser, which reminded me that I’d still
left Chloe waiting out there. I’d have to just walk out to her, tell her I
didn’t have the money, then put the bank and breakfast offer out there, and see
where it went. Hopefully she’d agree. But what if she didn’t? I feared. What if
she was furious with me? After all, she’d come here, trusted me, and I was
practically betraying her, shattering our unspoken promise. I didn’t want to
see her angry. I couldn’t stand to see that perfectly crafted face red with
wrath. I’d sooner die then be caught in that torrent of insults and accusations
that flood out during lovers’ spats. But even that would be better than seeing
her upset. To see her delicate chest heaving with sobs. I may have deprived her
of the money needed to support her sick mother, or help raise some disabled
sibling she was sure to have. Why else would she be forced to do such loathsome
acts for disgusting bastards like me? And more important, how would I ever get
her to trust me after this indiscretion, this indignation, this insult? I was
almost relieved when, slowly opening the door with a crackle like the tearing
of a box-cutter through some ill-conceived canvas monstrosity, I saw that Chloe
wasn’t there.
It was certain to me,
at that moment, that what Chloe and I shared was equally felt. What had
occurred this morning transcended luck. It seemed almost fate that Chloe had
been so satisfied, so enamored with that night we’d had, that she left without
even taking the money I didn’t have in my possession to pay her. Now it was
clear I wasn’t just grasping at wisps of hope. Chloe felt a connection as well.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
It finally hit me,
while I was sketching out my best recollection of Chloe’s left cheek. It’d been
a week since Chloe and I had made love, and I couldn’t understand why she
hadn’t tried to get in touch. I knew she felt the same ardor I did, so why wouldn’t
she come back to me? But in that moment, sketching the expression of
disinterest she had on her face, the mask she wore to hide her love, I realized
it. She was afraid. Afraid to fall in love. Afraid to give herself over to
someone like me. It was so beautifully operatic, in a way. She lived a life
where she couldn’t fall in love, and yet here, this one night, by sheer fate,
she’d fallen in love with an impoverished artist. To be in love would end her
life as she knew it, and she’d be stuck living in this disgusting hell-hole my
jobless ass could do no better than. It disgusted me that I’d even considered
asking Chloe to move in here the next time I saw her. She deserved so much
better. A better place than this, and a better man than me. But after that
night, I knew I was the one she chose. After she left without the money or even
a moment’s goodbye, I know she just had to get away before she fell even deeper
in love with me. She couldn’t afford to fall in love with a man who had no
future. I needed to convince her I had one. I needed to show her my love for
her meant more than my absurd artistic dreams.
I tore through the
phone book until I found the number, each page crashing like a wave onto the
last, the sound of flapping in rhythm with my racing pulse. In the few seconds
it took me to reach for the phone and dial the numbers, I’d played out a
thousand conversations, how I’d convince her to come back, how she’d beg me to
love her until the day we died, how I’d tell her she didn’t have to ask. It’s astounding
how those movie clichés are all true, once you’ve finally fallen in love. The
receiver buzzed with a torrid centrifuge of rings, buzzes, and hums. God damn
busted phone. Anxiety makes you notice the most minute flaws in anything. Your
mind is somehow racing while surveying every detail with an eagle’s eye.
I pictured myself
wandering down a highway, the land on either side barren. Each ring on the
receiver a blast of airborne sand in the wind, burning my face. I saw myself
trudging through the torrential sandstorm, to rescue Chloe from her life of
squalor and suffering.
Pulled from my
daydream, a gruff voice finally answered. “Whatchoo want?” the man grumbled,
almost angrily. The voice was different than the one that answered last week.
“I’d like to speak to Chloe please.” I said, holding my breath, waiting to hear
the joy in her voice. Calling like this would show I cared as much for her as
she did for me. Maybe this call was all it would take for Chloe to come back to
me, I thought. “Hold on.” the man said. I heard the click, and tried to imagine
the man on the other end, who I envisioned as the type of large, black man who
had nowhere to go after college football, going to Chloe’s room, knocking on
the door and saying “It’s him!” I can see the disbelief in her eyes, not sure
if it’s a dream, leaping with child-like joy off of her chair to dash to the
phone, and hear the voice her heart’s been crying for.
“There ain‘t no Chloe
here.” the gruff voice returned to say. My vision went black. What had I done?
How could I have been so stupid, to believe she’d want to see me again? “What?”
I cried out, before I could even stop myself “Listen, I know Chloe’s there. I
called here a week ago, and she came to my apartment.” I quickly spurted out
the address, the time, every detail I could remember, hoping to God something I
said would bring my Chloe back. “Listen, I told you, there ain‘t no Chloe
here.” he replied, his voice peaking with irritation. He must think I’m one of
those obsessed clients, who stalk the girls and make them scared. “Is it
because of the money? It is, isn’t it?” I start off on a nervous tangent, the
words not even crossing my mind before they slobber out of my mouth. “Because I
swear, I thought I had the money when I called. When I woke up, she was already
gone, so I couldn’t explain. She must’ve seen there was no money, and got upset
that I’d lie to her like that. I just wanna tell her I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.
Please, tell me there’s something I can do.”
There was another
pause on the other end. I gathered he was just now coming to understand why
Chloe must have been upset. “Now, hold up,” he said, slowly “You saying you
think she mad ‘cause you didn’t got no money? That she got pissed and took off?
You tryin’ to apologize and shit?” I took a deep breath, knowing I had to be my
sincerest, show him I meant to do right by Chloe. “Yes.” I said, “I was hoping
I could speak to her and explain. When I woke up, she was gone and there was no
money. I guess she woke up before me, saw it wasn’t there, and felt I’d done it
on purpose. I swear I’m not that type of guy. I want to make it up to her.
Please.”
Yet another pause.
“Hold on. I’ma go check if she’s around.” He‘d obviously realized I was a
better man than he‘d taken me for. While he‘d put down the phone to try and
explain to Chloe the situation, I couldn‘t help feeling a little assured that
everything would be ok. Perhaps it was too soon to fantasize of the future, but
who hasn‘t been guilty of some preemptive planning at some point or another? At
about the point that Chloe and I were at our son‘s first soccer game, the phone
shook and I was jolted back to reality by a gruff yet now slightly jovial
voice.
“Well, no wonder she’s
upset. Look at your broke ass, trying to pull one over on a sweet young thing.”
God, I felt so ashamed. “She’s upset?” I said. “Yeah, she been ballin’ her eyes
out for days now. How could you pull that kinda shit? Get a fuckin’ job, man.”
That was it. I had to get a job. I had to show Chloe that I could make something
of myself. That I had a future. But I couldn’t wait to see her. So I asked the
man on the phone to relay what I was about to say to Chloe, seeing as his voice
was now that of a man who fully understood the situation.
“I swear I’m going to
get a job. I’ll get a job for Chloe. Today. I’m gonna go out today; go up and
down every street and avenue. I don’t care what I have to do. I’m gonna get a
job, and then Chloe’ll have to believe I want to do what’s right, and give her
everything she deserves.” The man on the other end paused again. I was sure he
was rethinking me, realizing I never meant to hurt Chloe. “You gonna go out all
day, find yourself a job, huh?” he laughed. Why would he ask that? I wondered.
It sounded as if he was repeating my words to someone else. Jesus, I thought,
how could I have been so stupid? Obviously Chloe was there, too afraid to speak
to me, still too hurt to try and trust me again. But if so, why would it matter
to her if I was going to be out all day or not, I wondered. That’s when it all
came together in my head.
“Shit. What if she
forgives me and wants to see me? I hadn’t even thought of that. Look, here’s
what I’ll do. I’m sure she must feel awkward, after misreading me like that,
thinking I’m some kind of bastard. So here’s what I’ll do. I’m gonna leave the
spare key to my apartment under the doormat.” I felt like a grade school
teacher, shutting their eyes in front of the class so their chalk would get
returned. “It’s for Chloe, that key. If she wants to come in and wait for me,
she can. If not, I understand. Just let her know the option’s there.” I said,
feeling like I’d wrapped up everything neatly. Finally, I’d sorted this whole
thing out. I’d done everything I could. Now the choice was hers. Never has a
thought terrified me more.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The heel of my shoe
seemed to squeak on the small metal chair leg on every third or fourth bounce
of my knee. To my right was a little wooden table, and on it was a glossy
little man on his glossy little skis, careening down some mountain I didn’t
care to know about, but almost picked up just to distract myself from the
receptionist. This was the fifth office I’d been at, and I’d noticed the
receptionists getting worse and worse. This one, I assumed, must have had a
mother who worked at a zoo. There was no way the girl’s voice could squawk like
that, and not be the result of human-penguin relations. But the braying laugh
suggested some donkey far back in the bloodline. It’s always amazed me how
these women can all have the same conversation of “What? No…no…there’s no
way…she did?…Really?…no…” 5 minutes in you want to get up and say “Look, I
don’t even know what she’s saying, and I already get that it happened!”, but of
course you don’t. You just sit there and wait, wait out the long conversation
about something that’s guaranteed to matter not in the least in the grand
scheme of the world, and feel a little saddened that this ignorant girl checking
her nails has no idea that she is at the center of a pivotal moment in your
life.
Finally, after an hour
with the squeaking chair, the squawking girl, and the ambient noise of “today’s
hits and yesterday’s classics”, she gave me the application, and told me to
fill it out except for the last page. That infuriated me. Here I was, a huge
moment in my life, trying to start anew, build a new life for me and Chloe, and
these people didn’t even care enough to take the unnecessary page off?
I had to reassure
myself, “Look, just fill it out, get the job, then Chloe’ll take you back, and
it’ll all be ok.” So I fill out every line, name, address, date of birth, etc.
I keep glaring into the little metal clip on the clipboard pinning the
application down. I’ve noticed that if you have blue eyes, like I do, they get
brighter when you’re happy. I hadn’t seen bright eyes in a while. It was a nice
feeling. I’m sure it’s something Chloe’ll notice as soon as I get home, I
thought.
And that was it.
“Shit!” I thought “What if she’s there already?” All these little things were
prying at my mind, trying to distract me. It was like the city was trying to
test me, trying to make me prove how badly I wanted her. Well, that was it. I
raced through the papers, practically throwing them at the girl, and ran back
to my apartment. The blocks rolled by like freight trains, as I weaved my way
through the mass of bustling nothingness, and finally, I was at my door, and
out she walked.
She seemed stunned to
see me. I guess she’d given up on me. She’d been waiting there for who knows
how long, and now, just as she’d given up hope, I was there. Our eyes locked in
a pale fire of blue and green, and for a few brief moments the city slipped
away, and she and I were truly, and utterly alone. Life is only truly lived
when it all slips away except for one other person.
In a flash, the world
came back. “Listen, I…I gotta go” she said. I was speechless. “Just…don’t try
to call for me. Don’t do a god damn thing”. And that was the last thing I ever
heard from Chloe. She took off down the block, and it felt like the light, the
air, the noise, it all went with her.
I realized she did
what she had to. I always knew in the back of my heart that she wanted a life
together, but she couldn’t. She’d been fighting it all this time, and finally,
that night, she came, and realized that she couldn’t handle the life I was
offering her. I was hurt. I was sickened. This life she’d chosen, it had pulled
her in, tricked her into believing it was all she deserved.
As soon as she walked
away I stumbled through the door, drained, but sure she’d soon realize that I
didn’t care who she’d been or what she’d done. That I would always love her.
That it would all be ok. I was grateful she’d left the door open, as I didn’t
then have the energy to even dig for my key and open it. I knew she’d be back.
I could just feel it. I walked into my bedroom, though it could hardly be
called that, as everything was gone since I’d left, the bed, the dresser, it
was only white walls. I had no doubt that everything would work out ok. I just
knew it. I walked into the living room, and would’ve laid down on the couch if
it were still there. In stead, I walked over to the window. The breeze felt
warmer tonight. It seemed to envelope me. I just stood by the window all night,
thinking about Chloe, picturing what she’d be wearing, what she’d say, how
she’d smile, every detail of what it would be like when I opened the door to
find her there again. You know, that’s the incredible thing about love. You
know you’re in love, because you feel like, for the first time in your life,
you’re doing something right.
I stared out that
window, and remembered the first night I moved in here. It looked exactly like
it did now, no furniture, nothing. Just this window. And I would just stare.
Back when I used to have people over I’d stare out this window, and would swear
to everyone that I could see Empire, Chrysler, World Trade, every building in New York. Anybody else
who came to that window said I was just tricking myself, that from here you
couldn’t see anything but the building next door. But I knew I was just seeing
what no one else could.
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