1st draft: 16 April 2008
unpublished
Paints her nails and cigarette filters the same sanguinary maroon. Loses men with a wink or smile. As she pleases. And knows nothing but the freedom of a breeze on which to burn or carry promises to those she’ll tomorrow forget. I know these things. First meeting. I’d like to think we have this much in common.
Sans farewell she leaves that night. We’ve yet to touch. Words forever fail me. Talked mostly of places our wandering souls had led us. Take now my usual inventory of experience—uppers, downers, workweeks, complaints. Swear to a neglected journal: “I’d be better off in a combat zone.”
Phone rings hours before dawn. She demands something better. “I’m rarely this bitter. Deliver something new.” Tempted to admit I’ve had enough self-conscious nonsense. Fail to say a word. “We’ll always be silent come morning,” she promises. A relieved click. She’s bad with goodbyes. Can’t sleep now. Guzzle yesterday’s coffee dregs, prepare for the day-long boredom of work.
Mail comes on time. A two-cent postcard from a stranger: “Life’s a rough draft a disgruntled deity wrote standing in a closet some Sunday long past. One trick is to never pretend it matters.”
Sitting on the hood of my car when I go to it, she says, “We should kiss now.” Nonchalantly boring. Instead of Let’s not and say we might have, I say nothing. From the passenger seat she says her name’s Natasha. Probably expects a sigh or anything from me. Playing too cool for that. Minimize emotion to maintain sanity: one survival method.
Leaves my car when I reach the workplace. Says she’ll try again later. “When the sky’s dark and the moon’s not empty.” Spend the day wondering where the world’s tears ever end up.
Something superior is her beauty. Lips full. Fuller from chest to hips. Not my first beautiful girl.
Don’t lock the door that evening. Don’t pick up the phone so she’s sure I’m home. Musical rum harmony keeps me company until her appearance. In a dress torn unapologetically with the stink of smoke and margaritas.
“Admittedly I fucked a slutty woman in a bathroom stall tonight,” she says. As if to tarnish an absent awkward suspense. “I’m not gay. You were thinking so.”
Alcohol spins clockwise. Conversation’s random and flirty. All but in my lap now, she speaks of pornography. This much I can tolerate. Her words are interesting and the liquor’s not in short supply.
“Is nudity acceptable here?” she wants to know.
“Mostly in the shower. Plus you smell of whores and tobacco.”
Most glorious shower of my life. Water turns cold with time. We’re still heated. Bedroom accommodates. Find it boring after our third or fourth go. Says she’s got a place with a balcony. I ask if we can go there next day. Responds, “I’ll be gone tomorrow. The west beckons. This town’s sickening me again.”
I drink stronger than before. “Did I wait too long to comfort you?”
“You’re only my newest memory. I think you knew that. Let us not be lazy now, it’s just two blocks.”
And so we proceed to the point of our faltering coffee-laden goodbye. Intoxicated, she hails her flight that Saturday breaking no promise.
Awake with a new standard for what love might evolve into.