Four
Four
One: Sight Out of Context
She didn’t belong in my neighborhood. Wait - that wasn’t fair. I was drunk, and I’d stumbled past my usual stops, into a bodega on the far end of the Village, so maybe I was in her neighborhood. It didn’t matter did it? She was there, where I didn’t expect her.
I’d seen her before in controlled circumstances - just around, at work, in the elevator, on a scene, around. Here, though, it was different. She looked different. As I leaned on the shelves full of overpriced booze, clutching the bottle I planned to take home, I watched her shop and got angry. It wasn’t fair, was it? That crappy little selection of meals-in-a-can she was going to heat up, the bits and pieces she was assembling to take home to eat by herself, it told me that she was going home in the dark like me, down a sidewalk full of other people who didn’t give a shit, up the stairs to nothing but a tv or maybe a magazine, only to pass out and start it all over again tomorrow. I knew that story from living it.
That was it, really, the unfairness of it, that made me speak up. “Buy you a drink?” I asked, waving the bottle. It startled her for a moment, and I could see that flash of annoyance before she recognized me, and even a moment after. Then she looked down at the basket full of lonely, hesitated and looked back, “Sure.” When I offered to make it a dinner, she threw in a smile.
It actually felt like we weren’t faking anything in the cramped little Chinese place. If you were passing by, you might have mistaken it for a regular date, what with talking and laughing, and only the occasional awkward moment. It wasn’t, though - between her and me, there was something off, which might have explained why we both took it for granted we were going back to my place and the whole premise of watching a movie was a lie. We never even turned on the television.
Two: Touch in the Dark
I was almost afraid to ask why she was doing this. I knew why I was - I’d been at it long enough to know my damage, and even if I hadn’t, I’d had my faults shrieked out at me by women on their way out the door plenty of times. Mr. Fun-for-now, that’s me, with a need to please until I want you to leave. Her? She needed…something, and I was worried it was just what I could give her. I didn’t want to be the lit cigarette, the point of the knife, the scarring edge pressed hard to the flesh, but I did, oh, I did. I asked all the right questions, and I made believe I was in control, then we played out the same old story on my sheets, full of some kind of desire to feel something, anything, to be needed, to fill some nameless missing thing in the heart of us. Well, that, and get off, which was also the goal.
Later that night, when I was sleeping next to her, I thought maybe I turned to her again, out of some kind of late-night desperation to cling to someone, pretending I had that right. Maybe it was a dream, maybe not, but if it was, in the dream, she let me, and this time, it was like we knew each other, like we were keeping the dark and the cold away.
Three: Sounds Like Goodbye
She was trying to be quiet about leaving, but it didn’t work. I heard the sound of her clothes, and the soft Spanish curse when she fumbled with her shoe. “If you wait,” I mumbled, “I’ll get you some coffee.” She couldn’t look me in the eyes at first, until I told her it was okay. How could I not? I’ve snuck out of enough places to know it’s not personal most of the time. This time wasn’t, she said, and it was just that she had somewhere to go, and this was good, we should do it again, and she’d call me, or I’d call her.
I agreed to all of that; no sense making it more awkward than I had to. Besides, I really wanted to see her again, and that meant that shutting my mouth and making the coffee was really my best bet. I look like shit in the mornings, anyway.
She drank her coffee, kissed me on the cheek and shut the door really softly, so softly I almost didn’t realize she was gone for a second.
Four: Taste - Bitter, Black and Done
I finshed my coffee alone on the couch while I looked out the window. I really like New York, but the gray sky was starting to get to me this year, making me think my age was affecting me at last. Things were starting to taste funny, too - yesterday, the coffee was fine.
One: Sight Out of Context
She didn’t belong in my neighborhood. Wait - that wasn’t fair. I was drunk, and I’d stumbled past my usual stops, into a bodega on the far end of the Village, so maybe I was in her neighborhood. It didn’t matter did it? She was there, where I didn’t expect her.
I’d seen her before in controlled circumstances - just around, at work, in the elevator, on a scene, around. Here, though, it was different. She looked different. As I leaned on the shelves full of overpriced booze, clutching the bottle I planned to take home, I watched her shop and got angry. It wasn’t fair, was it? That crappy little selection of meals-in-a-can she was going to heat up, the bits and pieces she was assembling to take home to eat by herself, it told me that she was going home in the dark like me, down a sidewalk full of other people who didn’t give a shit, up the stairs to nothing but a tv or maybe a magazine, only to pass out and start it all over again tomorrow. I knew that story from living it.
That was it, really, the unfairness of it, that made me speak up. “Buy you a drink?” I asked, waving the bottle. It startled her for a moment, and I could see that flash of annoyance before she recognized me, and even a moment after. Then she looked down at the basket full of lonely, hesitated and looked back, “Sure.” When I offered to make it a dinner, she threw in a smile.
It actually felt like we weren’t faking anything in the cramped little Chinese place. If you were passing by, you might have mistaken it for a regular date, what with talking and laughing, and only the occasional awkward moment. It wasn’t, though - between her and me, there was something off, which might have explained why we both took it for granted we were going back to my place and the whole premise of watching a movie was a lie. We never even turned on the television.
Two: Touch in the Dark
I was almost afraid to ask why she was doing this. I knew why I was - I’d been at it long enough to know my damage, and even if I hadn’t, I’d had my faults shrieked out at me by women on their way out the door plenty of times. Mr. Fun-for-now, that’s me, with a need to please until I want you to leave. Her? She needed…something, and I was worried it was just what I could give her. I didn’t want to be the lit cigarette, the point of the knife, the scarring edge pressed hard to the flesh, but I did, oh, I did. I asked all the right questions, and I made believe I was in control, then we played out the same old story on my sheets, full of some kind of desire to feel something, anything, to be needed, to fill some nameless missing thing in the heart of us. Well, that, and get off, which was also the goal.
Later that night, when I was sleeping next to her, I thought maybe I turned to her again, out of some kind of late-night desperation to cling to someone, pretending I had that right. Maybe it was a dream, maybe not, but if it was, in the dream, she let me, and this time, it was like we knew each other, like we were keeping the dark and the cold away.
Three: Sounds Like Goodbye
She was trying to be quiet about leaving, but it didn’t work. I heard the sound of her clothes, and the soft Spanish curse when she fumbled with her shoe. “If you wait,” I mumbled, “I’ll get you some coffee.” She couldn’t look me in the eyes at first, until I told her it was okay. How could I not? I’ve snuck out of enough places to know it’s not personal most of the time. This time wasn’t, she said, and it was just that she had somewhere to go, and this was good, we should do it again, and she’d call me, or I’d call her.
I agreed to all of that; no sense making it more awkward than I had to. Besides, I really wanted to see her again, and that meant that shutting my mouth and making the coffee was really my best bet. I look like shit in the mornings, anyway.
She drank her coffee, kissed me on the cheek and shut the door really softly, so softly I almost didn’t realize she was gone for a second.
Four: Taste - Bitter, Black and Done
I finshed my coffee alone on the couch while I looked out the window. I really like New York, but the gray sky was starting to get to me this year, making me think my age was affecting me at last. Things were starting to taste funny, too - yesterday, the coffee was fine.