Distance
I tried to keep time with my feet. Pounding the rhythm into the sidewalk. That song I knew but couldn’t remember. I stumbled once and felt it slip away, passing cars and the change in my pockets drowning any chance of knowing.
I was conscious of walking up his street and the excuses I was already feeding myself for doing so. I was always curious about the distance between our homes. How many steps it would take from his walkway to mine. The route he took, what he saw walking to my backdoor.
I stopped across from his house, fumbled to light a cigarette. I sat on the curb and stared up at his darkened window. Wondered if he was dreaming. I wanted him to look. Wanted him without sleep thinking of me although I knew it to be unlikely. I wondered if he held her while they slept.
Earlier that night, I sat in the bar beneath a poster proclaiming a gig for his band, now two weeks passed. I ordered another beer trying not to look at his blurred photocopied likeness while my best friend laughed at the absurdity of the entire situation. I ordered a rye so as not to tell her what I had done that night when I heard he was playing. How I had spent the evening in the coffee shop on the corner, pretending to study while watching for his inevitable trip outside for a toke. I repeatedly ducked out for a cigarette heart pounding, practicing my surprised expression. No, I didn’t know they were playing. And yes, I would love to come in and watch. Half a pack and my plan hadn’t worked. I would walk by the bar and peek in the window but when I got there, I panicked and kept walking to my car. I drove by four times but didn’t see him. After the fifth, I kept driving. I drove for an hour along a dark two lane highway before I realized that I didn’t know where I was going and turned around.
His house looks different at night time. His daughter’s tricycle tucked into a corner, not toppled at the top of the steps as it was that afternoon months earlier. That pink tricycle with a pink basket and pink streamers bright in the sun, holding my gaze while I had waited for him to open the door. In the living room, I searched for pictures; I searched for her, but nothing. Blank walls. I thought about leaving with each step that led me deeper into the house. Lying in the bed, moments later, tasting myself on his lips my objections caught in my throat and all I knew was that I loved the way he smelled and the softness of his hair beneath my hand. All I knew was that my name was prettier when he said it.
It started to rain but I didn’t move. A car slowed and asked if I was okay. When I answered that I was the driver took off seemingly unsure but not wanting to get too involved. It was okay, I told myself, I didn’t believe me either. My damp hair now clung to my head and I wiped the mascara from my cheek. On the porch, his fat calico huddled under the tricycle and I wondered if he loved the cat as he loved me - close by but not inside. He had told me once that he was falling for me. It was after last call, parked in an empty lot. He reclined in the passenger seat while my fingers fumbled with his belt and he said it again. But he told me he loved her too. And his children. I said I didn’t doubt the he did while his fingers, more skillful than mine, removed my bra.
The rain seeped through each layer of my clothing and I remembered what it felt like lying in his bed, naked and damp with sweat. I stretched out on her side of the bed and watched his lips curl into a smile while he shut his eyes, just for a moment. I rested my head on his chest and listened to his breathing slow to normal, the sun peeking around the edges of his makeshift blind. I had wanted him to sleep. I wanted to curl my body next to his. I wanted him to gently kiss me awake and tell me how beautiful I looked while I slept. He said I should be going. I needed to leave so he could clean before they came home. He watched me dress. Said he spent hours thinking about my hips, my perfect breasts. When I blushed, he said he was lucky to have me then guided me down the stairs and out the backdoor. Told me to move quickly so the neighbours wouldn’t see.
I rose to go home and thought about that night he tried to teach me to jive. I sang to myself as that misplaced song returned. Up on your feet, you can’t be beat. You’re a good rockin’ daddy. I danced myself to his side of the street and slowly mounted the porch. I knelt before the tricycle, and kissed the sleeping calico on the head. I sang my way home, tripping down the narrow lane. Key in the door I stopped. 217 steps.
I was conscious of walking up his street and the excuses I was already feeding myself for doing so. I was always curious about the distance between our homes. How many steps it would take from his walkway to mine. The route he took, what he saw walking to my backdoor.
I stopped across from his house, fumbled to light a cigarette. I sat on the curb and stared up at his darkened window. Wondered if he was dreaming. I wanted him to look. Wanted him without sleep thinking of me although I knew it to be unlikely. I wondered if he held her while they slept.
Earlier that night, I sat in the bar beneath a poster proclaiming a gig for his band, now two weeks passed. I ordered another beer trying not to look at his blurred photocopied likeness while my best friend laughed at the absurdity of the entire situation. I ordered a rye so as not to tell her what I had done that night when I heard he was playing. How I had spent the evening in the coffee shop on the corner, pretending to study while watching for his inevitable trip outside for a toke. I repeatedly ducked out for a cigarette heart pounding, practicing my surprised expression. No, I didn’t know they were playing. And yes, I would love to come in and watch. Half a pack and my plan hadn’t worked. I would walk by the bar and peek in the window but when I got there, I panicked and kept walking to my car. I drove by four times but didn’t see him. After the fifth, I kept driving. I drove for an hour along a dark two lane highway before I realized that I didn’t know where I was going and turned around.
His house looks different at night time. His daughter’s tricycle tucked into a corner, not toppled at the top of the steps as it was that afternoon months earlier. That pink tricycle with a pink basket and pink streamers bright in the sun, holding my gaze while I had waited for him to open the door. In the living room, I searched for pictures; I searched for her, but nothing. Blank walls. I thought about leaving with each step that led me deeper into the house. Lying in the bed, moments later, tasting myself on his lips my objections caught in my throat and all I knew was that I loved the way he smelled and the softness of his hair beneath my hand. All I knew was that my name was prettier when he said it.
It started to rain but I didn’t move. A car slowed and asked if I was okay. When I answered that I was the driver took off seemingly unsure but not wanting to get too involved. It was okay, I told myself, I didn’t believe me either. My damp hair now clung to my head and I wiped the mascara from my cheek. On the porch, his fat calico huddled under the tricycle and I wondered if he loved the cat as he loved me - close by but not inside. He had told me once that he was falling for me. It was after last call, parked in an empty lot. He reclined in the passenger seat while my fingers fumbled with his belt and he said it again. But he told me he loved her too. And his children. I said I didn’t doubt the he did while his fingers, more skillful than mine, removed my bra.
The rain seeped through each layer of my clothing and I remembered what it felt like lying in his bed, naked and damp with sweat. I stretched out on her side of the bed and watched his lips curl into a smile while he shut his eyes, just for a moment. I rested my head on his chest and listened to his breathing slow to normal, the sun peeking around the edges of his makeshift blind. I had wanted him to sleep. I wanted to curl my body next to his. I wanted him to gently kiss me awake and tell me how beautiful I looked while I slept. He said I should be going. I needed to leave so he could clean before they came home. He watched me dress. Said he spent hours thinking about my hips, my perfect breasts. When I blushed, he said he was lucky to have me then guided me down the stairs and out the backdoor. Told me to move quickly so the neighbours wouldn’t see.
I rose to go home and thought about that night he tried to teach me to jive. I sang to myself as that misplaced song returned. Up on your feet, you can’t be beat. You’re a good rockin’ daddy. I danced myself to his side of the street and slowly mounted the porch. I knelt before the tricycle, and kissed the sleeping calico on the head. I sang my way home, tripping down the narrow lane. Key in the door I stopped. 217 steps.