Miss You Beautiful
Feels like I've been everywhere in Saint Louis tonight. I've pulled into the parking lots of every school I've ever gone to, driven past every restaurant where the food blew my mind, walked through every park where I fell in love more than twice. But still, there's something I feel like the night's missing. Maybe it just feels like it should be later than this. I mean, you just shouldn't be able to condense twenty years of living into a two hour traipse around town...
I'm sitting at a red light at Gravois and Arsenal, maybe a block from my house, and I look over and see a woman in an orange tank top and blue jean shorts, standing near the corner with a backpack. I watch her for a minute; she catches my eye, and I smile. I'm not trying to creep her out, I just want to look at her. She's kind of plain, I guess; hard to tell that much about her, given the distance and the lighting and whatnot. She looks bored, and kind of tired, and I guess that makes sense if you're standing on a street corner waiting for somebody at ten-thirty. And it occurs to me- and I grant this is kind of a strange conclusion to leap to, but whatever- it occurs to me that probably not that many people tell her she's beautiful. And yeah, despite everything I just said, she is, in her own way. I ought to roll down my window and tell her, “miss, you’re beautiful.”
Light turns green. I pull away, but I see her standing there in my rear-view mirror. Hell, it's not like I've got anywhere to be... My house is empty. So I turn right and right again and find myself back on Gravois, and I look around for her. She's gone, though. Fuck. I keep driving forward and head down into another one of the great valleys of the city. I’m in one of those bizarre moods where I’m tired but sleep is the last thing on my mind, so I keep driving and before I know it, I’m downtown.
Downtown St. Louis is kind of strange to me. I’ve lived in the city my whole life, you see, but I never have any reason to go downtown except occasionally to visit some museum or the central library- and that’s not very often, because I’m afraid of libraries. I’ll have to tell you about that sometime. I turn onto Washington, which is this trendy part of town these days, with lit-up dividers in the middle of the road so that it sparkles at night- and I’m thinking about that woman back on Gravois and kicking myself. I should have said something. It sounds stupid- what, am I expecting that it would change her life if some random punk rolled down his window and mumbled something before speeding off downtown?- but I should have said something.
I never say anything. Never. You already know that, though.
It’s eleven. I think I left Jack’s around nine. Two and a half hours? I’ve been driving around for that long?
I know, I know, I know. I’m just tired and I should go home and go to bed- like that’s going to happen- but I can’t get over that woman on the corner. Or rather, I’m mulling over why I didn’t say anything. I’m not even thinking about her at this point, am I? Was I ever?
I’m thinking about you. I’m always thinking about you.
Always.
Fuck.
What am I supposed to say? Am I supposed to drive by your house? I don’t even know if you live there anymore. Am I supposed to just find some other woman walking down the street and yell it out to her, telling myself that’s all I wanted to do, and go home and watch a movie and pretend like that’s all I want? Am I supposed to call you, just to hear you breathe?
Fuck.
Just… Fuck.
I turn around and drive back towards the house. I should have stayed at Jack’s, I know that now, but it’s too late. He’s probably in bed. Too bad.
I get to my block and I see a woman walking down the street, kinda chunky, looks Latino in the orange lights. She smiles at me, and it’s nice, and I almost roll down the window and yell it to her- but I don’t. I never do. I pull up in front of the house, get out, walk up the concrete path to my door. I’m fishing around for my keys and I feel my phone instead, and like I’m a mannequin, I find myself taking it out, flipping it open, scrolling down to your number…
And then it falls to the ground, clatters, smashes against the concrete.
I don’t say anything, until I kneel down to sweep up the broken pieces of the phone. Your number was in there. I never wrote it down. Maybe you didn’t even have it anymore, but it was always nice to have it, just to pretend…
What’s the point of writing this? Damned if I know. I don’t know why I needed the rest of this at all. You know what I’m trying to write here. You’ve known it for years.
I miss you, beautiful.
Always will.
I'm sitting at a red light at Gravois and Arsenal, maybe a block from my house, and I look over and see a woman in an orange tank top and blue jean shorts, standing near the corner with a backpack. I watch her for a minute; she catches my eye, and I smile. I'm not trying to creep her out, I just want to look at her. She's kind of plain, I guess; hard to tell that much about her, given the distance and the lighting and whatnot. She looks bored, and kind of tired, and I guess that makes sense if you're standing on a street corner waiting for somebody at ten-thirty. And it occurs to me- and I grant this is kind of a strange conclusion to leap to, but whatever- it occurs to me that probably not that many people tell her she's beautiful. And yeah, despite everything I just said, she is, in her own way. I ought to roll down my window and tell her, “miss, you’re beautiful.”
Light turns green. I pull away, but I see her standing there in my rear-view mirror. Hell, it's not like I've got anywhere to be... My house is empty. So I turn right and right again and find myself back on Gravois, and I look around for her. She's gone, though. Fuck. I keep driving forward and head down into another one of the great valleys of the city. I’m in one of those bizarre moods where I’m tired but sleep is the last thing on my mind, so I keep driving and before I know it, I’m downtown.
Downtown St. Louis is kind of strange to me. I’ve lived in the city my whole life, you see, but I never have any reason to go downtown except occasionally to visit some museum or the central library- and that’s not very often, because I’m afraid of libraries. I’ll have to tell you about that sometime. I turn onto Washington, which is this trendy part of town these days, with lit-up dividers in the middle of the road so that it sparkles at night- and I’m thinking about that woman back on Gravois and kicking myself. I should have said something. It sounds stupid- what, am I expecting that it would change her life if some random punk rolled down his window and mumbled something before speeding off downtown?- but I should have said something.
I never say anything. Never. You already know that, though.
It’s eleven. I think I left Jack’s around nine. Two and a half hours? I’ve been driving around for that long?
I know, I know, I know. I’m just tired and I should go home and go to bed- like that’s going to happen- but I can’t get over that woman on the corner. Or rather, I’m mulling over why I didn’t say anything. I’m not even thinking about her at this point, am I? Was I ever?
I’m thinking about you. I’m always thinking about you.
Always.
Fuck.
What am I supposed to say? Am I supposed to drive by your house? I don’t even know if you live there anymore. Am I supposed to just find some other woman walking down the street and yell it out to her, telling myself that’s all I wanted to do, and go home and watch a movie and pretend like that’s all I want? Am I supposed to call you, just to hear you breathe?
Fuck.
Just… Fuck.
I turn around and drive back towards the house. I should have stayed at Jack’s, I know that now, but it’s too late. He’s probably in bed. Too bad.
I get to my block and I see a woman walking down the street, kinda chunky, looks Latino in the orange lights. She smiles at me, and it’s nice, and I almost roll down the window and yell it to her- but I don’t. I never do. I pull up in front of the house, get out, walk up the concrete path to my door. I’m fishing around for my keys and I feel my phone instead, and like I’m a mannequin, I find myself taking it out, flipping it open, scrolling down to your number…
And then it falls to the ground, clatters, smashes against the concrete.
I don’t say anything, until I kneel down to sweep up the broken pieces of the phone. Your number was in there. I never wrote it down. Maybe you didn’t even have it anymore, but it was always nice to have it, just to pretend…
What’s the point of writing this? Damned if I know. I don’t know why I needed the rest of this at all. You know what I’m trying to write here. You’ve known it for years.
I miss you, beautiful.
Always will.