Fugue

1.

Margarete plans to drink the water at nightfall. She looks down and envisions the grave she will carve. She will lie unconfined. A sibilant breeze ruffles her hair. It caresses her skin like the tongue of a lover; she imagines the water as a velvet embrace. Margarete stands on the precipice, her fall a foregone conclusion. She has no fears, no qualms, no hopes. Her face is a mask of resignation, her eyes opaque. Her hair is golden, a gilt frame for sunken cheeks. Even now, she is almost beautiful. A little life, and she would be beautiful. Margarete used to be beautiful.
There was a time when life was as open for her as a savannah at sunrise. She made the most of every opportunity, exceeded every expectation. Success was a fruit waiting to be plucked. Something got in the way, however. Things changed in her third year of college.

*

Weekday mornings were the only times it was possible to enjoy the outdoor seating at Maverick’s. Between the hours of seven and nine, dew remained trembling on the landscaped ferns and flowers, the sky slumbered in soft gray as the clouds phosphoresced, and most other regulars were in bed or class. The early air had a waning chill, the sleight of an October day that would end in a sludge of heat. Margarete and Sylvia, two girls in their early twenties, sat across from one another at a small table in a secluded corner of the garden, beneath an oak tree. A pair of coffee-cups and freshly lit cigarettes shared the space between them. A song played softly over the PA:
Sunday morning
Praise the dawning
It’s just a restless feeling
By my side
Margarete took her cigarette and tapped it twice on the rim of the ashtray before raising it to her lips. Her hands were thin, and the skin on her palms was as soft as tissue. Delicate and expressive, they fluttered when she spoke.
“I’ve been thinking about studying abroad next semester.” She inhaled strongly, then tipped her head back and emitted a thin, sharp stream of smoke.
Sylvia watched her friend and said nothing. Her warm caramel eyes were besotted with amusement, and the beginnings of a smile tugged at the corners of her glossed, pink lips. Margarete blinked a few times, then said impatiently:
“Well, aren’t you interested in where?”
Sylvia placed one dainty hand over her mouth and cleared her throat. “There ain’t no mystery to it, hon.”
Margarete’s eyes slivered. “Well, I think Paris would do me a world of good.”
“Hm . . . yeah,” Sylvia mumbled. Her eyes drifted away to follow the movements of a slim, young waiter who maneuvered between tables nearby, carrying a tray of dirty dishes. Margarete crossed her legs beneath the table and ashed her cigarette several times in quick succession.
“Did you hear what I said?”
“I’m sorry hon, I got distracted.”
“Well, what I said was that I think Paris would do me a world of good.”
A few more patrons had drifted into the garden. A young man with auburn hair wandered among the tables and stopped at one not far from Margarete and Sylvia. He placed his book and coffee down and sat. When his casual gaze panned over Margarete, his eyes widened slightly. He picked up his book and opened it to a dog-eared page; while reading he would, every few minutes or so, glance up at her. Margarete, staring intently at her friend, was oblivious.
“Do you even care that I’m leaving?” she asked in a low tone,.
“Sure I do, Marge,” said Sylvia. She took her cigarette from between her lips and looked at it perplexedly. “Goddamn thing went out. Let me borrow your lighter.”
Margarete sighed, pulled a lighter from her purse, and placed it firmly in front of Sylvia.
“Thanks hon,” Sylvia said, lighting the cigarette and taking a long, leisurely drag. “So, you’re going to Paris?”
“Yes,” said Margarete. She put out her cigarette and crossed her arms over her chest.
“Well, it’s about time, I suppose.”
Margarete waited for her to say more, and after a few moments of silence turned an empty gaze to the greater area of the garden. The café was filled mostly with people between the ages of sixteen and thirty, some hunched over books or laptops, or leaned towards a companion. A soft hum of conversation filled the air, mouths opened and closed while lips curved, hands gestured, fingers drummed on tables, all under a rapidly clearing sky and sunlight that bled into everything, blurring outlines and drenching the garden in color. A man in a rocker appeared to melt into the bush behind him, then reappeared whole as the chair rolled forward. The slim waiter wiped down a vacant table, bent at the waist, his greasy blonde hair falling over his face, torso translucent in a moistened wife-beater. A dark brown, ragged bird hopped towards Margarete’s foot, picking up crumbs with a decrepit grace. It emitted a shrill call, and Margarete kicked at it lazily.
“I need experience, you see,” she began again, turning towards Sylvia.
“And you certainly can’t find that here,” Sylvia replied, her lips curved in a wry expression.
“No . . . no, I can’t. Not the ones I want, at least.”
Both paused and took sips of their coffee. Margarete was the prettier of the two, though her shyness and apparent naivety often drove boys in Sylvia’s direction. She was slight and petite, with bobbed golden hair and moss green eyes. For clothing she preferred things that were loose and billowy, skirts, sarongs, and linen blouses. She kept her eyes on the ground when she walked, and carried her books against her chest. Sylvia was conventional in a counterculture sense. Her hair was also short, but dyed black, which accentuated her large, dark eyes and sensual mouth. She wore small, vintage t-shirts that drew attention to her flat stomach and narrow waist. When speaking, her eyes would drift away from her audience; when listening, she often wore a thin, ironic smile. Margarete hated when she adopted that look. She knew she wasn’t being taken seriously.
“It’s the heat, I think. It’s impossible for culture to exist in this humidity,” Margarete said, looking away.

Sylvia rolled her eyes and tapped her cigarette. “The weather is perfect here seventy-five percent of the time. More bands play here than any place ever. The people are the same wherever you go, and . . . “
She took a long drag and paused for emphasis.
“The one thing you’ll never leave behind is yourself.”
Margarete smiled and smoothed down her hair. “Where did you hear that, Psych. 301?”
“Yes, actually, it’s called acclimation. You should look it up.”
“I know what acclimation means,” Margarete said tersely.
“Well then,” Sylvia began, clasping her hands and leaning forward with a big grin, “you should know exactly how silly it is for you to think that a change of scenery will make you a better person.”
The sun had finished its ascent and sat complacent in the sky. In such heat it becomes easy to do nothing. Summertime in Texas, everything moves in slow motion. Even the flies wobble about drunkenly. Margarete and Sylvia drank iced coffee and sweated in the shade. Sylvia was small and brown and appeared more at home in the weather. Margarete was too pale to be a friend of the sun.
Margarete sat in silence and ruminated on what Sylvia had said. She brushed at a spot on the front of her blouse, and then placed her hands on the edge of the table. Sylvia watched her with an uneasy expression, worried she may have spoken too frankly. Suddenly, a smile broke onto Margarete’s face, and she looked at Sylvia with sparkling eyes.
“But what about the boulevards, the Seine, cafes, and museums? The cheap wine and artists’ markets?”
A soft smile swam onto Sylvia’s face as she settled back into her chair, elbow propped and cigarette poised. Margarete leaned forward, gripping the edge of the table.
“What of charismatic beggars and worldly prostitutes, lovers arm in arm and day-long strolls? What of Henry Miller, Gertrude Stein, Picasso, and Breton? What about them, Sylvia? Where are they in Austin, Texas?”
“Where are they in Paris, France?” retorted Sylvia. “Dead and in the ground. You’re wrapped up in a fantasy, Marge. That place doesn’t exist anymore.”
Sylvia ground out her spent cigarette and pulled a fresh one from their shared pack. Margarete, her face flushed, sat back and looked away to one side. The auburn haired young man was looking at her. She met his gaze absentmindedly, without recognition. A few moments passed.
“Well, it doesn’t matter. It’s what it represents to me that’s important. Even if it is a washed out fantasy land, it has to be better than this.”
Margarete reached for her cup, saw that it was empty, then placed it down again. Sylvia smoked in silence, her smile gone. A grackle hopped on the ground a few feet away. Feeling annoyed and exposed, Margarete glared at the bird. It cocked its head and emitted a squawk.

*

Margarete strolled around the gallery with a measured, insouciant air. She was surrounded by people – couples holding hands, students with notebooks, elderly men and women wearing headsets, many smiles and much whispered commentary. Tourists mixed about evenly with locals, and their facile eagerness met with occasional expressions of annoyance. A balding American, his short-sleeve button-up tucked neatly into his jeans, stepped in close to a painting. His position blocked the view of a spectacled Parisian, who gestured with both hands and shook his head in frustration. A young couple, leaning into one another with dreamy expressions, started violently at the sudden cry of an infant.
Margarete stopped before a Cezanne landscape and examined it with a frown. Next to her stood a white-haired lady in a sedate, blue dress, wistful expression on her face. Clean daylight fell down on them from windows set in the ceiling. Margarete, who had forgotten to check her bright red raincoat, bent slightly at the waist to focus on a small detail in the corner of the painting. The old woman stood erect, her watery eyes roving slowly back and forth over the entirety of the picture. Margarete, with an air of satisfaction, straightened and turned away.
To tell the truth, she had never much cared for Cezanne, but was almost converted after what she had seen the past couple of weeks. She loved how he bathed his landscapes in light, and yet maintained the firmness of his lines. The way the sun shone in the last painting reminded her of her first morning in Paris, when she woke early to stroll through the Jardin du Luxembourg. She would pass through there later on her way to class at the Sorbonne. Margarete smiled as she thought about the class. The most challenging aspect of it thus far had been finding the classroom. It seemed to her that the university anticipated the reason American students chose to study in Paris, and elected not to interfere with sightseeing by assigning homework or marking attendance. This suited Margarete just fine; she could spend more time soaking in the atmosphere, getting the most out of her experience. The more time she spent in Paris, reading Gallimard editions, smoking Gitanes, and drinking café au laits, the more she felt like a bonafide expatriate. She even began to carry a moleskine, in which she jotted her musings and the odd snatch of poetry.
Margarete stopped momentarily to admire a small Picasso. A man passing behind her noticed her raincoat and elbowed his companion with a snicker.
She passed into the next gallery, her mind wandering into plans for the evening. The waning of the Parisian day always filled her with excitement. She had first fallen in love with the city itself from looking at Brassai’s nightlife photographs. The air of mystery and depravity that pervaded the images of bars and fog-shrouded avenues had entranced her. Before she arrived, a part of her imagined it was always nighttime in Paris. While charming by day, the city became intoxicating at night, and when she walked the streets under lamplight, Margarete felt like a character in a novel. Nothing was impossible for her, no matter how outlandish it would have appeared to her back home.
She had just made up her mind to leave when she noticed a man staring at her from across the gallery. He was fortyish, handsome and well dressed. Intrigued and a bit self-conscious, Margarete pretended not to notice and turned to face the nearest painting. As she sensed his approach, the back of her neck grew hot. He stopped a few steps away and looked at the same painting, then nodded his head and made sounds of approval.
She glanced over at him. He said something without looking away from the painting. She laughed quietly and placed a hand over her mouth. He turned toward her, held out his hand, and said something else. She responded and placed her hand in his. He raised it to his lips. She blushed and looked around. The man leaned forward, still holding her hand, and whispered in her ear. Her blush deepened, and she looked down with a smile. The man pulled away for a moment, looked over his shoulder, and leaned quickly in again. She listened attentively to what he said, and an expression of alarm passed over her face. He took her other hand and said something else. She leaned back and laughed loudly, her eyes closed. He motioned with his head. She hesitated for a moment, then nodded quickly. They walked out of the gallery arm in arm.
Margarete had never understood ordinariness. The appeal of security, the lure of a steady job, steady life, steady love, all seemed pale and moribund to her, phenomena of a purgatorial existence. As her admirer led her into the museum men’s room, she caught a glimpse of herself in a large mirror that covered one wall: lightened blonde hair cut in a short, chic style; designer dress bought in a Parisian boutique and paid for by student loans. Her flaming cheeks added a touch of ebullience and vivacity to her features, and even the circles beneath her eyes added something like depth.
The man she followed was confident in his stride and impeccably well groomed. His peppered hair was freshly cut, and the hand that gripped Margarete’s was manicured and soft. They had introduced themselves on the way out of the gallery. His name was Claude, and he said he was an art critic.
Claude pushed open the door to an available stall and waved Margarete in with an extravagant gesture. She giggled and entered, then glanced over her shoulder for one final look into the mirror. She would later remember with a sweep of nausea the radiant, confident gleam in her eyes. Once inside, Claude shut the door and took her into his arms. He smelled of tobacco and aftershave, and his full lips glistened with spittle. Margarete noticed a small scar that descended from the corner of his left eye. He spoke with a heavy accent:
“You have never done something like this?”
Her heart skipped a beat. The sound of his voice so close, sonorous in her ear, filled her with desire. Claude grinned and revealed a row of large, white teeth. His hands slide down her back and squeezed her ass.
“Relax, ma chere,” he whispered heavily, “and let me show you pleasure.”
Margarete, breathing rapidly, felt the bulge of his cock against her stomach. Blood rushed to her head, and her legs began to quake. Without a thought, almost like a release, she feel to her knees and began to fumble with his belt.

*

Margarete sat alone at the kitchen table in her small flat and stared at an empty wine bottle. Her phone and a small piece of paper were before her. When she realized the number was fake, she had gotten violently sick. Then she had gone out and bought a bottle of wine. The alcohol failed to soothe her mind; neither did it dull the persistent ache that gnawed in her chest. For the first time since arriving in Paris, Margarete felt completely alone, abandoned even by her illusions.
A single lamp placed in a far corner did not reach her with its light. Margarete, cast in shadow, appeared ashen. Her left hand trembled where it lay on the table. She stared at nothing, her eyes dull stones. Beyond her window, like a starry sky reflected in a dark, still lake, the City of Light twinkled.

2.

Henry sat alone in his study. It was a beautiful day outside, but his shades were drawn, a lamp turned on. He stared ahead, mute and unresponsive to the sounds of children playing in the street. His face would be handsome if there were any life in it, if it wasn’t slack, waxen, the color of old linen. There was a bottle half full of amber liquid on the desk before him, with a half empty glass next to it. Drinking had made dulled the pain somewhat, and his guilt for this almost overwhelmed his feeling of loss. It was a sunny day outside, children were laughing, yet he sat alone in near darkness.
What were his thoughts?
Of another sunny day, over a year before. She had surprised hm for his birthday with a vacation. He had felt like the most important person in the world to warrant such effort, such expense. When she registered his shock, his joy at the surprise, her face lit up like a thousand candles, and as he kissed her he made a wish that if anything ever went wrong, and a day came when he no longer saw her smile, that he would remember her exactly as she was in that moment.
And so he did, because that morning she had surprised him again. He had woken up to find her gone.
It was a beautiful day, and outside there was laughter. Inside there was a man, and a note that explained nothing.

*

Henry and Karl sat on the patio at the Longbranch Inn, two beers and an overflowing ashtray between them. It was late afternoon, and the reclining sun blazed orange in the October sky. Henry lifted his drink, took a long swig, and placed it down again. His eyes turned away from Karl to the deserted street that the patio faced. Most people were still at work. Karl lit a cigarette and watched Henry.
“What’s on your mind, cap’n?” he asked, the cigarette jumping with each word.
Henry, still looking into the distance, took another drink, then cleared his throat.
“I’m wondering why this bar opens so early.” His voice, deepened by cigarettes, had slight rumble to it.
Karl grinned. “Well, it’s so losers like us can have a place to hang out. What else are we supposed to do when we play hooky?”
“We’re not playing hooky. We’re adults. We just chose not to go to class.”
“Well, call it what you want. If anyone asks, though, I was sick.”
“Sure.”
Henry lifted his burning cigarette from the ashtray and took a drag. He and Karl had known each other vaguely back in high school. When they both moved to Austin after graduation, they gradually became close friends, spending time together first out of necessity, then habit. Henry was tall and thin, with auburn hair and delicate features. His dark green eyes were often cast down, giving him a guarded, wary appearance. Karl was short, with broad shoulders and a stocky build. He kept his hair cut extremely short, and was never clean-shaven. While Henry paid a lot of attention to his appearance, Karl often appeared unkempt and slovenly, though his easygoing nature and boisterous laugh easily made him the more popular of the two. They were both in their fourth year at the University of Texas, and while they often hypothesized about what they might do after graduation, neither had any definite plans. They had not seen each very much the past semester, and when they were together, the space between them seemed shaded with sadness, as if they were in premature mourning for the imminent demise of their college selves.
“So,” Karl began, “met any girls lately?”
Henry smiled and turned to regard his friend. “Always with the girls. I don’t see how you get anything done.”
“Well, I don’t. But it’s because of the drinking, not the girls.” He tipped his beer and winked.
Henry chuckled and took a drag from his cigarette. “Actually, I did finally talk to that girl in my short story class.”
Karl drained his beer and tossed the empty into a nearby trashcan. “Really? Tell me about it.”
Henry ground his cigarette out slowly. “Well, you know how I saw her the other day at Maverick’s?”
“Yeah. She didn’t recognize you.”
“Right. And I thought to myself, ‘How is it that a person wouldn’t recognize someone with whom they had shared classes for three consecutive semesters?’”
“Uh-huh.”
“And it occurred to me, because people only see what they want to see.”
Henry paused and finished his beer, looking at Karl steadily in the eyes. Karl raised one eyebrow.
“Rrright. I’m gonna get more beers. Hold down the fort.”
Karl slid out of his chair and went inside the bar. Henry lit another cigarette and turned again to face the street. The sun sat heavy on the horizon, orange bursting vibrate in the sluggish air. Live oak and pecan trees, silhouetted against a flaming backdrop, hunched and brooded over the empty sidewalks. Often, at this time of day, Henry felt as if life was a sad charade, humanity a cast of two-bit actors with poorly memorized lines, marooned on a beautiful set-piece with no director or script. After all, for whom did the sun set with all the colors of flame and magisterial glory? Certainly not for him.
Karl returned with a pair of Lone Stars. He placed one before Henry.
“Here you go, bud.”
Henry turned to his friend and lifted the bottle in a gesture of comradery.
“Cheers,” said Karl. “So, what do you mean, she only see what she wants to see?”
Henry puffed out his cheeks from a long drink and swallowed twice. “Not just her. Everyone. Me. You.”
“Well, her specifically, then.”
“I mean that she’s convinced herself that there are no people worth her time. In Austin, at least. So when one pops up, she refuses to see him.”
Karl smirked and pulled a cigarette from his breast pocket. “Sounds like she’s a fucking bitch.”
“She is. But I’m the same to a certain extent. We’re just picky.”
“But you’re not stuck up acting, man. You’re just awkward.”
Henry smiled and took another drink. “Thanks.”
Karl nodded and drew on his cigarette. When he spoke, a cloud of smoke erupted around his words. “Anyway, so what did you do?”
“Nothing. Until the next day in class. Then I talked to her. I figured it was time for her to see me.”
Karl’s face broke into a grin and he reached over to slap Henry’s shoulder. “Atta boy! You finally got some balls. How did it go?”
Henry reached over, pulled a cigarette from Karl’s pocket and lit it as he spoke. “It went well,” he mumbled, “I got her number.”
Karl’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “Oh yeah? Are you gonna call her?”
“I think so. I want to give it a few days, you know. So I won’t look desperate.”
“Right. Good idea.” Karl took a long drink, then burped loudly. A thirtysomething couple exited the bar onto the patio and occupied a nearby table. Henry’s eyes casually wandered over to them.
“So, how did it happen?”
The question hung in the air for a moment as Henry watched the couple without responding. Karl had gotten used to Henry’s lapses in attention, and knew he would simply have to wait for his friend to return to reality. Henry stared, his gaze hollow and distant, and Karl knew that he was no longer looking at the couple, but at his own image of them, the story he was writing about them in his head.
Henry saw them, the thin man with a mixed drink, the woman with a beer, seated across from one another and speaking relaxedly. They wore wedding bands, and could have been twins for their similarity of build and complexion. They about the same size, a face which lent the female an air of greater authority and vigour. Her mahogany hair fell in glossy waves about her shoulders, while on her face there existed a mixed expression of contentment and dreamy amusement. Her eyes were liquid pools of caramel complexity, from which radiated a healthful concern and bounteous love directed at the man who sat across from her. He had his back to Henry, though his posture and expression upon appearing were all that was needed to form a hypothesis of his character. There was a general frailty about him, the mark of a man who lives by his intellect rather than his hands. The lines on his face were worn as a burden, rather than a wound or mark of distinction. His hands were large, his long fingers moving slowly and constantly, as if engaged on the keys of a piano. His furrowed eyebrows and marked crows feet were the hallmark of an intense inward focus; his eyes, however, were a great joy to behold. They were not the cold, reptilian organs of a professional cynic or man of letters; they were the twins of his companion’s, warm, soft, wholly intent upon and reflective of her. Henry imagined that, in the privacy of their shared evenings, each was just as likely to be held as the other.
Henry turned back to Karl, smoothly disengaged from his reverie. “She read a story in class. I thought it was really great, so I approached her afterwards.”
“And then? Was she into you?”
“I think she was more flattered than anything. But she gave me her number.”
Karl clinked Henry’s bottle with his own. “Awesome. It’s about time, man. How long has it been for you, anyway?”
“Long enough,” replied Henry. He took a swig of beer and looked again at the couple a few tables away.

*

The Cloakroom Bar is set below street level, with a stairway leading down from the sidewalk and small, unlit sign. Inside, the only light came from the small lamps placed on each table, and an orange flicker teased the room like firelight on the walls of a cave. The place was almost always empty. Henry Morgan and Sophia Russell shared a small table against the wall. The only other person was the middle-aged bartender, a surly woman with dirty blonde hair who served people drinks like she was doing them a favor. She had performed many favors for Henry and Sophie that night. They sat across from one another, leaned forward, clasping hands, red-faced, shining eyed. They took turns talking in breathless voices.
“You just need to understand one thing, okay?” said Sophia.
“What’s that?”
Sophia paused and sighed through her nose, her big, wet eyes staring searchingly into Henry’s.
“That if we do this, it’s for keeps. I’m tired of messing around.”
“It’s what I want,” said Henry, squeezing her hands. “You’re what I want.”
The moment wavered in the half light, beautiful and bursting with sentiment, like the smiling face of a loved one seen through a veil of tears. Big wet drops slid down Sophia’s face, curving around the edges of her closed lip smile. Henry wore the frown he always wore when moved by something. He had met Sophia just a couple of weeks earlier. They had connected immediately. They were waiting for each other, it seemed. Henry had tired of playing the supplicant in his relationships. There had been Sharese, who refused to commit; Becky, who refused to give up drugs; Anna, who refused to invest emotionally. There had been the one night stands, Alyssa, Kate, Rebecca, who he couldn’t stand the sight of in the morning of ever after; the girls who led him on but never panned out, never called back, Carmen, Liza, Margarete. All the missed chances and might have beens. Now there was Sophia. She was pretty and smart. She said she loved him with tears in her eyes. That was all he needed.
“You’re what I want,” Henry repeated. He raised Sophia’s hands to his lips. She nodded her still smiling, wet face, and leaned across the table for a kiss.

*

Henry woke with a start, his eyes fluttering open to darkness. The digital clock on the nightstand read 4am. He was alone. It was the third night in a week she had not come home. A mixture of worry and anger began to sicken in his stomach, and he turned away from the clock to face the empty spot next to him. He knew he would not get back to sleep. That he even fell asleep was testament to his naivety. Ever since Sophia had met Claire, she had spent less and less time at home. Henry chalked it up to nerves about their looming wedding day. Cold feet. All the same, he felt something; a leaden anxiety weighed upon his heart and darkened his thoughts. That was silly, though. Claire and Sophia were just friends. Henry stared into the darkness, alone and unable to sleep. Soon the sun would rise. He would get out of bed, make coffee, and pace the floor. Somewhere across town, Sophia would open her bleary eyes, naked and hung over, already formulating a lie.

Ariel

Henry, a thirteen-year-old boy, sat upon the ground and crossed his legs Indian-style. From the interior pocket of his jacket he removed a small spiral-bound notebook and placed it open upon his right thigh. He leaned back against the concrete wall behind him and carefully flipped through the pages. Henry stopped at what looked like the most recent entry and spent some time reading it over. It covered one page front and back:

November 1, 2006
H. Morgan
South, Texas


Next year I should be a cowboy. It’d be easy to wear and I wouldn’t feel silly leaving the party to go get lunch. I can’t believe the gorilla won. People have neither taste nor imagination when it comes to costumes.

I need to write Kal a letter. She’ll be wondering why it’s taking so long. Ask her where she’s going for vacation this summer. It’d be neat if we could meet up. Tell her thank you for the stationery. Need to find her a present. I wonder, if we went to the same school, if we’d be friends. Probably not, she’d be a cheerleader or something, and wouldn’t know that I exist. She’d be beautiful and tall and tan, wearing her cheerleader outfit, jumping and yelling with a smile on her face, dating Brad or Tanner. They’d get drunk on Fridays and ride around town. I’m sick of writing letters.

Spaghetti would be good for dinner tonight. I should go with Mom to the store, to make sure she gets the right kind of cheese. Kraft is bullshit.

Maybe tomorrow I could sit under the bridge and write. After breakfast, make an early start of it, work until lunch, then read in the afternoon. I need to not watch cartoons. Breakfast, coffee, then outside for an early start. No more wasting time.

Words to look up:
Mutton
Cordial
Perfidy
Ambuscade


Henry pulled a plastic ballpoint pen from the hip pocket of his shorts, uncapped it, and began to write on the next page. He smoothed a small patch of ground in front of him and laid the notebook down, leaning forward in concentration.

November 2, 2006
H. Morgan
South, Texas


This morning I made eggs. They turned out well. The day has begun and so far I’m on track.

I must beware the perfidy of my desires, though.
Ambuscaded distractions might get the better of me.

I think stores should be closed on weekends. Everyone could have the days off, and no one would be tempted to shop. Shopping is stupid. Mom should read books instead of sale ads.

Today I will sit and write until I get hungry. Then I will go inside and read while Mom and Dad are at the flea market. I think I can get a lot done. Be sure to not allow Colby to come over. All Colby does is distract me. I’ve wasted too much time doing silly things. Video games have their time and place, but so does serious literary endeavor.


After making this last entry, Henry paused and thought for a long time, holding his pen close to the paper. He made the first mark for a new letter, and then abruptly stopped. A car passed over the bridge above him with a roar. The tires made three clicks as they coursed over the joiners.
Henry did not realize that he was being watched from a short distance away. About ten feet to his right, crouched among the weeds, a young girl steadily observed him. She had not been there when he arrived. It appeared that she was comfortable in her position, as she rested entirely motionless, like a cat about to pounce. There was nothing in her posture to suggest aggression, however, and the tilt of her head indicated curious engagement. Her eyes focused on Henry’s right hand as he held the pen poised above the paper, as if willing him to continue. She looked about twelve, though the intensity of her gaze belied such youth. Henry capped his pen, an action that caused her to rise slowly and move through the weeds toward him, stepping gingerly with bare feet. The only sound was the rustle of her cotton dress as she parted the stalks with sweeping motions.
Henry seemed oblivious of her approach until she stood directly beside him, at which point he closed the book and placed it and his pen on the ground to his left. They remained like this for a moment, the girl looking down at him with an expression of tenderness and concern, Henry focused on the spot where he had laid his accoutrements, mouth tight, eyes shaded. A breeze blew through the area beneath the bridge, ruffling the girl’s dress and tossing a few locks of hair across her face. The air carried with it a faint hint of lavender, and as the scent filled Henry’s nostrils he felt himself relax. He looked up at the girl.
“Do you mind if I sit?” she asked, inclining her head in a gesture of cordiality.
“No, but the ground’s kinda muddy,” Henry said, “and you shouldn’t get your dress dirty.”
“I don’t mind,” she replied. She sank to her knees next to him, settling down on her heels and tucking her dress underneath her legs. Her eyes never left Henry, and her soft expression remained unchanged. “How do you feel that you waste your time?” she asked.
“I’m not at this precise moment,” said Henry, “I’m listening to you.”
The girl placed her hands upon the tops of her thighs. Henry’s gaze traveled down to them. Her long fingers tapered to small nails that glimmered with a nacre-like iridescence. They caught a beam of sunlight, a third presence that had invaded their space and rested on the ground before them. Tiny particles of dust floated within the pale light, suspended between rising and falling like a dream that borders on the edge of wakefulness. Henry dipped one hand into the light up to his wrist, cupping his palm to scoop the golden effervescence. The dust shattered momentarily, as if shocked by the intrusion, before settling a moment later into the same half-stasis. The girl offered her hand with a movement as silent and graceful as the drift of a feather. Henry took it, pulling her hand from the light and covering it with his other.
“Sometimes I wonder how important I am to you,” said the girl in a voice that betrayed neither anxiety nor sadness. Her soft smile remained fixed. Between Henry’s two coarse, grubby hands, hers appeared impossibly white and fragile.
“Your hand looks like it’s made from porcelain,” Henry said, ignoring or not hearing her.
“Does it?” she asked, leaning forward, her face marked with an expression of intense interest.
“Yes,” he continued. “And your fingernails shine like mother-of-pearl.”
The young girl laughed, throwing her head back. “That’s wonderful,” she said. “What does my hair look like?”
Henry shifted his weight onto one hip and turned more fully toward her. He stared at her hair for a moment with a vague and dreamlike expression, his lips moving soundlessly.
“Does it look dark?” she said. “Dark as pitch? Dark as the blackest night?”
Henry looked at her. “No. It’s darker than that. It’s dark like the end of a highway on an unlit stretch of road. Darker than the other side of that even.”
The girl lowered her gaze.
“Darker than the inside of your eyelids. Darker than anything, dark as the space between the stars. Dark as the bottom of the sea.”
The girl looked up. She slid her hand free of Henry’s and placed it on top of his. He was chewing on his bottom lip while searching her expression, eyes no longer dreamlike, but feverish, darting over her features, as if seeing her clearly for the first time, as if creating her.
“Tell me more,” she said softly, “how else do I look?”
“You’re very pale. Your skin is in perfect contrast with your hair. You have big eyes, big brown eyes with beautiful lashes that sweep down like velvet curtains.”
The girl giggled. “Do they?”
“Yeah,” Henry continued, smiling, “and you have a small, oval face, with a nose that crinkles when you smile, and a left ear just so very slightly higher than your right.”
“I have lopsided ears!” the girl said with a laugh. “When did you first notice?”
“The day that we met, of course.”
“And when was that?”
Her question hung in the air. As her words died away, the space between them filled with silence. An expression of forbearance crept onto the girl’s face and mingled with the soft smile. Henry’s neck tightened and his expression became rigid with thought. He withdrew his hand and raised one finger absentmindedly to his mouth.
“We met the first day of fifth grade, when you were a new student who had just moved here,” Henry began, slowly and hesitantly. The girl nodded, urging him to continue.
“I thought you were so pretty. You weren’t like any of the other girls in my grade, the way you dressed, I mean, and the way you wore your hair. I wanted to know you immediately, I wanted to be your friend, and I imagined us being friends, talking at lunch, passing notes in class, walking home after school. I thought these things from the moment I saw you.”
“How did you get to know me?”
Henry smiled, warming to the creation. He reached out and took the hem of her dress between his fingers, trying to understand it, to hear it.
“We got paired up in Science the second day of the year. I was so happy, you can’t imagine. I thought I would fall over dead from happiness, when the teacher numbered us off together. I’d created so much of you the night before, in my mind, what things you liked to do, what we would talk about –“
“Yes, yes,” interrupted the girl, clapping her hands in excitement, “tell more about those things!”
Henry laughed in surprise at her response, his face breaking into an exuberant smile. “Well, you would have loved to read! You loved books so much, and stories, that we would sit and talk about what we were reading for hours, and we would read the same book and race each other through it, finishing whole books by dinner and then talking about them all night! We would write stories, and poems, and leave them in places for each other to find!”
“We’d read them to each other, right?”
“Yeah! We’d read them to each other, and we would write beautiful things, especially you, and I would always write about you, but I’d be embarrassed and tell you it was about someone else.”
The girl beamed at Henry, her nose crinkling, her face glowing.
“We would have a secret meeting place, where we would go after school, or in the middle of the night, when we were supposed to be asleep,” Henry continued, “it would be, like, a glen in the forest, or –“
“Under this bridge!” cried the girl in glee.
“Exactly!” said Henry, his eyes wide. “Under this bridge! And one night we would come down here, after sneaking out of our rooms, and we would meet as spies on a dangerous mission. The utmost secrecy would be required, and after exchanging information, excited by the danger of it all, we would seal our secrecy with a kiss. Then, after that we would start going steady with each other, but we would keep it a secret from everyone else, so people wouldn’t make fun of us. And we would start spending more time together, until we became inseparable. You would come to my house, or I would go to yours, and we would spend the whole day running around outside, pretending to be archaeologists on a dig. When it got dark we would come inside and play games on the floor of my bedroom, and sometimes we would kiss. You’d come to all of my family stuff, and I would go to yours, and our parents would take us to movies and out to eat, and you’d be like my real girlfriend. We would hold hands under the table, and then –“
Henry stopped for a moment and wiped away a tear that trickled down his cheek.
“And then, one day you’d say you loved me. And we would hug and spend the day walking through town. When it got dark we would come here and promise to never leave each other. To love each other forever.”
Henry stopped and rubbed a hand under both of his eyes in turn, sniffling to clear his nose. He was alone underneath the bridge. The sun had risen high in the sky, directly above, and the space where he sat was sunk in shadow. Picking up his pen, he removed the cap, then picked up his notebook from the ground next to him and opened it to the page following his last entry. At the very top, in the center, he wrote “Ariel,” then closed the book and rose, suddenly hungry for lunch.

c:\notes\underground.doc

I consider my room a cradle. Yes, a cradle, because it is here that an infant sleeps. I refer to myself, of course; I could never share a room with a child, vile things that they are. Why do I consider myself an infant, you ask? A pertinent question, but one to which the answer is obvious: In order to mature, one must develop. And I will be the first to admit a marked lack of development throughout the course of my life. I like to be this way, though - it makes things much easier. No one ever blames an infant for anything; he doesn’t know any better. I’ve not been taught the difference between right and wrong, nor have I been instilled with a conscience; no one ever bothered. Such things don’t spontaneously come into being, like suns. A sun can appear out of nowhere, a fluke, an aberration of fate. Morals and good sense, on the other hand, take cultivation and a caring hand. Mine are like stunted little weeds, forced to subsist and grow only on the occasional passing rain-shower, which often is too much, a deluge that my shallow roots can’t handle. So I just shrivel a little more, day by day, week by week, and year by year.
When I’m in my cradle, I’m warm and safe, swaddled against chills and prying eyes. Instead of a mobile, I’ve got a computer, which I think is much better, though the effect is the same. In my reflection upon the screen, I’m often struck by how much my glazed stare resembles a placated baby, idly watching the turning of shapes. I can even rock myself to sleep, a benefit my size grants me over other infants. I curl up in bed and rock myself back and forth, back and forth; it’s a good thing I’ve got my privacy, otherwise you might think this strange. Yes, my cradle is very nice indeed, and I treasure it above all things.
It is a sad fact that I am occasionally obliged to leave. I work at a technical support center near the campus where I’m a student, which is quite convenient, since I don’t think I would be capable of venturing any farther into the world. People, mostly students, will call in with their computer problems, and I’m supposed to give them answers. Everyday I serve dozens of disembodied voices solutions to idiotic questions. I find it hard to restrain my laughter in the face of commonplace ignorance, and normally I don’t; my supervisor, the blind old badger, has gotten on my case any number of times for this. I don’t care, I laugh even at him, in my mind. He’s even more helpless than the rest, not being able to see. They’re cripples, compared to me, and he’s the worst; the callers might not be able to turn their computers on, but at least they can see the screen and know there’s a problem! (You might not think that’s funny, but right now I’m chortling. That’s right, chortling! It’s a funny word, and I don’t expect you to know it. Maybe later you can call and ask me for a definition.)
I especially like it when girls call - I really cut loose with them. After they pose their query, I’m silent for a moment, letting it hang in the air as if I’m struck speechless by their imbecility. When I do reply, it’s as if to a child; sometimes, when I’m feeling par-tic-ularly devilish, I use a mocking, sing-song tone of voice. This makes them self-conscious, and usually they’ll apologize, which they should, for wasting my time! Although, who am I kidding? I love it. I love how timid and embarrassed they become, though I could never say so to their faces. I enjoy it so much, I sometimes blush while talking to a girl-caller; the anticipation of showcasing my superior intelligence actually makes me blush! At least, I think that’s why I blush.
It can be forgiven if you think me a boogeyman, the type that spends his free time throwing rocks at sparrows. I will not lie, the ruffling of feathers gives me great satisfaction, but only because mine have been plucked already. How can I be faulted for trying a tweeze a few off the backs of others when I am as naked as a Thanksgiving turkey? Men are not meant to run around unclothed. There are things in all of us that we do not wish others to see. For some, it may be a dark deed commited in the past - the intentional killing of a cat, or a falsehood told that brought with it great gains. I can honestly say that I’ve never done anything wrong, however. My life has been one long, unabridged script of mundanity. The thing is, it is not the warts that I hide; I walk with my warts proudly displayed. The purpose is to draw attention away from what truly leaves me ashamed: my meek nature.
I said earlier that I am still an infant, and like an infant I’m weak, easily bothered and incapable of helping myself. If I were stronger, I would not get such a cheap thrill from the faceless confrontations I’m involved in at work; I would go out and find real confrontations, real struggle! As it is, if someone cuts in front of me in the deli-line, or a store-clerk gives me the incorrect change, I whimper and walk away, head bowed. It is not my fault, though; I was never taught to stand up for myself. I can barely walk, and even that was self-learned. My steps are slow and shuffling, and to this day, I have to concentrate to put one foot in front of the other. Otherwise, the smallest crack will cause me to trip and fall. People used to do everything for me, carry me around, wipe my mouth, cover my eyes during the scary parts of movies. If I wanted something, I only had to ask. There were never any trials or tribulations, because the moment an obstacle presented itself, someone would come and knock it down for me. I used to fantasize about what it would be like to take control. My dreams were filled with visions of how I would demand satisfaction for some playground slight, not allowing my mother to call the principal the day after I came home with tears in my eyes and grass in my hair. I’d be thrilled with thoughts of driving my father’s car, or playing football without the fear of admonitions for a scraped knee. God forbid the little baby hurt himself, we can’t have him hurt himself, what would we do? He needs to be smothered, crushed on all sides by protective padding from the horrors of the outside world, blindfolded and handcuffed so he can’t see or touch anything that isn’t white-washed, homogenized, disinfected, and approved with a PG rating by the Cosmogonic Suburbanital Association of Scared Mother Hens. Good Lord, how I even yearned to fail, if only so I could say that I did something, of my own volition! If the homework was too hard, it was done for me, if the science project broke, it was soldered back. All I wanted was some freedom; gimme some truth, dammit! The outside world looked so inviting, and I was kept from it, under lock and key. And now, when I finally have access, I hide in my cradle. Because now the world really is a scary place. I can’t imagine how people deal with it.
They’re funny to watch, though, these people. When I walk around the campus, I always make sure to sweep my eyes quickly from side to side. I know what you’re thinking too, and let me tell you, you’re wrong; it’s not just so I can make sure no one is giggling at my unkempt appearance or shuffling gait. That’s only part of it. The main reason is so I can take it all in, the human parade. I hate it, let me tell you, hate it down to the marrow in my bones. They’re all so characterless, so bland! That’s what it takes, I’ve decided, to navigate the choppy seas of life. The world has been tailor-made for these automatons to succeed. They stay abreast of fashion so they won’t stick out in a crowd; if a name-brand shirt is the standard mark of excellence, then you’d better have it on, by God! Anything less and you are less, too. Their personalities are served up to them, everything from their opinions on world politics to what kind of music they like. Not to say that everyone falls into the same category. I’m merely saying that no one thinks, really thinks about the choices they make. They pick a platform, usually around the age of sixteen, and hang onto it for the rest of their life, tooth and nail. The status quo and the counter-culture are different sides of the same currency, just clubs for people to belong to.
I, on the other hand, am different. I’ve got plenty of time to think for myself and think for myself I have. Some of my opinions are quite original, some, I would even daresay, radical and remarkable! For example, I never go to parties or clubs; why should I? I’m not like the people that do, I don’t seek their approval, and the last thing I want to do is associate with them. They’d probably end up making fun of me, goes to reason, since I’m making fun of them, right? I console myself on lonely weekend nights by sitting and thinking, the fruits of which you’re enjoying as you read this. You are enjoying this, right? It’d kill me if you weren’t. Wait, no, what am I saying? I don’t care, not one whit what you think about me. That’s why I always dress so shabbily, because I don’t care. What do you think about that? My overly large shirts and stained jeans are good enough for me. They may not be the paragon of fashion, but who has the time to follow fashion, anyway? I’m always so busy, and quite frankly, I have better things to do than to keep up with the latest vogue, I assure you! Some people might understand how to dress, but I understand much more. Which do you think is the true mark of superiority?
I said earlier that I hate my peers, but that isn’t so. If anything, I feel no connection towards them. We could be different species, they and I, and the situation would be no different. My character is what sets me apart - suffering breeds it, you know.
I hope you haven’t gotten the impression that I want to belong. I wouldn’t change a thing, if given a second chance. I’m proud of my emotional disfigurement. Are you surprised that I recognize it as such? It sets me apart, it’s what makes me unique. A freak is someone different from the norm, be they an athletically blessed quarterback or a beautiful model. I equate myself with this sort of person and treasure my spite the same way they treasure their arm or face. It’s all I’ve got, after all. What does this make me, then? Am I a nihilist, an existentialist? Perhaps an egoist? I’ve said before that I have no use for such labels, that I needn’t be a member of any club. I subscribe only to the way accorded me by my upbringing. I have ceased to fight against it. Come to think of it, I guess that makes me a realist. You see how easily I contradict myself? The truth is, I don’t know what I am. Perhaps that’s the problem.

Eterne

It was quiet as it can only be on a bright, frosty Sunday. The streets of South, Texas were mostly empty, save for the occasional vehicle meandering to or from church. Fall had passed imperceptibly into winter, and both seemed no more than a fading continuation of summer until this sudden cold snap. School had been cancelled the previous Friday, after a storm blew in the night before and coated the still warm streets with ice. Henry Morgan had taken advantage of this windfall by beginning a new story in his notebook, one that had germinated at the back of his mind for quite awhile. He sat on the edge of his bed, leaning back on his hands with the notebook open on one thigh. He stared blankly ahead, pondering a word or subsequent progression. Suddenly, he exhaled sharply, as if terminating a period of submergence, and closed the book. A ceiling fan, the blades covered with glow-in-the-dark star stickers, turned slowly overhead. From somewhere beyond the bedroom crept the noise of a television game show. Henry stood and padded over the carpet to a blinded window, parted two of the plastic dividers, and took note of the frost that coated the glass on the opposite side. Within the crystalline patterns of ice he imagined he saw a message, a semblance of meaning. As he struggled to decipher the frigid tasseography, Henry absentmindedly raised one finger to his mouth, as if to quiet the already somnolent day. Beyond his window, two maple trees in the front yard stood still and huddled, leaves drooped, as if ashamed of their discordant greenery. The icy tessellation transmuted the trees into fragments, scattered across the glass. Henry traced the course of dispersion and followed one green fleck to the next, noting the occasional disruption of the mosaic by a shatter, shaped like a feather, until he saw the face of a girl looking back at him. Her face was outlined in green, with verdant concentrations forming her irises. Wispy strands of hair were frozen in an eternal windblown moment, and her face, at once cold and severe, seemed to soften the longer he looked at it, until a few flakes turned to droplets and traced a course from her eyes to the pane. Henry smiled and exhaled warm breath on the glass. A fog formed on the girl’s forehead, and with one finger he ordained her “Elisa.” A voice sounded beyond the room over the din of the television. Henry immediately rose and turned, his smile fading into a nondescript expression of contentment as he answered the call to supper.
Henry Morgan once wrote on the inside cover of his notebook, “When nothing is true, everything is possible.” He all at once doubted the veracity of his parents’ claim upon him, the logical foundation of his school’s “good citizenship” rules, and the likelihood that he would ever age beyond sixteen years. That his life was firmly implanted in the moment, and that his reality was wholly formed through perception, seemed to him the most obvious truths. In relation to his peers, Henry could sympathize with the blindly ambitious, note-card wielding, coffee-chugging subset as little as he could the homoerotic, uber-aggressive athletic bunch. School was generally a taxing grind, in which he suffered through the bell schedule and performed the obvious homework for the simple satisfaction of not having to be bothered about it. He loved his parents, but related to them as one relates to benefactors, deferring to their judgment in regard to his safety and health, yet maintaining no sentimental rituals borne of connectivity or shared experience. His sole pleasure and principal diversion was his writing, which he engaged in during every free moment. All of his school notebooks were filled with stories and creative jottings; at restaurants the tablecloth and napkins were fair game for scribbling; his weekends and evenings were reserved as the exclusive domain of his creative endeavors. It was through this medium that he was able to translate his confused perceptions into understandable thoughts and memories. It was there that he took the raw material of his experience and created the world he truly felt at home in.
Dinner was pork chops, mashed potatoes, and warmed green beans from the can. Mr. and Mrs. Morgan, who were seated side by side opposite Henry, had their faces turned towards a large television situated on the other side of the room. Between the dinner table and the TV sat a leather sofa, also facing the TV. Henry looked down at his plate. In-between intermittent mouthfuls of food he would occasionally glance up at his parents, who half-turned at regular intervals towards their raised forks. They were an older couple, and could have passed for Henry’s grandparents; both, however, still preserved the vestiges of hearty youth. Mr. Morgan, though gray-haired and bifocaled, had broad shoulders and massive arms. When necessary he could, at least to Henry’s imagining, perform amazing feats of strength. Mrs. Morgan clung valiantly to the remnants of a once great beauty. Her hair, touch-dyed in spots, framed with darkness a light-brown, freckled face. Her aquiline bone structure was apparent in Henry, as was her slender figure. She was his template for understanding the movements and manners of the grand dames and duchesses encountered in his reading. Without realizing it, Henry had begun to stare at them. Mr. Morgan, feeling the boy’s gaze, turned fully towards him with a grin.
“What’s the matter? There something hanging outta my nose?”
Henry smiled sheepishly and shook his head before looking again to his food. Mr. Morgan shrugged and turned back to the TV, while Mrs. Morgan rose and carried her plate to the sink.
Later that night, ensconced in quilt and lamplight, Henry lay in bed and stared upwards. It was at this time, on the platform in the station of sleep, that he tried to manipulate the itinerary of his dreams. Like a vacationer preparing for holiday, he packed the forefront of his consciousness with those images most important for the journey. For Henry, sleep was not a respite from his daily travails, but the culmination of them. He kept his notebook ready on the nightstand, held open by an uncapped pen. Even so prepared, he would often waken in the middle of the night, with some fresh fantasy fading fast on the fringe of reality, and would not be able to properly commit what he had seen or experienced to paper. He was dedicated though, and believed in the necessity of his endeavor; the literary fruits were too beautiful not to pluck, no matter how hard to grasp. Henry sat up and pulled the notebook onto his lap, then took his pen and wrote quickly the following lines:

Time off from school is all fine and good, but this house can yield only so much inspiration. The television dampens my creativity, I think. Tomorrow, a school day, will yield plenty for introspection.

He held his pen and thought for a moment, then replaced the notebook again open on the nightstand. Sliding down under the covers, he reached up and switched off the lamp, then turned onto his side and faced the wall. Held in front of his mind was the image of Sarah, a cheerleader whom Henry often tried to dream about. He was tired, though; the day had been long with nothing, and it was a struggle to preserve the integrity of her image. Soon, his thoughts began to wander and drift like a paper boat. Words and snapshots slipped by one after another, making no impression - or some impression, unremembered feelings that tickled like grass under the palm. Earlier that day he had walked his dog. The streets were empty, the asphalt the same shade of grey as the sky. The dog pulled him forward, eager to go nowhere, while the wind pushed him from behind and urged him in the same direction. A house had made an impression on him as he passed, and now the image of it returned to his hazy mind: a brick house with an arch over the doorway and a large pecan tree in the front yard. His dog pulled, and the wind pushed him past the house, the tree swaying, pecans falling like raindrops to ricochet off the roof. Henry walked, leaning backwards but pushed/pulled forward, the wind in his ears, the pecans falling, bouncing off the ground, bouncing off the roof, filling a birdbath in the front yard. The birdbath leaned to one side, sinking into the ground, and the thought occurred to Henry that perhaps a pecan, hitting the right spot, could knock it over. Henry walked, one hand clenching a leash, pushed from behind, past a house with an arched entryway and a pecan tree in the front yard. A birdbath filled with pecans. They fell from the tree, fell in a downpour like raindrops. The wind blew hard, filling his ears, as Henry walked past the building with the arched entryway, the pecans pouring from the sky, one hand clenching the handle of an umbrella, which he opened and raised over his head. The wind blew, and he clenched tightly the umbrella, Henry walking, the pecans ricocheting off the birdbath and umbrella, filling the birdbath and flowing over the sides. Henry walked in the shadow of the building with the arched entryway, huddled beneath his umbrella, before a fountain overflowing, pecans streaming from the sky and forming puddles on the ground. Henry walked through a puddle and his shoes became wet. The building loomed on his right, with a fountain before it decorated with birds. Henry suddenly turned and dashed through the downpour for the arched entryway, splashing through puddles and gripping his umbrella with both hands. He ran around the fountain and up a set of concrete stairs, struggling to hold onto his umbrella, which filled with wind and fought to escape. Reaching the entryway, Henry stopped to catch his breath, and saw that the building was a great cathedral. Before him the rain coursed down in sheets, speckling the pool of the ornate fountain below. A sculpture of birds rising in flight stood in the center of the fountain, the birds carved one on top of the next from a single block of marble. Its border undulated like a gentle countryside around it, with carved stone birds placed on every rise, some bent as if frozen in the act of drinking.
Henry closed his umbrella and shook it dry, content to wait for the rain to subside. He then turned slowly in a circle to inspect his vestibule, and saw that the ceiling of the entryway rose a good thirty feet in the air before terminating in a series of inlaid vaults. The great recessed double-doors stood almost half this tall, the thickly carved oak reinforced with three evenly spaced, golden metal bands. Round iron handles were affixed on either side of the seam where the two doors met. Henry leaned on his umbrella to peer closer at the doors, and saw they were densely covered with carvings. A motley assortment of hybrid creatures crawled within and without thick strands of ivy, each with their eyes directed heavenward, as if climbing. Satyrs and centaurs, devils and angels, men and women crossed with insects and reptiles, all struggled upwards. Henry’s eyes, filled with fascination and disgust, roamed back and forth over the incredibly lifelike renderings. He followed their progress up the length of the door, which terminated in an inscription carved in stone above the doorway: “Everyone Lives Inside Someone’s Ambition.” Henry squinted and screwed up his mouth, perplexed. Shaking his head, he reached up and pulled the door handle - it didn’t budge. He placed his umbrella on the ground and gripped it with both hands, leaning backwards and pulling with all of his might – not even a rattle. Frustrated, he picked up his umbrella and turned. The rain continued to fall torrentially, with a sweeping roar like the bellow of some beast. A flash of anger passed through Henry, annoyed at his circumstantial entrapment between a gale-like downpour and an obscure, locked door. He closed his eyes as if to center himself. All sound ceased with his vision. When he opened them the rain had stopped. The sky remained overcast, but there was no evidence of the storm; not a single puddle pockmarked the ground. Henry looked down at the fountain, which bubbled merrily, water flowing from the mouths of the encircling birds and jetting in intermittent arcs over those in flight. Pleased, he descended the staircase and approached the pool. Looking down into the waters, he was greeted by the reflection of a grown man. A day’s stubble graced his cheeks, and his short brown hair was streaked here and there with gray. His face was thin, with high cheekbones and delicate features. A bemused expression enhanced the handsomeness of the features, and his sharp green eyes stared back intently into themselves.
Henry stepped away from the fountain and set off down the street before the cathedral. He tapped his umbrella upon the flagstones, now thoroughly enjoying himself among the pleasant quiet of his surroundings. He realized he was in a city that was for all appearances completely abandoned. Buildings constructed in the classical mode lined either side of the street, intermittently divided by wide, open plazas and small parks filled with various fruit trees. Over the street there occasionally passed arched white bridges that connected opposite buildings. Passing overheard at regular intervals were circular platforms, unoccupied and apparently floating of their own volition, moving to or from the direction Henry walked. He came to a cross street and continued straight; his destination was an open green space many blocks ahead.
Henry felt as if he walked through a holy space. The street beneath his feet was sacrosanct, and the buildings were washed white in their purity. Here he felt the connection of God’s finger to Adam’s reverberate through his body with a cool hum. He imagined that this was where he came from, where he would return to, and that the purpose of his earthly life was to bring some aspect of this perfection to the scarred world where he existed as a child. He was alone here, but only because at present he desired it so. He looked forward to the green space ahead, which he knew was a large open park filled with voices and bodies. Henry felt aged like a walnut handle worn smooth, made brighter through prolonged contact; his surroundings, however, were beyond any age. He would name this city Eterne, Henry thought with a smile.
Nearing the green space where the street terminated, he heard the babble of running water. The block ended sharply, with no transition between flagstone and grass, buildings and open sky. Hundreds of people sat in small groups, or walked in pairs, or ran quickly in the open, and their laughter and voices filled the air. In the distance, Henry saw that the grass sloped down to a river, its crystal clear waters flowing smoothly. Far beyond rose a bright silver tower, its polished gleam of reflected sunlight almost unbearable to behold. Henry noticed that the clouds had broken, and as he stepped into the field, among the various revelers, the unexpected sunlight filled him with a rush of warmth and contentment. Everyone was dressed in simple, comfortable clothing, and appeared to be in the prime of their life. As Henry walked among the people, some looked up and smiled to acknowledge his passing, while others continued what they were doing. Henry felt a welcoming spirit manifested in every movement, every gesture, every word spoken in his presence. He picked up snatches of conversation as he walked, headed vaguely towards the river.
“A nation of millions sat in quiet amazement,” said a pretty blonde with bobbed hair to her stately, beautiful companion. The woman smiled and stroked the blonde’s arm before replying, “Celebrations were cancelled around the country.”
The sun seemed to brighten as Henry walked.
“Shopping malls closed early as word spread,” said a well-built man who passed Henry in the opposite direction.
“It was supposed to be a formal and solemn proceeding,” said a woman sitting cross-legged and wearing a sari.
The river gleamed static in the distance, and grew neither larger nor smaller as Henry continued towards it. He no longer looked at those he passed.
“I would ask all of you to return to your homes now,” said a man.
The impression of a surrounding multitude slowly dissipated, though the sound of voices remained. The river, growing brighter while maintaining its distance, became the sole object of Henry’s attention. Suddenly the tower gleamed sharply behind it, bursting with light that reflected into and filled the sky, turning it white. Henry stopped and looked upwards.
“Crowds remained in the streets for some time . . .” said a female voice.
Henry felt himself melting into the blankness overhead, rising up from the green field.
“. . . and police reinforcements were sent to various parts of the city . . .”
The light engulfed Henry, and he felt heavy, drowsy, surrounded by warmth.
“. . . shootings and bombings have become an almost daily occurrence . . .”
His eyes fluttered, and he saw faintly glowing stars materialize against the ether above him.
“ . . . the violence appears to have a number of causes. . .”
His eyes opened halfway, and through blurred vision he made out the slowly turning blades of a ceiling fan, covered with star stickers.
“. . . the ethnic Muslims have complained over the years of neglect and discrimination. . .”
Henry sat up in bed and rubbed his eyes. He felt painfully alone and lost in the dark. From somewhere beyond his bedroom door came the sound of a television.
“Their insurgency in three largely Muslim provinces in southern Thailand has resulted in over 1,500 deaths in two years.”
He swayed groggily back and forth for a moment, debating whether or not to go back to sleep, then threw off his covers and got out of bed. The sound of his mother’s voice rang out over the newscaster’s monotone:
“Henry! Are you awake?”
Henry yelled back a reply and dressed quickly. As he walked to the door, he stepped on his notebook, which was lying open on the floor. He bent down to pick it up and stopped suddenly, hunched over with one arm outstretched. His eyes narrowed, then widened suddenly. Below his last entry from the night before, someone had scrawled in an uneven hand:
“Frozen roads leave us stranded in our search for shelter.”
Henry shook his head slowly and closed the notebook, turning it this way and that as if looking for some clue. His mystified expression remained unchanged as he replaced the notebook atop his nightstand and exited the bedroom.
The mystery of the added line haunted Henry throughout the day. His walk to school was robbed of its usual pleasantness, infected as it was by the crisp air and his fevered speculations. The answer was in his dream, he thought, his mind returning to this supposition like a needle tripping over a scratch. In the December sky there sat entrenched a monopoly of dull gray clouds. Henry thought he remembered it raining the night before but saw no puddles upon the street. Frozen roads leave us stranded in our search for shelter, he said to himself. Frozen roads were hard to detect when the ice was mistaken for innocent water, a momentary sheen in a headlight or sunray. If someone hadn’t snuck into his room and written that line, then how could it be explained? His feet shuffled mechanically over the sidewalk, his head down. He was like a horse, his path so familiar he could find it in a blizzard.
Henry’s first period was English. After handing in homework, they read The Vane Sisters aloud, though Henry was too preoccupied to follow the story. When his teacher pointed out the hidden meaning in the last paragraph, he only half heard her. Biology crawled by, and Henry’s ethered frog was crudely butchered, the victim of a mind wandering in dissection of ten obscure words. Lunch came and went in a messy blur of faces and chatter. Afterwards was History, which featured a lecture about the connections between time, place, and the vestige called writing. Henry was only half awake, in vain seeking to connect dots on the fringes of his waking memory. Frozen roads. He felt isolated, cut off from the meaning that existed somewhere within those words. Later that evening, he was so distant during dinner that his parents assumed he wasn’t feeling well. They allowed him to leave the table unmolested, and did not question his desire to go to bed early. Henry had, in fact, looked forward all day to the moment when he could sleep. There was not a doubt in his mind that he would return to Eterne, where he believed the source of the mysterious line resided. The problem that remained for him was how his dream had crossed over into the waking world. The potential inherent in this seeming impossibility filled Henry with a wild and hopeful sense of apprehension. He often floated through life as if only partially aware of his surroundings. People called him a dreamer, a space cadet, made fun of him for his long, thoughtful silences, and for the times when he stared into a distance only he could see. The idea that his dreams could, in fact, contain within them some greater reality, some force that could affect and brighten the dull grayness of his small-town life, appealed to Henry in the same way as his childhood fantasies about hidden fairy kingdoms. A shiver of anticipation passed through him as he undressed and crawled into bed.
Switching on his lamp, Henry picked up his journal and opened it to the most recent entry. The subject of his scrutiny lay before him, a jagged and sloppily written line. It appeared to have been written by a child, or someone unused to holding a pen. Henry exhaled, realizing he had been holding his breath. It occurred to him that he had half expected the words to no longer be there. He picked up his pen and wrote on the facing page:
I’ve been confronted with the impossible. This morning I woke up and found something written in my journal that I did not put there. My dreams have in some way begun to intrude upon reality, I’m sure of it. I stand on the brink of a great discovery.
Henry reread what he had written and, pleased with it, replaced his notebook and pen on the nightstand. He switched off his lamp and lay flat on his back, eyes wide open in the darkness. Although his desire was to fall asleep immediately, he quickly realized that he was not very tired. His excitement-fueled mind churned forth a regular stream of images and words, chattering like a series of commercial adverts. It was a couple of hours before Henry began to drift asleep, having tossed and turned himself into exhaustion. The words from the added line turned in his head, revolving one past the next, yielding no clues and gradually growing soft and faded. Their meanings blurred and expanded beyond the mere forms of letters to become nonsensical. Frozen roads arranged themselves side by side in numbered rows. Yellow pervaded “Leave Us Stranded”, a dusty town between cigarette orchards. In his search, a pipe, dreaming down which he fell, into venomous gardens beneath the leaves of tulapeas, where, huddled for shelter, children nibbled Oxycontin and stared with ash-filled eyes.
Sunlight broke and cleared Henry’s mind to remind him of his purpose and destination. He stood on a dirt path in a forest. Surrounding him on all sides were immensely tall, white trees, crowned with leaves like albino ostrich feathers. It was a beautiful day, and patches of aquamarine brilliance broke through the foliage far above. Pillars of light descended from these breaches and fell upon the ground at irregular intervals, scattered around into the distance. The ground was swept clean, free of any arboreal detritus. Henry knelt and passed his hand over the grass next to the path. It appeared to have been freshly clipped, and had the silky texture of a woman’s hair. He rose and continued walking, whistling pleasantly to himself, tapping his cane in time with the melody. The path widened ahead into a stone bridge, under which flowed a clear, babbling brook. As he crossed the bridge, Henry stopped momentarily and withdrew from his pocket a handful of small purple orbs. Still whistling, he dropped them into the water one by one and watched them float away. Across the bridge the forest thinned out, and there were houses built onto the trees. They were placed at varying heights, with spiral staircases that wound upward around the trunks and wooden bridges that connected them to each other. It was a raised community, existing between the ground and the boughs; Henry felt a warm sense of welcome, and imagined his own tree house was around there somewhere.
Without thinking, his feet took him towards where he thought the cathedral lay. A stone thoroughfare led out of the tree village, and Henry again saw the familiar lines of the marble city. The bright sunlight accentuated the white stone to render it staggering, like a flash of pain. Henry felt his knees pop as he walked, the platforms floating overhead, and his cane became more than a prop. What felt like hours passed, as he walked aimlessly around, past the same white buildings waxing blinding in the light. He despaired of ever finding the cathedral and was about to take a rest on the curb, when he heard the sound of a fountain. Excited, he hobbled towards the noise, around a corner and through a twisted alleyway. There, upon his exit, he saw before him the plaza, the birds, and the brooding cathedral. Henry stared for a moment, smiling in relief, and then crossed the plaza slowly. The birds again bubbled merrily, appearing to frolic along the rim of their fountain, and as Henry passed them he felt a wave of coolness descend from the sky and soften the edges of the sharp whiteness around him. He paused by the water and again saw his reflection, that of a middle-aged man with a scarf and stubble, and wondered if the lines on his face came from laughter or cares. The cathedral beckoned to him, and Henry turned. The walk up the steps was harder than he remembered. Upon reaching the oaken doors, he saw they were now unadorned. He gripped the handle and pushed; the door opened easily, with a sound like exhaled breath.
What lay before him was a single large room, illuminated a soft gold by hidden lighting. The high ceiling and walls were blank stone, brushed clean and smooth. The floor was laid with iridescent tiles, polished so they reflected those who walked over them. At the far side of the otherwise empty room stood a young girl. Aware that his journey was at an end, Henry walked towards her. She stood completely still, as if made of ice, and fixated upon his approach. Henry had the impression that her sight was an illusion, and that if he moved to the side her eyes would follow him like those in paintings. Her skin was pure white, her hair the lightest blonde, and every part of her sparkled faintly, as if covered in frost. When Henry stopped a mere foot in front of her, he was startled by the sharpness of her green eyes. They stared at one another in silence.
“Did you write in my notebook?” Henry whispered.
The girl remained frozen and impassive. The reply came soft in his ears, in a voice as familiar as his very own:
“Our hopes are the beginnings of all our mysteries.”

*

Ever since Henry was a baby, Mrs. Morgan rose every night between midnight and three to check on him while he slept. When pressed, she would explain her reason for this as a vague superstition, that one morning she might wake and he would be gone, disappeared in the night. She made her way down the hallway to his room, her steps a little faster than usual. Lately Henry had been groggy in the mornings and over supper, and she worried that he might not be sleeping well. Mrs. Morgan carefully opened the door to his bedroom and peeked in. Seeing movement, she waited for her eyes to adjust, then clucked her tongue softly, her mystery solved. Henry, with clumsy and sleep-deadened movements, leaned halfway out of bed, scrawling in his notebook. His eyes were nearly closed, and he muttered to himself. As Mrs. Morgan moved forward to wake him, she caught a few words.
“Beginnings . . . mysteries . . . “ he mumbled, pen scratching.

Work in Progress

I once asked a travelling bum what the most beautiful place in the country was. He had been hitchhiking around for over ten years, so I felt I could trust his authority. He exhaled heavily and stared off into space, shaking his head, as if blown away by the enormity of the question. Finally, he said, “Humboldt County, in northern California.”
As he explained it, Humboldt county was situated right on the coast, riddled with Redwoods and small towns, with temperatures never above 70, rarely below 40, and the best damn pot in the world. In fact, it is the county’s number one export – for strictly medicinal purposes. Eureka has the second largest bay in California; young flesh gravitates around the college town of Arcata. Hipness is ensured through a sprinkling of exiles from San Francisco. When he mentioned this last fact, something caught in my memory. Humboldt sounded familiar, though I was certain I had never been, and it took a few days for me to remember that Dana lived there.
I had not seen her since the move. Her last residence had been San Francisco, where I had visited her once. The second visit fell through due to a stupid argument on the phone a few days before my arrival. We always had a tempestuous relationship, though, strangely, one with its own stability. No matter how angry we get or how much time passes, one of us always eventually reaches out to the other. It’s an acknowledgement of the peculiar comfort you feel around those who have broken your heart. There’s not much more pain they could cause, you’ve already experienced the best and worst that the other has to offer, and in the absence of hope or expectation you can actually be honest. Or maybe it’s comfortable simply because we’ve known each other for so long, and the periodic reaching out simply an act of boredom.
The peregrinations of our relationship notwithstanding, one thing I never expected was for Dana to remarry and move to a small town in the middle of nowhere. But she was always full of surprises.
*
Early in the morning, when the fog rolls in from the Pacific to shroud her house in mystery, Dana likes to imagine that she is dead. A lunatic once told her that everyone was already dead, and that we were all in heaven. She believed him in those mornings when the sea invaded her home and turned the world outside gray. She stood at the kitchen counter and filled a small bag with loose ground tea, which she then dropped into a waiting mug filled with hot water. She carried the mug over to the kitchen table and sat, turning her gaze out through the window. Beyond her front yard, everything became indistinct, uncertain. She heard a car drive by but saw nothing of its form.
Dana had always been an early riser. She enjoyed the solitude of morning, when the only sounds in the house were her own soft footsteps. Her husband, Dan, would not wake until late in the morning, after the fog had burned off. They had been married for three years, and while there was no longer much passion in their relationship, they had gotten used to each other. Dana was aging well. Her weight no longer fluctuated with the gluttonies of early adulthood, and she henceforth would remain petite, fragile-looking, until the day she died. Her pale skin and dyed-black hair made her appear somewhat younger than her thirty years. Her eyes were her most expressive feature, green shot through with gray, the color of a lake on the cusp of dawn. Covering her arms and shoulders were colorless tattoos depicting illustrations from children’s books. She had had them for so long she no longer noticed them; it was always a slight shock when a stranger made a comment.
She took a sip of her tea. The minutes ticked slowly by. She would not move from her seat until Dan stumbled into the kitchen an hour later, yawning and stretching.
*
Dana was born and raised in Los Angeles. When she was twenty-three she moved to Austin to marry a man named Brian. They had known each other as teenagers and remained in touch through college via email and the occasional hook-up when Bryan came home to visit his folks. They shared a passion for mod culture and fashion, scooters, and classic cinema. When Brian one day out of the blue suggested that Dana marry him and join him in his adopted home, she agreed on a whim. Looking back on it later, she would admit to not knowing why she did what she did. She was never particularly attracted to Brian, though he was a very handsome man, and their connection hardly extended beyond the superficial. She had gotten bored in Los Angeles, she supposed, and wanted a change of scenery. She figured he would support her in the transition, their marriage would be open, and that if Brian ever started to cramping her style, she could simply divorce him, which she did, just over a year after exchanging vows. Her relationship with me caused the split.
I met Dana online, through a personals website. We posted ads for the same reason – both recent transplants to Austin, we figured it was an easy way to meet people. I saw her ad, made a witty comment in reference to something in it, and after exchanging a few messages we arranged to meet for coffee. I was stunned the first time I saw her. She was beautiful; she wore a t-shirt that barely covered her rib-cage, and a long black skirt that accentuated her full hips and beautiful ass. As she crossed the courtyard toward my table, the head of every man she passed turned in her wake. We talked for hours that first night; she never mentioned she was married. When her husband called her cell, she played it off like he was a roommate. She later admitted to being charmed by my naiveity. It blew her mind that the population of my hometown was less than 2500. I had never heard of any of the bands she mentioned. The fact that she was from LA impressed my hickish sensibilities; I had never been farther than New Orleans, and she seemed so experienced, already wise and world-weary. I was eighteen.
She gave me a ride home and we arranged to meet the next night for dinner. I spent the entire next day thinking about her, going over in my head what she said, remembering the way she looked at me, how her gaze left me chilled, tingly, and lightheaded. I was convinced that I had met my future wife, that it was not simply the internet that had brought us together, but fate. Although our relationship later evolved, I realize in hindsight that while I was totally enamoured of her from the get-go, I was at first simply an amusing distraction. Just as I had never met someone so culturally astute, well-spoken and charming, she had never met someone as hopelessly innocent and awkward as myself. She was slumming it by pursuing me, a big city girl taking a trip to the country and marvelling at the cows.
We met the next evening at a mexican food restaurant. Soon after we took our seats she mentioned offhandedly that she was married. I was perplexed and disappointed. She laughed at my stuttered query for clarity, and pointed out that she had worn her wedding band the night before. I was not yet experienced enough to notice such things. What confused me was that, even though she made clear she was in a relationship, her flirtatious tone remained unchanged. I couldn’t figure out what was going on. Her eyes betrayed interest; my animal instincts picked up on this, my heart raced when she spoke; I flinched when she touched me, which made her giggle. By the time we finished dinner it was dark outside, and I assumed she would go home. Instead, she suggested we go somewhere quiet and talk. I had recently discovered a secluded spot that afforded a gorgerous view of the downtown skyline, and suggested we go there.
*
The summer night settles softly over Austin, a cool hand on the forehead of scorching days. Castle Hill had once been the site of a boy’s military academy. The imposing structure remained, medieval in its façade, yet was abandoned and served no purpose other than as a meeting place for people in need of privacy. It sat on a bluff in the west end of the city, secluded from the surrounding neighborhood by the vastness of its lot. A couple could squeeze through a gap in the chain link fence surrounding it and find a comfortable spot with a spectacular view of downtown. A young man and woman sat together upon the ground, thighs touching, looking away from one another. The man sat stiffly, awkward in his youth and the romantic nature of his surroudings. The girl was more comfortable, and leaned back on her hands to stare up into the sky. Before them a group of high-rises rose into the light-deadened sky like a council of mute, concrete Jehovahs, their eyes a thousand blind windows. The man began to fidget, as if something within him was fighting for release. He adbruptly sat up straight and began to talk, as if addressing the buildings, the streets below, and the sky above.
“Do you ever look at the stars? I mean…. really look at them? They’re beautiful in their gentle twinklings, those constant reminders of our insignificance. We die, they remain, mute witness to the meaningless struggle that is life. No matter how brilliant, how gifted, how powerful, the end result is the same for everyone. Just as it always has been and always will be. While the poets and the generals are rotting in the ground, their deeds forgotten by a new crop of walking corpses, the stars shine on . . . oh so softly.”
The girl looked at him throughout his address, her face relaxed, expression one of quiet care and contentment. When he was done, she waited a moment, his words drifting in the air to settle on the scene, then spoke quietly:
“But we can’t even see the stars. The lights are too bright.”
The man chuckled and looked away. “Yeah. I guess you’re right.”
She gave space for the silence of the moment to blossom, then reached over and took his hand. He started, then relaxed into her grasp.
“What you said was very beautiful, though,” she said.
“Thanks. Sometimes I just talk.”
“I liked it.”
The girl reached over with her other hand and began to caress the one she held. The man turned to look at her. She lowered her eyes and smiled softly.
“Let’s take off all of our clothes,” she said.
“What?”
“Nothing. Have you ever kissed a married woman?”
“No,” the man said, searching her, his heart suddenly racing.
She raised her eyes to his. He felt himself fall into her, saw himself lost in her, comfortable, warm, and conquered by the power of those liquid pools containing the absent beauty of the polluted urban sky. Without another word she leaned into him, pressed her chest to his and her lips to his. His hands moved to her waist.
*
Things progressed quickly after that. It never bothered me that I was breaking up a marriage. I was impatient for it to happen. I wanted her to belong to me, not him. And she seemed energized by the whole situation. We began to spend whole days together. She didn’t have a job, and I began to skip all of my classes. To Brian, I was simply his wife’s new best friend. I was too young and unaccomplished to be seen as a threat. Things hit a pitch when she and I travelled to Los Angeles together for a weekend. The given reason was that I was going for a concert, and she wanted to come along for the opportunity to visit her family. He was perhaps a little suspicious, but he didn’t show it. While we were there, I took several pictures of Dana, sprawled naked on a motel bed. She left the pictures on her camera, probably intentionally. A few days after we returned, Brian found them. He blew up, hit her, threatened to kill me. She left him and took refuge in my apartment.
*
“I don’t know what to do. You don’t know him, he’s crazy. If he finds us he will kill you.”
“He’s not going to kill me.”
“You don’t know him. You’re so fucking naïve.”
“I’m not naïve. And I’m not afraid of him. Chill out. We’re together. Nothing else matters.”
The girl sat in silence, staring at her feet.
“Look,” the man began, “don’t worry about anything. From here on out it’s just you and me. Us against the world. As long as we’re together, everything will work out . . . right?”
The girl hesitated a moment.
“Yeah. It’ll be okay.”
She stared at the floor, her eyes opaque.
*
A couple of days later she officially moved in. I gave her a key. She told Brian she wanted a divorce. We entered into a brief honeymoon period, grocery shopping, buying furniture, going to movies. I felt so proud to be seen with her. She was my prize, and I wore my pride on my sleeve. It wasn’t long, though, before she began to set parameters. We should have separate bedrooms, so we could preserve our independence. Coming out of a marriage, she wasn’t ready for a committed relationship. She wanted to go out, meet people, come to see Austin as her home independently of a man. I agreed. I was so enamoured with her I would have agreed to anything. One night, after going out with a boy we had met together at a concert, she didn’t come home. I couldn’t sleep. I sat up drinking. As I watched the sunrise spread on the carpet in our living room, I heard her come in.
*
(The clear light of a morning that illuminates our anguish can seem cruel, confrontational, a cosmic jibe that pokes fun at our insecurities. We are on display.)
The anguished light of daybreak crept over the carpet toward Doug’s naked, lonely feet. His toes were curled inward, hiding from the light of honest reflection. Upon the coffeetable there was a glass with more whiskey in it than the bottle that sat beside it. He sat, shirtless, coated with a thin sheen of sweat. He had stopped thinking hours before; he sat mute, not longer expectant, but resigned, sickened by the reality of his situation. She hadn’t even bothered to call. She would have known he’d worry. But she didn’t care. He was a fool. She was heartless. He had given his fool heart to her, and she didn’t care enough to let him know she wasn’t dead. The door behind him opened and clicked shut again. He jerked around.
“Dana? Jesus, fucking christ.”
She appeared rosy, ebullient. Her smile beamed forth to shame the incipient sunlight of the accusatory daybreak. She appeared enlivened by the early hour. He was a wreck. They were both drunk.
“Where the fuck have you been?” he slurred, rising from the couch to face her.
“Out with Beamer,” she began, her smile fading somewhat. “You knew that.”
“I assumed you would come home. You wouldn’t answer your phone.”
“Well, you shouldn’t make assumptions. And my phone died.”
They stood and stared silently at one another. Dana’s smile had collapsed into a firm line. Doug looked at her, visibly wavering, wanting to trust her. His lip began to tremble.
“Oh jesus,” she said. “You fucking child.”
The tears began to flow from his eyes as he stood facing her, clenching and unclenching his fists. She shook her head slowly back and forth, as if unable to stomach her swelling disgust.
“You fucking whore,” he croaked.
She stood and let her eyes travel up and down his quivering form. They settled on the bottle behind him.
“How much have you had to drink?”
“What were you doing all night?”

Windows

Jeremiah and Elizabeth huddled beneath an awning at a bus stop and watched the rain come down in sheets. They turned as the wind changed to avoid getting soaked. Jeremiah valiantly shielded Elizabeth’s body with his own when a particularly hard gust made avoidance impossible. The two of them were practically inseparable. Jeremiah had short brown hair and a face slightly older than the rest of his body. His high cheekbones hollowed out his features, and it was only when he laughed that his youth became apparent. Elizabeth had the sort of body drooled over by fifteen-year old boys. Her long, straight blonde hair framed a face made striking by its simplicity and the openness of her features. Her blue eyes seemed to bear a permanent expression of quiet alarm, implanted and reinforced by the stares she received while out in public. Jeremiah loved her, and though they had been together for a time, remained thrilled by the curves of her body. A sudden change in the direction of the rain caused her to lean into him, and Jeremiah felt a rush of contentment as he lowered his arms around her waist.
They had decided earlier in the day to go for a walk, their destination a bookstore a mile or so from their home. Elizabeth wasn’t much of a reader, but loved getting out and about for exercise. Jeremiah also believed in the necessity of long walks. It had been during one at the beginning of their relationship that sparks flew and their fates were sealed. Since then, each believed the other their perfect complement, and their days drifted by with the gentle monotony of waves on a calm sea. Neither could imagine a time without the other, yet their relationship was without assumptions for the future. Jeremiah and Elizabeth existed in a state of innocence, too young and unburdened to care about anything but their present happiness.
A bus slowed as it approached the stop. Jeremiah whispered in Elizabeth’s ear. No, she wanted to keep walking. They could just wait until the rain died down. Jeremiah felt the flicker and glow of contentment. He kissed her neck and waved the bus on.
Elizabeth leaned into Jeremiah and settled her head on his shoulder. There was a time when she wouldn’t have given a guy like him a second glance. He was thin, bookish, somewhat standoffish; the complete opposite of her “type.” There was an innocence about him, though, a sweetness free of pretension that inspired a fierce devotion in her. She wanted to take care of him, and felt needed in a way beyond the mere physical. They had met as coworkers. One day Jeremiah had approached her on a break and they had begun to chat. It turned out that they both played tennis in high-school, and after much stuttering, in a sudden rush, with his head down, Jeremiah asked if she would like to play sometime. Charmed by his awkwardness, she accepted. At the current moment, standing with Jeremiah at a bus-stop amidst a downpour, she was thankful she had.
They held each other and said nothing for a quarter hour, until the rain began to relent. Jeremiah squeezed Elizabeth’s hand – ready? She smiled and kissed him on the lips. They joined hands and took off running, laughing and jumping over puddles, their hearts racing as the rain again began to pick up. They reached their destination, the recessed entryway of a closed office building, just as the downpour resumed in earnest. A clap of thunder heralded their accomplishment, and they leaned against the glass doorway, breathing heavy through their smiles.
The wet and cold drew Lizzy’s nipples out against the thin fabric of her t-shirt. Jeremiah’s eyes fell to them, and he coloured slightly, thankful that the rain would keep passersby to a minimum. Lizzy laughed and wrung out her curly, bleached locks. Her red lips quivered behind the curtain of hair, with a movement like animals hidden in brush. She shook her head quickly from side to side, sending droplets flying in all directions, then threw herself into Jeremiah’s arms. When he released her, she immediately turned her radiant expression out towards the rain.
Mutual friends of Jeremiah and Lizzy couldn’t understand what drew them together. Lizzy was rambunctious, almost silly, and could come across as much less intelligent than she was. Jeremiah, on the other hand, seemed to cultivate an air of intellectual aloofness. His ideal evening consisted of a bottle of wine and a good book; hers, which typically took priority, was of drinking and loud music. They presented an odd pair, storming down sidewalks, club-hopping late into the night – a petite, sparkling blonde, all laughter and sex, with her gangly and distracted boyfriend, uncomfortable in his own skin. Jeremiah saw his life as a series of distractions, of which Lizzy was the most enjoyable. The morning after an evening with her was typically time spent in regret; he had trouble justifying such fun. Lizzy saw going out, the thrill of discovery, the vibrant interaction with one’s city and peers, as the part and parcel of life. Everyday details were accoutrements to her identity as a hipster, from the color she painted the walls in her apartment (irony is a shade of green), to her choice in boyfriends, constant variations on a theme of thin, self-conscious, and creative.
Down the block a change in a traffic signal released a stream of vehicles that passed before Jeremiah and Lizzy one after another, plowing through the downpour with the sound of breakers on a rocky beach. Jeremiah sought out the driver for each, focused on them as they passed, then snapped back to the next, his head a typewriter recoiling on its carriage. Lizzy, bored with the rain, stared downwards and fidgeted, scraping pebbles against the sidewalk with the soles of her shoes. A casual observer might guess that the young pair were strangers, brought together momentarily by the shared need for shelter in a storm. Given a moment of quiet, a distance would develop between them, as if the circuit connecting them broke down in the absence of banal chatter. One could characterize their relationship as electric – powerful and charged, yet ephemeral, capable of dying in an instant. They stood in silence, each engaged in their own repetitions, totally oblivious of one another.
The rain began to slacken, and with a touch on the shoulder Lizzy drew Jeremiah out of his thoughts. He smiled sheepishly and followed her into the drizzle. She walked quickly, and Jeremiah had to hurry to keep up. They trotted onwards, their pace increasing with the size of the drops. A fat splash on the forehead suddenly blurred Jeremiah’s vision, causing him to stop and blink his eyes. He saw her now dashing through a downpour, across an intersection and towards the covered dining area of a small fast-food restaurant. He chased after her, barely beating the changing light. When he reached the table, Eliza was already sitting down, watching him with an ironic smile, a picture of composure. The rain had darkened her clothing and hair.
“I thought you’d never make it,” she said, eyes twinkling.
Jeremiah stood a few feet in front of her, looking away to the right as he struggled to catch his breath. Eliza turned her gaze downward, smile unchanging. He glanced at her. He often wondered where she got the right to that smile. Her alabaster face, smooth and beatific, was flawed only by that cynical, ever-present turn of the lips. She appeared to him like a statue of the Virgin, set up in the foyer of a brothel.
Jeremiah moved to sit, and Eliza scooted over to make room. Seated next to one another, the pair instinctively adopted the same posture and expression. They appeared, each staring at the ground, like a single sculpture endowed with reflective symmetry. Eliza appeared immobile, a natural outgrowth or meditative animal, heedless of the scenery or passing glances. Jeremiah gave a passable impression of this, save for a twitching around the corners of his mouth. He appeared generally as a somewhat hollow impersonation of his companion, a papier-mâché Eliza. When she moved, he moved, and her emotions seemed transmuted through his medium; it was as if she manipulated him with invisible strings. Neither thought anything wrong with this; they were simply well connected. Alone, in the rain, a solitary couple in a patio seating area, they may as well have been siblings, the last of their species, stranded on an island in the midst of a deluge.
There are few places as depressing as a fast food restaurant on a rainy day. The bright red plastic table where Jeremiah and Eliza sat seemed to float on the prevalent grayness like a toy boat drifting down a swollen gutter. Eliza seemed at home; the combination of her severe beauty, black hair, and children’s book tattoos mirrored nicely the contrast between the primal storm and the empty kitsch of the 1950s style drive-in. Jeremiah looked like a soaked terrier. Eliza felt drawn to his vulnerability and relative naivety. When she placed her hand on his, or allowed him to hold her closely, it was with the acquiescence of a distant, yet obliging mother. Jeremiah sought to lose himself within her, to atone for the deficiencies she made him conscious of through emulation of her person. Her tastes dictated everything from his clothing and music to his posture and views on sex. When she fucked him, she was fucking herself, a manikin created in her image. If asked, however, both would identify the other as the love of their life. Hers was the love of a creator for her creation; his that of an ignorant primitive for a remote and unknowable goddess.
Surrounding them was an expanse of concrete and asphalt, populated here and there by other solitary and shared lives. Each was a drop of mercurial color on an otherwise featureless landscape, like puddles of motor oil scattered over a parking lot. Across town a couple walked through a park, holding hands; they seemed in a daze, blissful smiles written across their faces, eyes filled with warm complacency; they were aware of neither their surroundings, nor that in a week they would break up. Their mercurial drop would split, spread apart, two halves would shiver with uncertainty - and then each would gravitate to another, collide, swell towards a seam, and meld. The flux of this action, performed by the multitude over and over, lent the asphalt and concrete the semblance of life.
These movements of months and years were often observable in miniature over the course of a single day. At that moment, huddled together amidst the storm, Jeremiah and Eliza felt closer than they had in weeks. He had an arm wrapped around her, she leaned into him, eyes closed, a soft smile gracing her lips. His other hand rested on her thigh, and he stroked lightly his fingertips over the red fishnet of her stockings. Their relationship was tempestuous; like the storm that raged about them, it was furious, turbulent, a gauntlet that they ran in expectation of lulls. These breaks, which lasted anywhere from an hour to a week, filled them with drowsiness and cast a warm pall over the world. The edges of their contention disappeared, and their eyes, so often hard and opaque, became soft, translucent but for the face of the other. Each of these moments was for Jeremiah a glittering jewel stored close to his heart. When he closed his eyes and thought of her, these memories supplied the images representative to him of her; when he imagined their future, he drew upon this stock of images from the past.
Lost in his thoughts, Jeremiah failed to notice that Eliza had stood. The rain had tapered once again, and she was already walking rapidly down the sidewalk. He rose and followed, falling farther behind as her pace quickened. She began to run the moment he broke into a jog, as if to frustrate his efforts. With a crack of thunder, the sky suddenly opened and crashed down upon him. Jeremiah called after her, but she gave no sign of hearing, and turned the corner at the end of the block. He called out again, but the intensity of the downpour drowned out his voice, and he felt himself frustrated by distance and cacophony. Soaked to the skin, Jeremiah stumbled forwards, feeling, yet refusing to acknowledge the trickle of warmth amongst the rain streaming down his face. Reaching the corner, he turned and saw a bus-stop. It was vacant, save for a newspaper left on the bench. Looking further down the street, he saw it was empty. Taking shelter, Jeremiah sat next to the newspaper and hugged himself, shivering in his wet clothing. He had not expected her to wait for him. Wherever she had gone now, and whatever form she took, was not for him to know. As he sat alone with his quiet, murmuring thoughts, the chill began to lessen, and the rain began to flag. He began to notice people moving on the sidewalk to either side of him. An old man appeared on the bench, and down the street a mother walked hand in hand with her child. The rain ceased, leaving in its wake a heavy humidity. The cloud ceiling broke, and the puddles dotting the street came to life with captured sunlight. Jeremiah sat and looked at the puddles, marveling at how quickly a little attention from the sun could bring a stagnant pool of water to life. He imagined that in each of them he might see his face reflected, painted gold, like the specter of a better self, seen through stained glass. Later, when confronted with his solitude, he would remember the girls with whom he had huddled out of the rain, and saw in each of them not a loss to mourn, but the temporary vision of a different life, a window of possibility that was open for a moment, then shut. A bus approached slowly and stopped. The doors opened with a hiss, and Jeremiah and the old man rose to enter.