Babyblue meets stranger
The city lights shone early summerbright, a light heated breeze with a slight taste of pollen touching andfeeling through the concrete and metal. Rose looked through blue eyes, locking her car and pulling a blackhandbag over her shoulder, and walked into the city solitude, alone, lookingfleshy plump in a baby blue halter and white skirt, which moved pleasantlyagainst her legs, dancing in summer wind. Down the avenue towards never, she glided her feet and sandals coveringcracked pavement and garbage. She saw,without giving a sign of recognition, the bus terminal, the mechanical life ofcoming and going, of oil and gas, the place of the lost hopeless. Words flitted through her mind, hermother’s.
“Only poor people take the bus.”
She walked past the benches and bumsand into the bright downtown night, seeing in front of her neon and advertisedfun. She checked her watch, withoutslowing, and frowned. She pressedpainted fingers through her hair, one last attempt to straighten and fix blondelocks that refused to be tamed. Shepaused for a moment at the door, looking at her reflection. With a shake of her head and a sigh, sheentered.
Bar darkness blinded blue as eyesturned to meet the open door. A couplenearest the door returned to conversing, making little note of newcomer. Further along sat the men, alone and leering,cheap animal seething, masked in khakis and collared shirts, hooded collegejerseys and authentic team apparel. Shemoved slowly forward, eyes moving slowly with her, eyes tasting pearl thighs,bare navel. Slow steps past them, to anempty booth against the wall, sitting, and legs crossed, waiting.
She looked around as she waited forbarkeep to fix a drink. The same hungryeyes tasting and licking, four sets of hungry eyes. The bartender put a drink in front of her, whichshe finished quickly.
“Another.” She called. She glanced at her watch with disappointment and sighed. “I shouldn’t have been late.”
A drink, drink empty. She signaled again.
She placed the handbag next to her,removing a phone, gray contact with concrete world. She flipped it open: no messages. She sighed and drank, all the while a he, with the tan khakis andcollared shirt, sauntered close, leaning against the booth. He smelled scented clean, standing dangerousnear. She avoided his eyes, hungry andbright, and let her eyes wander. Acouple holding hands and whispering of secret love, an elderly man staring intohis beer, and further down the bar, he, alone, he of wild hair and blue plasticpants, sat writing mysteries into a black book.
“Strange.” She said.
“Indeed.” Khaki spoke.
She looked at mr. khaki and gavefake smile, hoping he’d leave. He smiledback and slid confident into the open space across from her.
“How about a drink?”
She nodded and reached into thehandbag, removing a package of cigarettes. Khaki extended fire and smiled.
“I’m Kyle.” He said.
“Rose.”
He reached his hand toward her,which she met with her own. His handfelt cool and soft. A moment of silencespent watching him write, while Kyle fed animal hunger and stared. She finished her drink and he signaled foranother, his eyes fixed on blue.
“I’m meeting someone.” She said.
He nodded understanding and flippedhis hand in the direction of writer.
“Hopefully you’re not waiting onhim.”
She sighed and began to pick at herfingers. She finished her drink andpressed her cigarette into the ashtray.
“I’m not sure.” She watched as he wrote, wondering. She saw Kyle smiling, light laughter on hislips. She turned to face him, lookinginto hazel eyes, which burned deep red with alcohol high.
“There is a story here.” He said.
“Not one that I’m going to tellyou.” She answered.
Kyle let out a low whistle andtapped his fingers against his glass. Hesat silent, watching, eyes against her bare shoulders, touching her skin. He signaled for another round, finished hisbeer and walked from the bar. Rose lit acigarette and returned her gaze to writer. She gathered handbag and phone and walked, unsteady with drink daze,past the eyes watching to the end of the bar, taking a seat next to him.
“Mind if I sit?” She asked. He didn’t respond and continued writing. She drank while looking him over, seeing cigarette stained fingers andragged clean nails, fingers in constant motion. She crossed her legs and turned towards him, her foot brushing againsthis pants. She adjusted her skirt andran a painted finger over pale thigh, all while keeping her eyes on hishands. Silence and fingers in motion mether efforts. A sigh escaped her lips,lips full and colored light pink. She pulledhard on her cigarette and began once again to pick at her cuticles.
He turned to face her, his eyes wideand dark and brooding, eyes that seemed to bore into her own, and placed hishands flat against the black book, as if shielding the words from her.
“Is there something in particularyou wanted or are you just looking to get laid.” He said. His voice rang deep and angry, bringing a rush of red to her plump, palecheeks.
She attempted to speak, but her voicefailed her. In a hurry to answer, shedropped the cigarette and reached for the black bag, struggling to tear itopen. The phone fell out onto the bar asshe searched, finally bringing out a folded magazine. She opened it and pushed it in front of him.
“Did you write this story?” She whispered.
He took the magazine in his hands,looking at the cover and at the page she wished him to see. He took a deep breath, ran a hand through hishair, which leapt out in wild spiked bunches from his head, and pushed themagazine back towards her.
“I wrote that in another life.”
She waited for something more, somesign of interest, anything, but he remained silent. He finished his beer, ordered another with aflick of his hand, and pulled a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket. He closed his book and leaned back on hischair, watching her, looking into her eyes. Moments passed one into another; a cigarette lit, a drink finished andrefilled, music sounding from the jukebox in the corner.
“I loved that story.” She managed. He didn’t acknowledge her comment and continued to watch her, eyes notmoving from her own.
“I guess you get that a lot. I mean, I’ve read lots of your stories and Ithink you’re a really great writer. Iwanted to meet you and see what you were like.” She finished in a rush, too many words, sounding foolish toherself. He remained silent. She gulped down a drink in an attempt togather courage.
“I’ve always dreamed of a manspeaking to me the way you write.” Shesmiled, happy to have said what she wished to tell him, for once not lacking courage.
He smiled and laughed a short hardlaugh. He called for shots frombartender and pushed one in her direction. Without a word, only a simple nod at her, he tossed the shot back. He gathered his things, threw money on thebar and stood. He walked towards thedoor, not looking back. She downed hershot, through a grimace of discomfort and followed behind him, not knowing whyor where he led.
He stood outside the bar, waiting,black book under his arm, cigarette between his lips. Again in silence, he began walking, a briskpace. She followed, likewise silent,wondering and thinking and wishing. Thecity passed in a blur, a jumble of crosswalks and alleys and stoplights. Her feet felt sore from the exertion and shewondered if he lived in the city at all.
“Am I getting a guided tour?” She joked. He smiled at her and kept walking, turning sharply into a narrowlane. Towering three story apartmenthouses lined the street on both sides, an endless stretch of humanity. He walked up the steps of a gray giant andwith a turn of a key, entered. Heclimbed the stairs, expertly in the darkness, Rose trying to keep close to him,her hand upon his shoulder. He came toan abrupt halt next to a door that seemed to materialize out of thedarkness. He pushed the door open andled the way inside.
“Welcome to my humble abode.” He said.
The door opened into darkness, whichhe entered, leaving Rose to stare into the black. She heard and then saw a match touch light toa candle, revealing a wide room with low ceiling. The candle sat upon a wooden table in thecenter, the outlines of a couch to one side visible. He walked to each corner and lit morecandles, turning darkness into shadows. The kitchen opened to the left through an opening and another dooragainst the far wall, which Rose thought to be the bathroom.
“Where do you sleep?” She asked, peering into the shadows in searchof another door.
“On the couch.” He said, extending his arm. She sat and leaned back, the couch feelingdeep and soft beneath her. She pushed ahand against the cushions, feeling the fabric, as he placed a drink on thetable.
“I don’t place a high importance onpossessions. I need few comforts towork.”
Rose sat silent, looking and seeing,noticing the bookcase against the wall and the desk adjacent to the couch, asmusic sounded behind her.
“Mozart.” Ray said as he changed into a shorts and atee-shirt. He grabbed an ashtray and abeer and sat down next to her, close. Hand against bare leg, the light pleasure of alcohol in her veins, therush of a moment close, Rose shut her eyes.
“Can I read a new story?” Rose asked.
“I don’t like to have a story readbefore it is ready to publish.” Palmagainst thigh, fingertips run slow and delicate against cream and pearl.
“Please.” She said, placing her hand upon his, pullingit higher. Ray handed her the blackbook, pushing fingertips under white skirt.
“Thank you.” She said. She reclined against a pillow, opening the black book.
There is a terroristin our midst.
He is the leader of the land.
Rose moaned and gripped the book, tightly, as Mozart playedmad heat upon her thighs. She read on.
“This is fire.” She whispered. Cellos and violas danced upon her navel,touching and teasing, a chorus of intent.
The downward pressureexerted upon the individual must be excised.
I am one, unique and strong. I will oppose.
I deny my number; Istand and scream at metallic murderous god,
I will not bow! Hearmy song, my song of death, my song of opposition. To see is to live, to live is to die. You, our leader, shall die.
Nails clean and ragged dug into arm flesh, pulling Rosedown and deep. A violin makes its voiceheard, in one final rush, a maddening run of minor.
You, those that failto oppose tyranny, fail to be one, fail in the defense
of individual;you too shall die.
No comments:
Post a Comment