Part One The words had all been spoken And somehow the feeling still wasn't right And still we continued on through the night Tracing our steps from the beginning Until they vanished into the air Trying to understand how our lives has led us there Looking hard into your eyes There was nobody I'd ever known Such an empty surprise to feel so alone Now for me some words come easy But I know that they don't mean that much Compared with the things that are said when lovers touch You never knew what I loved in you I don't know what you loved in me Maybe the picture of somebody you were hoping I might be Awake again I can't pretend and I know I'm alone And close to the end of the feeling we've known How long have I been sleeping How long have I been drifting alone through the night How long have I been dreaming I could make it right If I closed my eyes and tried with all my might To be the one you need Awake again I can't pretend and I know I'm alone And close to the end of the feeling we've known How long have I been sleeping How long have I been drifting alone through the night How long have I been running for that morning flight Through the whispered promises and the changing light Of the bed where we both lie Late for the sky The irritating call of a morning-show DJ interrupts my slumber and I hear my breath catch in my throat as I am rudely jerked awake. I feel my heart thud in my chest at the intrusion and my first thought of the day fills my head – Shit. It must be a bad thing when the first thought of the day is a curse word. But, this is my life. In a nut shell. I roll onto my side and pull the comforter up to my ears as I feel Maria roll over in the opposite direction to turn off the alarm. She swears, too, as she swings her body from the bed. I try really really hard to remember a time when waking up beside her was a pleasant experience, when I would smile and spoon her or maybe even ask to make love to her. But I think that may have been a fantasy. I’m not sure I ever smiled waking up next to her, or that I was ever granted access to her body so early in the morning. “Are you getting up?” she asks tersely. I push the blanket back enough to see her standing before the closet, nude. She hasn’t looked at me as she addresses me. I don’t think she ever looks at me any more. And that is oddly okay. “Are you going to do anything today?” is her next accusation. Yes, my love. I am going to get out of bed, take a shower, go to my boring job downtown, stare out the window and wish I was somewhere else. And you? She turns and I get the full frontal view of her body. She had a boob job a few years ago. I miss her perky little breasts. The new ones aren’t her. They’re hard, they’re unnatural, they feel odd. They aren’t huge, but they also aren’t her. I used to love touching her breasts; now I feel revolt just looking at them. “What are you staring at?” she snaps and I look away. I can’t even look at my wife’s body when I want to. “Get up and get ready for work, Max. You’ll be late again.” I don’t care if I’m late. Maybe they’ll finally fire me. I pull the blanket back up to hide my smile as I fantasize about the day I get canned. I think I would actually jump for joy. I imagine myself skipping to the exit of Finegold and Fischer, kicking balance sheets and ten-keys out of the way. The old school financiers would think I’d gone off my rocker and probably call security. Maybe security would shoot me and put me out of my misery. I smile wider. I hear water running in the shower and I know it is safe to get up. I sit on the edge of the bed and scratch my head. Through the window, it is a bright sunny California day. Nothing new there. I hate California. I pull open the night stand drawer and pull out a pack of cigarettes. I’ve never told anyone – not even Michael or Isabel – that nicotine to the alien body has much the same effect as marijuana to the human body. No one knows but me. I spend most of my day stoned and no one knows. And who cares about cancer? It’s not like I couldn’t just get rid of it if it happened to me. Not that I would want to cure myself. Some days I want to die more than anyone could ever imagine. I take the first long drag, hold it until I cough. I feel the tingle spread throughout my body, to my toes and my fingers. Immediately I relax. I forget about Fucking and Fucked-Up (as I’ve come to call Finegold and Fischer in my better moments) and my bitch of a wife in the shower. I feel happy. I care about nothing. I stick the cigarette between my lips and go to the closet. Maria has claimed three quarters of the space and I have but a few feet for my suits. I give a little giggle as I thrust all of her clothes to one end of the rod – she’ll be ironing for days. Which conservative suit do I want to wear today? How about the blue? Or maybe the blue? Or better yet, maybe I’ll be daring and wear the blue. Cigarette ash falls to the floor between my feet and I just stare at it as it burns a hole in the carpet. A little tendril of smoke rises in the air and I wonder unconcerned if maybe a full-scale fire might start. Not that I’d care. But the little wisp of smoke dies a quick death and I am envious. The bathroom door swings open and the princess emerges, naked and wet. I know she does this to taunt me. As soon as I look – or, God forbid, try to touch – she will lash out at me and I will be in the dog house for the next ten years. “Jesus Christ!” she shouts, waving her hand dramatically in the air. Maybe she will finally get a part in a movie if her audition turns out to be as good as this last performance. “Do you have to do that this early in the morning? I just got out of the shower and now I am going to smell like a bar.” I look longingly at the burn mark in the carpet and move for the bathroom without looking at her. As I pass her, though, my buzz gets the best of me and I silently pass gas. I hide my smile as I shut the bathroom door behind myself. I can imagine her face and her confusion as she reasons there is no way I would ever be rude enough to do that to her. Maybe not rude enough, but definitely passive-aggressive enough. I laugh into the shower head. Until I realize the wench has used all of the hot water. The buzz leaves quickly and I am staring into the mirror, suddenly coherent again. I’m 27 years old. I look good. I feel old. I pick up a razor so I can shave. I stopped using my powers eight years ago, after they failed me when I needed them most. Now I use a razor. I cut myself. I bleed. I don’t try to heal it – scabs are now a part of my life. She is mercifully gone by the time I exit the bathroom. Only nine more hours before I have to deal with my lovely wife again. I ride the bus in silence. Across from me, important-feeling men read the Wall Street Journal. Why? What is so vital in that paper that it deserves being flown across the country and into the anxiously waiting hands of business men on the opposite coast? I have a theory – it’s only to make the man holding the paper think he looks more important. I couldn’t care less about how important I look. But I know with the suit and the Ralph Lauren glasses I’ve taken to wearing that people think me important. Why the glasses? They help hide the redness of my perpetual intoxication. The office. The desk in the corner is mine. No, not the corner with windows on either side. The corner with a fax machine to the left and a copier to the right. Welcome to Fucking and Fucked-Up. I try to slip into my gray cube of hell unnoticed, but I’m never that lucky. Sooner or later someone will be around to thump me buddy-like on the shoulder and want to talk about “the game” last night – the game I wasn’t permitted to watch because that might bring some joy into my life. Couldn’t have that. Or it might be the secretary from legal who likes to drop things then bend over in front me so that I can see her breasts. Not that I look…much. And the winner is – yep, the secretary. “Good morning, Max,” she says coyly, stopping to lean against the flimsy fabric covered excuse for a wall. I give her a smile of absolute non-committal. “You look great today.” I smile again. It hurts. And here we go – all of her papers scatter to the floor at my cube entrance. I get up from the chair, kneel and start corralling the loose documents. She drops all of the way to her knees and still manages to hunch over so that her blouse separates. Don’t look, man, don’t do it. Don’t – I looked. She does have nice breasts. They look real, not pads of saline like my wife’s. “I’m so clumsy,” she says as she straightens. I hold out a hand to help her up and she holds it just a bit too long. She’s married. I’m married. We might as well be dead. Not that I’m interested in her anyway. She gives me a little wink – I hate that – and wishes me a good day as she moves on her way. I turn to flip on my computer and my neighbor’s head pops up over the wall. He’s laughing, his face red. “She’s been past here like six times waiting for you to get here,” he giggles childishly. I give a laugh and know that it in no way comes across sincere. “She’s got it bad for you, Evans.” He howls and sinks back to his seat. I shrug and look at the picture of Maria I have put on my desk in obligation. She really is beautiful – people stop by my desk all the time and comment that she looks like a movie star. Which is exactly what she wishes to be. And I wish that for her, too. I also wish I didn’t hate her half the time. I look down at the ring on my finger. Another obligation. Maria never wears hers, says it will hinder her chances of getting a role if people think she is “settled.” I know I wear mine as an anchor, to let me know that I have majorly fucked this one up. I was reincarnated – I was given a second chance to get life right…think I could go for the charm? “Evans,” my neighbor Ed whispers through the general-issue office wall. “Time for a smoke?” Why, yes, my little accountant friend, it is. I was just starting to feel sober again. |
| PART 1 |