His thin T-shirt is sweating through bare arms and the common coloured ink is falling off the pages and into our lives. Directed by the vibrations in the walls of our own dark symphony. These symphonic body whispers slip away to laughter. Faces slip through fingers, lost in crowded hallways. All those missing seconds, I collect them and lock them in the orchestra pit and take him by the hand and pull him down into it and then... I wake up.
I wake up and I'm not with him, I'm still with Hawk and its 4a.m. and he's getting his bag on to go home because although he can stay til 4 or 5a.m. he can never spend the night.
He goes over to the ugly metal windows, recently installed, replacing antique wood, lights his cigarette and opens them. Oh good, it was only 30 degrees in here before.
He hasn't noticed I'm awake. I watch him watch the neihbors. I resent him, him with his sleek black coat flapping in the wind, pelvic bones jutting out through his uncle's leather pants. I resent him for not sleeping with me. We talk, we hang out, we make love, we f**k but he can't let himself fall asleep with me, he has to go home.
He turns, "You're up." He stubs out his cigarette and closes the window.
"Not really," I mumble.
"Good, don't let me wake you, I'll just let myself out, I'm borrowing your keys again okay."
"Um yeah I guess, yeah okay." I'm still half-asleep, I tire far too easily, I hate that, one should only be tired from good sex, good drugs, or good dancing.
He kisses me on the cheek, pinches my ass, whispers goodnight and starts to walk away.
"Your watch," I say too quietly to be heard but he hears me anyway and stops, stares blankly at me "What?"
"Your watch Hawk, your watch."
"What about it?"
"It's on the table." I use my remaining energy to explain something he could have understood had he only tried. I lift my arm and point to the watch. It's this fancy old wristwatch that doesn't work, he just wears it because it looks classy and he's proud that he found it on the street. He also has a gold pocketwatch that he got for only 15 dollars because the chain is too short and it doesn't work either. He constantly complains about not knowing the time and when I tell him to get a working watch he tells me he doesn't like watches. Go figure.
"Oh." He rolls up his sleeve revealing the virgin anemic veins of a shooter and I insist once again that with veins like that he must shoot up and he insists that he never has nor does he have any desire to. As always we play around with the same old script never daring to flip through to the end to see what happens next.
He clasps his watch, thanks me, and then leaves. I can't sleep now, I feel guilty for dreaming of someone else. When I close my eyes all I can see is Hawk. He has the face of sweet youth with the words of a man who's been in hell for far too many centuries. He has this large birthmark on his right eyelid. He's so self-conscious about it which strikes me as silly because when I care about someone deeply; that old scar, nasty birthmark, bald spot, or excess flab is one of the most treasured things on earth. And I always feel that my admiration should be enough:"You look beautiful to me no matter what so why does it matter?" but I know that's not true. In fact to me, complements mean even less coming from someone who always thinks you're great. As important as their opinion is to the two of you, it no longer counts in the real world.
I don't want to think about Hawk anymore, thoughts are rushing in and getting all jumbled up and my eyelids are getting heavy and I'm approaching slumberland...and
suddenly sexy fiery redhead, get on your knees and call leather and you will beg breathless poetry and bloody kisses. What passion it's frozen solid with ice my keys and tell more we drank, we flew, we fell. Complete impulse balances me these sparkling devil eyes. Scissoring sibilant nylon legs linger by my hard hand, a hot pink palm and five pink fingers. Underarms, socks, underwear, sneakers and boots, lascivious lashes lick the erotic spirit and I open my eyes, stumble out of bed and flip up the light switch.
She's waiting for me, standing in the doorless frame smoking in her underwear, her deep red hair conceals her eyes so I cannot see just quite what she is thinking. She wants me to come to her. Some unknown force causes me to hesitate, I reach my hand out to touch her and she is gone.
I wake up with the sudden flash of realization that I was just still dreaming, I thought I had really woken up. How do I know I'm awake now? But I do know, I know because I have that real feeling. It's that wonderful wooden chair feeling, you know, like a singular chair sitting in a bare room keeping down secrets hidden underneath the floorboards, with a grey marble fireplace that hasn't been used in nearly 53 years. That's how I know I'm awake now, that and the fact that I broke up with Hawk almost a month ago and now I'm single and depressed and I'd much rather be dreaming.
I can't really fall asleep again but I make an attempt to keep dreaming anyhow. I think of the poster I saw in the upstairs comic book store in Brooklyn Heights the other day. It was of a girl with sexy short red cartoon hair, straight. The hair, not the girl. Black leather underwear. Isn't she cold? No she's not real. Does she have wings? Don't be silly she's an action crime fighter not some fantasy superhero. Will she be raped? If she was real, yes. Raped and arrested for soliciting. Why can't I be like her? Society is restricting you. You can't afford the time or money to get your hair done that perfectly and it wouldn't stay that way anyhow and if You wore that You Would get cold and wait someone's screaming.. They're screaming so loudly and why won't they stop? I jump out of bed and hit the screaming clock with all of my power. It's been a restless night, I guess I have to get ready for school now, I glance at my calendar, it's Valentine's Day, I had forgotten.
Copyright 1997 mint