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This Is Fiction I Swear: Part 15

Part 15: To Swim

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The last day I ever saw you was the day my Solzhenitsyn came in the mail.

It is the most horrifically ugly book I’ve ever seen: giant and crassly red with typeface that gives away its 1968 reprint year. The jacket is creased and torn and the sallow-faced author himself frowns at me from the safety of his four-by-six bio. He doesn’t look like a decorated war hero in this picture. He doesn’t look like a revolutionary. He doesn’t even look like an author, which is saying a decent lot because what does an author look like anyway? He just looks like the man I see sometimes on the number twelve bus who’s always drinking vodka out of a plastic bottle at 8:00 am.

I set the book on my table and look at it like it’s a newborn with webbed toes. I hate it. I want to destroy it. I don’t even care to open it to see if my old professor was right when she said I would find words so beautifully and deeply written that I would feel my soul jump in my chest when I read them. Instead I leave it sitting on the table like an open wound and go across the street to the café for breakfast. The snow is still falling thickly and steadily and my toes are getting wet through my suede boots but I don’t care because Graham and I have decided to leave tomorrow, Sunday, for California. I shake the snow off my scarf and say hello to the owner before sitting down and ordering a coffee to start. California. Sunday. Tomorrow.

I am the only person in the café this morning and there’s some animal program on the silent television above my head so I’m in a pretty good mood thus far despite the cold still seeping in through the windows. If I knew at this moment that it would be the high point of my day, what would I have done? Would I have thrown myself in front of the traffic on 18th Street and died a frigid death in the gray slush? Would I have crawled back to my apartment and slept until summertime? Or would I have simply bitten into my sourdough egg sandwich and washed it down with black coffee?

Impossible to tell.

I’m chewing heartily when my phone beeps and I expect it to be Graham making arrangements for tomorrow or maybe Angelica telling me again about her birthday party tonight but it’s not. It’s you. You’re on your way back from some god forsaken Midwestern city and are asking what I’m doing later because it would be nice to see me. Oh, cords of dynamite unfurling.

I have every intention of tying them back up and ignoring them but then I get a message from Graham: he has bronchitis. He will be on antibiotics for days and will not be able to leave with me tomorrow, Sunday, for California. He is sorry, and I know he is. He says we’ll go next week, and I believe we will. But my heart, it cannot take this kind of disappointment. It cannot wait. I cannot wait. Maybe the coffee is just hitting my brain but I cannot sit still, cannot sit in this café or this neighborhood or this town for one second longer.

Outside is murky from car exhaust and wet snow, and the dove gray sky is heavy and pressing on my back.  But I am outside. And moving. I don’t know where most of the day goes after that but somehow I am at work, my last shift I thought but now who knows and I have new manager named Jake or Jerry or something and he’s from one of the Carolinas and I hate him for no reason. But I can come up with reasons enough, and so I do and I tell them all to my coworker who agrees with me probably because most people don’t understand what other people are like, and they’ll believe anything you tell them. Really, it’s frighteningly easy to create or destroy someone’s character if you want to.

And after my shift when I have sufficiently severed any hopes of an amicable work relationship with Jake Jerry I walk to the train to go to Angelica’s party at a bar on the north side. I thought it was going to be the last time I would see her and now that it won’t be it feels less significant and I feel less like remembering it. I don’t want to go, but I don’t want to not go because then what? There is no California tomorrow, Sunday.

There is tomorrow, actually, and there is Sunday, because those happen whether we plan for them or not. They arrive whether we order them or not, sort of like that poor Solzhenitsyn bleeding on my table. But what if there weren’t tomorrow or Sunday? I have this thought somewhere between the whiskey shots I bought for Angelica and the sips of bourbon from a friend’s flask. And by the time the music in the back room has changed decades and the floor by the bar feels sticky and the girls in flowered dresses all have partners, I am setting my latest drink on a table and rushing outside to meet you.

Your car is idling by the curb or what I think is the curb because I can’t see it through all the dirty snow and slush. Your headlights are on and I’m frantically putting my arms in the sleeves of my coat because it’s fucking cold out here I think but I’m not sure. I slide into the passenger seat and you barely look at me and I don’t look at you because I’m too busy saying something about how I forgot my gloves at the bar. But you don’t care and I don’t really either and now we’re gliding through the wet side streets heading for Lake Shore Drive. And that’s when it occurs to me.

-What?

-How I might be able to stop Sunday!

-What are you talking about? Tomorrow is—

-I’ll stop it. Sorry, we’ll stop it. Together. What do you say? I think it would be beautiful. What do you say?

You don’t seem to have any clue what I mean so I start to tell you but then change course and tell you instead how different we are and how you never ever know what I mean. You will never understand if you lived a thousand times longer than a thousand generations and…

But it’s no use because the words aren’t getting through to you, probably because I’m not stringing them together right, probably because of the whiskey swirling in my brain. But just that second as I look at the black lake all the alcohol seems to evaporate and my head is clear. So clear and crisp and I swear the snow has even stopped falling for a minute and the radio has stopped playing and the other cars have disappeared from the road. I know what I need to do.

I grab the steering wheel and turn it sharply to the left, towards the lake. There’s a ledge at this point in the drive and if we go over it we’ll fall twenty yards before crashing into the waves. I imagine the icy water peeling off the layers of dust and sweat on my skin. I imagine it numbing my nerves and slowing my heart until everything around me and in me is calm. Unmoving and calm, and I can drift until the end of time, until the cold water turns to sun on my face, until the sound of the waves turns into the sound of my mother’s voice calling me to the kitchen for breakfast and I am five years old.

But the only voice calling is yours and you’re screaming my name and a hundred other things at a pitch I’ve never heard before. Your whole body is somehow in between my arm and the steering wheel, and as you continue to yell I notice that the snow has started to fall again. Or maybe it never stopped. I’m enraptured with the scene out the window: this endless stream of tiny white snowflakes, so silent, against the dark canvas of night. And city lights to the west. And this bridge back to our neighborhood.

You pull up to my apartment and wait for me to get all my things out of the car and then drive off. It is just then when I’m inside my door and I see Solzhenitsyn staring at me from my table in the dark that the monstrous, cavernous hole opens its jaws and sets to work ripping apart my chest. An hour or so of this until I’ve worn myself out. I make some tea and look at the clock. Eleven minutes to sunrise.

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This Is Fiction I Swear: Part 10

Part 10: The Ride

Waves

Sometimes I wonder if I could be a sociopath. But maybe the sheer fact that I wonder about it disqualifies me. Or maybe it strengthens my position among the rest, among the best. I’m not sure, but I’m pretty sure you’re a sociopath because I caught you lying that one time, and I only caught you because I’m so good at it, too. Sometimes I wish I weren’t, but it’s for your own good! I’m only protecting you!

From me, that is.

You finally stepped back because you knew you’d never be secure here. You finally put up your hands and backed into the dark where I couldn’t see you. I reached and reached but you were gone. I tried to cry out but like in a dream I had no voice. I stood blinking, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the dark, but they haven’t yet. I’m still standing here waiting. I could go forward but I’m not sure how far this tunnel goes and I can’t see a thing. I’m frozen and you’re gone. And I’m starting to pick up habits like dust.

Luckily today the sky is blanketed in gray. The Indian summer has long passed and November is digging in its heels. Rippling clouds with ivory tops and dirty bottoms spread out above me and keep me on the ground. It’s nice, though. It’s nice to have something pressing down on me from up there just so I know I won’t be sucked into some cosmic hole that might open up in the exposed heavens. It could happen.

I’m climbing the stairs to the train platform and pulling my scarf closer to my neck to ward off the sudden cold. Where did this cold come from? Just yesterday we were sweltering in the summer heat. Just yesterday we were standing half-dressed in front of the fan in your apartment. Just yesterday we were in love.

Just kidding. I never loved you. Smoke and fog and clouds are all mixing out the window of this train car as it pulls in and out of stations heading downtown. I’m supposed to go to the 14th floor of some building to interview for a job, for some legal assistant job, but I doubt I’ll make it there. I don’t know why, but I just have that feeling, that feeling like when you know the answer to a question but you ask it anyway.

The man across from me is sitting with his girlfriend. I think she’s his girlfriend, but she’s not looking at him. He’s talking to her, saying things like The worst part is the separation. I missed you so much. He kisses her cheek but she’s still looking out the window behind my head. Her indifference is sharp and I’m glad I’m across the aisle. I want to look away but I can’t. He’s still trying, still talking, still to straining say something that reaches her. Or maybe just something so there’s not silence. Looks like tomorrow it’ll be nothing but the house, the boring old house. But at least I can go to the refrigerator when I want. Haha! It’s things like that you don’t realize. He’s got a large duffle bag next to him and I realize he’s coming from the prison.

How long he was there, I don’t know. What he did, I don’t know. How long she was alone and hating him and yet still here picking him up at the end, I don’t know, but I know she’ll forgive him and it’ll be good—so good!—for a while before he does something else and she’s standing solitary in the cold once again.

They get off at the same stop I do. I rush down the stairs past them so I won’t have to watch anymore. I don’t want to see him try to grab her hand while she shoves it in her pocket. I don’t want to hear him talk about the traffic or the cold or anything while she pretends not to listen. The light is turning red but I run across the street anyways to put some distance between me and them. The legal building I need to go to is two blocks north but I keep walking straight east, straight to the lake. I need to see what the lake looks like today.

Gray and blue and white and spray! I knew it would be excellent. The cool lake air wraps around my face and dots it with water. I breathe in deeply and shut my eyes for a second and detach from everything, from everyone. I knew I wouldn’t make it to the interview.