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It’s nearly midnight when you awaken, shake away the
silken web of your dreams, draw the covers back with
an urgency you can never quite define. It takes a moment or two, but
pretty soon everything comes into focus: the shitty apartment, your little
life, the sounds of humanity dying when it should be sleeping, rising from
the street below.
And it’s all so repetitious, you think as you pull on a pair of faded jeans,
shoes you can’t even be bothered to tie.
She’s out there again and you’re here, in the middle of the night,
finding your keys and wondering when the price of friendship went up, what
divine law it was that you broke so badly as to be sentenced to this - the
act of saving someone over and over.
You’ve dialed her number, are tapping your fingers like some crazed conductor
for an orchestra of empty rings and the misguided hope that maybe this time
the signals were crossed. Maybe she’s home, will answer in a tussled
voice, be irritated by the late call. Maybe this time it will be a
mistake, she won’t need you at all.
The symphony ends with a click as you break the connection, set down the
phone with a slam of protest; with the frustrated clap of your forehead
against the wall, the muffled jingle of the car keys in your hand, the
realization. She’s out there and you have to find her.
It’s a
little after midnight and the city is a solar system filled with lights that
circle, that pulse with a few million heartbeats. You’re driving blind,
man, guided only by some small voice in your mind, a bit of a tug in your
gut.
And you’re cursing her, calling her everything that - in spite of all
appearances - you swear she has never been. Demanding bitch. Two-bit whore.
Stupid girl.
But even now, in your darkest hour, your back straightens with knowing, your
foot twitches on the gas pedal with resolve. You’re nearly there. Hurry,
hurry.
What’s it going to be this time? Will you find her unconscious on some
concrete floor in the ladies room of one of these brightly lit clubs, her
wrists cut, her skin bruised by another man’s hand? What’s the story
going to be this
time? Abandoned at a truck stop with an ocean of tears, another useless
apology?
It’s all so repetitious and your jaw is clenched with the insanity of it.
You’re fumbling for a cigarette, you’re on a mental journey through a dozen
sad songs, a hundred ways to say goodbye. It’s late, you’re awake and driving
blind, so tired of it all when you feel the feather weight of those tiny
words fluttering around you like a new and simple wind. Look up.
Above this stretch of road there is a bridge and on that bridge, there is a
shadow of a girl in starlight’s silver frame. She’s looking down at you,
she’s been waiting.
At some point, as you’re searching for a place to park your car, the anger
fades. At some point, as you’re rushing those stairs in twos, closing
the distance between you, you cannot get there fast enough. She turns,
smiles at you, acts surprised that you’ve found her again.
“Fancy meeting you here,” she says with a tinny edge to her voice, her very
essence cloaked with whiskey, hidden in this charade.
But, my god, she’s beautiful. Even now, that girl fills your senses.
You could have her here, could take her anywhere, could
play this game forever if only you didn’t want forever to be so much more.
It takes all your will to wrap your hands around her wrists, to
untangle her from you, to say no. Not like this.
It only takes a breath or two, but pretty soon everything comes into
focus. Every hurt this city has ever
known is painted on her face when she looks at you, when she discovers that
she’s done it again, has died by her own hand, has killed the season she
could have been and for no good reason.
An hour past midnight and truth comes as a tremor, an earthquake, a storm
that you can never quite calm. She has lost the safe mask, lost her will, has
fallen into your arms. She is cursing, calling herself everything she
believes she
is. Oh, how she hates her little life, how sad she is, so utterly lost.
And you... You are warm, kind, backed against a chain link wall of some city
bridge, hanging on to her as though if you ever let go, it would be you that
fell to the street below. You’re screaming that she’s beautiful,
knowing she
cannot hear you, thinking maybe you just need to hear yourself for once.
It’s all so repetitious, how at some appointed time, the world will grow
silent. You’ll be nearly numb with stillness, the weight of her against
your chest. You’ll lead her to your car, make
your way through the streets, noticing now how unreal they are with their
flashing lights, their artificial heartbeats. You’ll decide that the
only thing real is what’s in this car, you and her, how there are no words to
define this need of yours to defend it. You’ll take her to your apartment, to
your bed, but you’ll be too tired to even hold her now.
When you wake, you’ll be alone in those tangled sheets, wondering where that
little voice goes when she doesn’t need you. You will be missing her
already.
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