speed toward Point Zero and from there they zoom back upward toward the Insertion Moment. “It’s all about the motherfucking timing.” Clearly time is one thing Riley has way too much of.Regardless though, I’m pretty sure Point Zero has not arrived yet for Sasha and me, so we stroll along the avenue, chatting amiably.
“The only thing I remember,” she says without an overabundance of sadness, “is standing next to my brother, surrounded by strange faces. I’m glad he’s there, holding my hand, but I’m nervous about something. I see an oil-covered dead man with a mustache. And then we die.”
“Wait—what?”
“I know. It doesn’t really make sense. But that’s the best way I can describe it. He was frozen and shiny and all black like oil had been dumped over him and crying out into the night, silently. That’s the last thing I saw.”
“You don’t remember how you died?”
She shakes her head. “Must’ve been quick, whatever it was. Or I blotted it out.”
I like how matter-of-fact she is about death. Not devoid of emotion, but not ruled by it either. It’s a comfortable balance that most living people could never understand. “You?”
I shrug. “There’s not much there. I think you have more than I do. I was murdered. That I’m pretty sure about. I’m looking up at three faces, well, not faces: they’re wearing ski masks. I know it’s all over, but it’s been a real fight and I can see they’re winded and one’s bleeding, so at least I didn’t give up easy, I think to myself. Then one of them moves his arm and it’s over.”
“Damn.” She raises her eyebrows and looks up at me with an endearing blend of concern and curiosity.
We walk a while in silence along the edge of the park. Classy old buildings line one side of the street. The block we’re on is shadowed by the darkness of trees and undergrowth stretching toward Flatbush. I can almost feel itbreathing, beckoning me, but I don’t want to retrace the steps of Trevor’s murder. Who knows what thoughts and emotions would spill out and poison the night air?
“Where do you live?”
Sasha gasps. “My good gentleman! How very forward of you.”
“Well, I meant it . . . What I mean is . . . Hm.” It takes a second to register that she isn’t really offended and then I just shut up.
“Flatbush.”
“May I escort you home?”
“You may escort me to my door and no further.” She eyes me to see how that settles in.
“It would be an honor.” Point Zero is many miles away, but it’s a beautiful night and I enjoy long walks.
* * *
The night ended like this: we stood outside Sasha’s huge prewar apartment building on Ocean Avenue, our faces so close together I could count the hairs in each swirl, and we let the conversation wind itself down. In the comfortable silence that followed, I went in to kiss her. She turned her face so I landed on her cheek instead of her lips and then held very still. For a few moments, we just stood there with my face barely touching the side of hers. Breathing in, breathing out, the winter night wrapping around us, the passing traffic. Breathing in, breathing out, trying to memorize the moment in case it never happened again.
And then she was gone.
An ecstatic stroll home, through the park, the once dark and foreboding park, now all illuminated with the sparkle of late-season snowfields and the glorious palpitations ofmy motherfucking heart. Drunk on only the moment, I make it home, blissfully stumble out of my clothes, and immerse myself in the warmth of New York’s Puerto Rican poets before pleasuring myself and passing out at sunrise with a smile on myface.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
T here’s a small ghost at my door.
It can’t be too important, so I fall back asleep.
There’s a small ghost at my door. Still. His irritating little telepathy twitters around my bedroom like a stupid fucking bird that I want to kill. Instead I fall back asleep.
And wake back up,
“The only thing I remember,” she says without an overabundance of sadness, “is standing next to my brother, surrounded by strange faces. I’m glad he’s there, holding my hand, but I’m nervous about something. I see an oil-covered dead man with a mustache. And then we die.”
“Wait—what?”
“I know. It doesn’t really make sense. But that’s the best way I can describe it. He was frozen and shiny and all black like oil had been dumped over him and crying out into the night, silently. That’s the last thing I saw.”
“You don’t remember how you died?”
She shakes her head. “Must’ve been quick, whatever it was. Or I blotted it out.”
I like how matter-of-fact she is about death. Not devoid of emotion, but not ruled by it either. It’s a comfortable balance that most living people could never understand. “You?”
I shrug. “There’s not much there. I think you have more than I do. I was murdered. That I’m pretty sure about. I’m looking up at three faces, well, not faces: they’re wearing ski masks. I know it’s all over, but it’s been a real fight and I can see they’re winded and one’s bleeding, so at least I didn’t give up easy, I think to myself. Then one of them moves his arm and it’s over.”
“Damn.” She raises her eyebrows and looks up at me with an endearing blend of concern and curiosity.
We walk a while in silence along the edge of the park. Classy old buildings line one side of the street. The block we’re on is shadowed by the darkness of trees and undergrowth stretching toward Flatbush. I can almost feel itbreathing, beckoning me, but I don’t want to retrace the steps of Trevor’s murder. Who knows what thoughts and emotions would spill out and poison the night air?
“Where do you live?”
Sasha gasps. “My good gentleman! How very forward of you.”
“Well, I meant it . . . What I mean is . . . Hm.” It takes a second to register that she isn’t really offended and then I just shut up.
“Flatbush.”
“May I escort you home?”
“You may escort me to my door and no further.” She eyes me to see how that settles in.
“It would be an honor.” Point Zero is many miles away, but it’s a beautiful night and I enjoy long walks.
* * *
The night ended like this: we stood outside Sasha’s huge prewar apartment building on Ocean Avenue, our faces so close together I could count the hairs in each swirl, and we let the conversation wind itself down. In the comfortable silence that followed, I went in to kiss her. She turned her face so I landed on her cheek instead of her lips and then held very still. For a few moments, we just stood there with my face barely touching the side of hers. Breathing in, breathing out, the winter night wrapping around us, the passing traffic. Breathing in, breathing out, trying to memorize the moment in case it never happened again.
And then she was gone.
An ecstatic stroll home, through the park, the once dark and foreboding park, now all illuminated with the sparkle of late-season snowfields and the glorious palpitations ofmy motherfucking heart. Drunk on only the moment, I make it home, blissfully stumble out of my clothes, and immerse myself in the warmth of New York’s Puerto Rican poets before pleasuring myself and passing out at sunrise with a smile on myface.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
T here’s a small ghost at my door.
It can’t be too important, so I fall back asleep.
There’s a small ghost at my door. Still. His irritating little telepathy twitters around my bedroom like a stupid fucking bird that I want to kill. Instead I fall back asleep.
And wake back up,
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