tangle. Did she decide it was worth the risk? Is she confident that, whatever happens, she will win out in the end, or does she not care about any of that and just wants me to be out in the world again, even if it’s not with her?
“Anything you want,” Megumi is saying. “I’ll go get it.” I harbor no specific cravings, or more precisely, I deny myself cravings that can only go unfulfilled.
“Roast beef and Swiss,” I finally say, “Lettuce, tomato, onion, mayo. Lots of mayo. Salt and pepper. On a hero.”
It’s ridiculous that while she is out getting lunch I am lonely, yet here I am at the window, shade pulled back, peeking down at the empty street, waiting, wasting no opportunity to catch a glimpse. I try the bed, but her absence, her lingering wake, consumes me. My gaze ricochets off the walls. Back at the window I stare into the distance. How far away is the sky?
It’s even more ridiculous that a roast beef sandwich could reduce me to tears, yet here I am. Just my right eye, not my left. I can barely swallow.
“What’s wrong?” she says when she gets back.
I shake my head. We eat on the floor, our heros unwrapped, the white paper forming our placemats. We dump our chips into a pile. I drink a can of Coke. She drinks ginger ale. Between us are pickles. I imagine that we are sitting in the grass, on the bank of a slow river.
“I know what you’re doing,” I say. “Do you really think a sandwich will make me long for the world?”
“I just thought you might want some lunch.” She tries a bite of my roast beef. I try a bite of her ham and egg and tomato. “It’s really warm out today,” she says. “Like spring. I wish you could’ve come with me. It’d be fun to walk together.”
The afternoon unwinds. The window burns golden. She runs her fingers across my new face and says my skin is smooth. Her fingers are just as smooth. Smoother.
“I told you about my brother. Tell me about your son.”
“I killed him.” Looking into the mirror after she shaved me was like rummaging through the dark corner of a forgotten drawer and discovering an old photograph.
“You didn’t. If you killed him, you’d be in jail.”
“What do you think this is?”
She sits on the bed. I lie with my head on her lap. With her fingertips she inspects my hair and ear and neck. I don’t mind. The late afternoon sun has sunk and shines directly through the window, casting a wide beam of light across the wood floor, a beam of brilliance that suddenly appears and disappears with the stray passing of clouds.
I am falling, no doubt, the ground beneath me has crumbled away and I am swallowed into the blackness, and nothing’s left for me but to fall, to feel the wind in my face, to resign myself to the depths, and I wonder if there ever really was any solid ground beneath my feet, or if I was perched on the tiny tip of a thousand-foot needle, balancing way up high, appearing still and solid and steady, but constantly contracting my muscles in perfect orchestration to keep my balance, lest the slightest breeze knock me over. The girl sent me falling. I reach out, but my arms are mercilessly short and there is nothing to grab to break my plunge, only the air itself, slipping through my fingers as I squeeze. But at this moment, I have nothing to fear. At this exact moment I am not so much falling as floating—so long is the shaft through which I descend—the wind through my hair, my stomach queasy, bobbing in a void. How long since I last felt so free? My muscles need not contract endlessly now, I can finally relax. I hope I land in some soft place, or even better that I never land, that this falling becomes my new state of being.
“My neighbor Morris’s son was teaching my son how to draw pictures on the sidewalk with colored chalk. Houses and trees and the sun and dinosaurs. I sipped Silke’s coffee out of a mug we bought in Paris. She was supposed to come down when she was off the phone. It’s funny the
“Anything you want,” Megumi is saying. “I’ll go get it.” I harbor no specific cravings, or more precisely, I deny myself cravings that can only go unfulfilled.
“Roast beef and Swiss,” I finally say, “Lettuce, tomato, onion, mayo. Lots of mayo. Salt and pepper. On a hero.”
It’s ridiculous that while she is out getting lunch I am lonely, yet here I am at the window, shade pulled back, peeking down at the empty street, waiting, wasting no opportunity to catch a glimpse. I try the bed, but her absence, her lingering wake, consumes me. My gaze ricochets off the walls. Back at the window I stare into the distance. How far away is the sky?
It’s even more ridiculous that a roast beef sandwich could reduce me to tears, yet here I am. Just my right eye, not my left. I can barely swallow.
“What’s wrong?” she says when she gets back.
I shake my head. We eat on the floor, our heros unwrapped, the white paper forming our placemats. We dump our chips into a pile. I drink a can of Coke. She drinks ginger ale. Between us are pickles. I imagine that we are sitting in the grass, on the bank of a slow river.
“I know what you’re doing,” I say. “Do you really think a sandwich will make me long for the world?”
“I just thought you might want some lunch.” She tries a bite of my roast beef. I try a bite of her ham and egg and tomato. “It’s really warm out today,” she says. “Like spring. I wish you could’ve come with me. It’d be fun to walk together.”
The afternoon unwinds. The window burns golden. She runs her fingers across my new face and says my skin is smooth. Her fingers are just as smooth. Smoother.
“I told you about my brother. Tell me about your son.”
“I killed him.” Looking into the mirror after she shaved me was like rummaging through the dark corner of a forgotten drawer and discovering an old photograph.
“You didn’t. If you killed him, you’d be in jail.”
“What do you think this is?”
She sits on the bed. I lie with my head on her lap. With her fingertips she inspects my hair and ear and neck. I don’t mind. The late afternoon sun has sunk and shines directly through the window, casting a wide beam of light across the wood floor, a beam of brilliance that suddenly appears and disappears with the stray passing of clouds.
I am falling, no doubt, the ground beneath me has crumbled away and I am swallowed into the blackness, and nothing’s left for me but to fall, to feel the wind in my face, to resign myself to the depths, and I wonder if there ever really was any solid ground beneath my feet, or if I was perched on the tiny tip of a thousand-foot needle, balancing way up high, appearing still and solid and steady, but constantly contracting my muscles in perfect orchestration to keep my balance, lest the slightest breeze knock me over. The girl sent me falling. I reach out, but my arms are mercilessly short and there is nothing to grab to break my plunge, only the air itself, slipping through my fingers as I squeeze. But at this moment, I have nothing to fear. At this exact moment I am not so much falling as floating—so long is the shaft through which I descend—the wind through my hair, my stomach queasy, bobbing in a void. How long since I last felt so free? My muscles need not contract endlessly now, I can finally relax. I hope I land in some soft place, or even better that I never land, that this falling becomes my new state of being.
“My neighbor Morris’s son was teaching my son how to draw pictures on the sidewalk with colored chalk. Houses and trees and the sun and dinosaurs. I sipped Silke’s coffee out of a mug we bought in Paris. She was supposed to come down when she was off the phone. It’s funny the
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