somebody.”
I still don’t know what for.
“Tuesday, two weeks from now. Midnight. 17th Street at Broadway.”
Good, that gives me time to practice.
He walks me partway home just for my company. He shakes my hand when he leaves and I feel his strong calloused fingers. Shaking mine does he know? He must.
“I’m a little out of practice.”
His are not lover’s hands. I wouldn’t want them on my body. How will we manage love without his hands?
Luckily my own window looks out on a back alley so that’s where I try to get up to, but even if I lived on the second floor, I’d not make it. I get up about a foot and hang there until my fingers give out. With him by my side I’m sure I can do more, but not much.
I practice all those two weeks, but I don’t get much better. Maybe a little stronger. Mostly I ruin my fingers. Once I make it all the way up to five feet. Next day I lapse back to three. I fall a lot.
I know myself. I may have acrophobia but I can steel myself against it. For his sake, anyway. When you feel your stomach turning upside down just look out at the horizon—if you can see any such thing from in the city.
Down is harder.
What if I get up several floors and get stuck there all alone?
Finally I get far enough up to sneak into somebody’s second floor window. It’s the middle of the day. Everybody’s at work. Nobody sees me. I should steal something so I’ll be of a kind with him—in danger of being arrested. Our philosophy of life will be the same. I don’t know what to take. I look around. Lots of books and papers and not much else. I open all the drawers. No jewelry. None at all. Looks as if somebody has already stolen everything worth taking. Maybe he did it. What’s left for me to take? A book? A potted plant? That doesn’t seem like much.
I lie down on the bed to think about it and fall asleep by mistake. When I wake up it’s getting dark. I’ve got to leave fast. I grab the clock beside the bed and run out the door. Just in time because people are coming in downstairs.
I wish I’d taken clothes. I could use a new blouse. I already have a clock almost exactly like this one.
I do feel a sense of accomplishment, though. And I feel closer to him now I know what it’s like to do as he does.
I love, I love…. What a world, so full of beards and lips! So soft. In fact all sorts of soft things. Velvety things.
I’ve been so busy practicing I haven’t gone down to his place at all, but then the time comes for our meeting.
(I’m wearing black tights and black turtleneck top. Climbing clothes. I look slim and romantic.)
The city at night! Like a Christmas tree no matter the season. And how nice to be walking beside him, matching his stride.
But maybe he’s not a cat burglar after all. Turns out he needs someone to help find a spot between two skyscrapers where he can set up a tightrope—in the middle of the night so nobody will know. He needs somebody to help set it up. He wants to use the flatiron building if possible. It’s always windy around there so it’ll be dangerous but he likes that all the better.
We check it out. It’s not possible. We walk up town to search for other places. Perhaps Lincoln Center. Not high up but long.
When we stop for coffee I say first thing, “I thought you were a cat burglar.” He looks startled—as if I’d found him out. Or maybe just that he hadn’t ever thought of doing that before.
“Oh, I don’t mind. I do it myself.”
He’s still looking shocked. Even more so.
“I don’t ever take valuable things.”
Have I made myself unlovable in just one sentence?
“I only take little things. Actually I’ve only taken one thing… ever.”
I don’t like the way he’s looking at me.
“Actually I’ve never climbed beyond the second floor.”
Why doesn’t he say something?
“Actually I only did it for you. And I brought you this.”
I try to give him the clock. (He already has one exactly like it, too. I saw it in
I still don’t know what for.
“Tuesday, two weeks from now. Midnight. 17th Street at Broadway.”
Good, that gives me time to practice.
He walks me partway home just for my company. He shakes my hand when he leaves and I feel his strong calloused fingers. Shaking mine does he know? He must.
“I’m a little out of practice.”
His are not lover’s hands. I wouldn’t want them on my body. How will we manage love without his hands?
Luckily my own window looks out on a back alley so that’s where I try to get up to, but even if I lived on the second floor, I’d not make it. I get up about a foot and hang there until my fingers give out. With him by my side I’m sure I can do more, but not much.
I practice all those two weeks, but I don’t get much better. Maybe a little stronger. Mostly I ruin my fingers. Once I make it all the way up to five feet. Next day I lapse back to three. I fall a lot.
I know myself. I may have acrophobia but I can steel myself against it. For his sake, anyway. When you feel your stomach turning upside down just look out at the horizon—if you can see any such thing from in the city.
Down is harder.
What if I get up several floors and get stuck there all alone?
Finally I get far enough up to sneak into somebody’s second floor window. It’s the middle of the day. Everybody’s at work. Nobody sees me. I should steal something so I’ll be of a kind with him—in danger of being arrested. Our philosophy of life will be the same. I don’t know what to take. I look around. Lots of books and papers and not much else. I open all the drawers. No jewelry. None at all. Looks as if somebody has already stolen everything worth taking. Maybe he did it. What’s left for me to take? A book? A potted plant? That doesn’t seem like much.
I lie down on the bed to think about it and fall asleep by mistake. When I wake up it’s getting dark. I’ve got to leave fast. I grab the clock beside the bed and run out the door. Just in time because people are coming in downstairs.
I wish I’d taken clothes. I could use a new blouse. I already have a clock almost exactly like this one.
I do feel a sense of accomplishment, though. And I feel closer to him now I know what it’s like to do as he does.
I love, I love…. What a world, so full of beards and lips! So soft. In fact all sorts of soft things. Velvety things.
I’ve been so busy practicing I haven’t gone down to his place at all, but then the time comes for our meeting.
(I’m wearing black tights and black turtleneck top. Climbing clothes. I look slim and romantic.)
The city at night! Like a Christmas tree no matter the season. And how nice to be walking beside him, matching his stride.
But maybe he’s not a cat burglar after all. Turns out he needs someone to help find a spot between two skyscrapers where he can set up a tightrope—in the middle of the night so nobody will know. He needs somebody to help set it up. He wants to use the flatiron building if possible. It’s always windy around there so it’ll be dangerous but he likes that all the better.
We check it out. It’s not possible. We walk up town to search for other places. Perhaps Lincoln Center. Not high up but long.
When we stop for coffee I say first thing, “I thought you were a cat burglar.” He looks startled—as if I’d found him out. Or maybe just that he hadn’t ever thought of doing that before.
“Oh, I don’t mind. I do it myself.”
He’s still looking shocked. Even more so.
“I don’t ever take valuable things.”
Have I made myself unlovable in just one sentence?
“I only take little things. Actually I’ve only taken one thing… ever.”
I don’t like the way he’s looking at me.
“Actually I’ve never climbed beyond the second floor.”
Why doesn’t he say something?
“Actually I only did it for you. And I brought you this.”
I try to give him the clock. (He already has one exactly like it, too. I saw it in
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