I awake, open my eyes and immediately recognize a glaring fact: I do not recognize this ceiling. No, this is certainly not my bedroom. The unidentifiable pictures clinging to the walls, the LPs scattered across the wood floor… these things must belong to the body next to me. Once my eyes see the small scar etched on her cheek I recall everything:
Evin, she said her name was Evin. Yes, Evin. My response upon her introduction: "That's an interesting name." "It's Evin with an i, not an a like the boy's name," she said. I met her at The Caboose, Religious Knives was on stage and I don't remember how, but we found each other. And we drank. We drank a lot, and after Religious Knives had emitted their final sound I found myself in a cab with Evin alongside. She was kissing me – the moisture of her hot, whiskey-saturated breath coated my ear, my neck – and she told the driver where to go: her fifth-floor apartment off Ellingwood. We climbed the stairs and, once inside, drank some more until our hot hands were climbing the foreign constructions of our bodies. We fucked, and here
our bodies crumpled. Here in this bed. And last night is a story I've never experienced. I've always thought of myself as far too reserved, too protective of self to just give myself away and let the unfamiliar body of a stranger erode my defensive proclivities. But here I am.
It feels like afternoon… the late-afternoon sunshine beams through the window and I ponder my departure. Leave a note, a telephone number and offer a final glance at her sleeping body then slip away? Do I wake her and leave a kiss goodbye? You sentimental fuck, what happened last night… girls like that don't engage in alcohol-fueled sex with men they consider friendship – never mind relationship – material. I slowly crawl from her bed and scour the floor for my clothes. As I pick up my jeans, coins fall from a pocket and ping loudly off the hard floor. I freeze.
Enter groggy voice: "Hey, handsome, where are you going?"
"Oh… hey… good morning… I… uh… not sure what the, uh, typical protocol for post-last night, kind of thing is. I mean, I'm not trying to be a dick, I just don't know what you—"
She giggles. Her laughter breaks the ice that has locked my body. Heartbeat slows. Shoulders relax. Tension eases. She says, "You don't have to leave, if that's what you're worried about, Elliott."
I express my relief upon accepting her obscure invitation to linger. She slides into some panties and throws on a tee, then begins brewing coffee. As the scent of java blossoms throughout her apartment I'm struck by the pictures. Pictures encased in frames. Pictures taped to walls. In the living room. The hallway. Kitchen. Bedroom. All of them biblical in nature. There is the sacrifice of Isaac. The blinding of Samson. Apostle Paul. Moses smashing tablets. Christ waiting for death. All of these pictures yet not one a photograph of family or friend, just myths.
She must have noticed my attention towards the pictures: "Don't worry. I'm not a Jesus freak. Just have a thing for biblical paintings. Those there, next to the lamp, those are all Rembrandt. My favorite is 'Jeremiah Lamenting the Destruction of Jerusalem.'"
The old floor of the apartment creaks as she walks from the kitchen to join me. I'm looking for Jeremiah when she says, "This one. Right here. It's my favorite because you can practically feel Jeremiah's lament, his sorrow; he knew something horrible was going to happen – he'd known for years – yet he was powerless – useless, really – to do anything about it. And back there, in the shadows, Jerusalem burns as the King of Judah stands away from it all; his sons were slaughtered then his eyes were gouged from his face. And Jeremiah… sits there… helpless. Have you ever felt helpless, incapable of stopping something that you knew was going to
destroy
someone close to you?"
"Yeah, I mean, I think everyone has experienced that at least once. Some unstoppable doom. I sense there is someone, something under the surface here… behind all of this. What's up?"
Abruptly: "I think the coffee's done. Sugar? Cream?"
I tell her no, I prefer my coffee black, and she's gone, away from me and into the kitchen. I hear the clink of ceramic coffee cups. The soothing sound of tumbling liquid. I watch her fill the cups, and her eyes, her eyes seem unusually focused on such a simple task. This isn't a focusing gaze; this is an attempt to push something out, to push something away.
"Yes, Elliott, I have been powerless to stop… to stop a storm, a tide of madness." She stands there, in the kitchen, her eyes turned downward toward the cups of black coffee. And I'm standing here, I haven't moved from this spot because I'm staring at her – I can't avoid it – and considering my next word, my next movement, but I'm frozen. She's lost within something that neither I nor anyone else can empathize with, a scabbed memory that is always just a recollection away from being torn and bled anew.
I approach her cautiously, place my arm over her shoulder and ask if she's OK. She's slow to start, but details eventually flow. She tells me of a man named Daniel, and while she doesn't state how she was linked to him, I gather he was a love interest.
"And then everything changed. He was inside a gas station – apparently the gas pump wouldn't accept his credit card – when a man came in and held the place up. Guy put a gun to Daniel's head, threatened to kill him, then hit him with the gun. He played dead until the cops got there. Days later he couldn't stop thinking about what happened, he had nightmares and was afraid to go anywhere, scared of a passing stranger attacking him or some shadow leaping from the darkness. His doctor said the feelings and fears were normal following a traumatic event, said the nightmares and terror would go away after a few weeks. But they didn't. Things… things only got worse. He lost his job. Daniel used to play chess – he won several tournaments – but not anymore. He couldn't even comprehend the game. The rook, the pawns, bishop… the pieces no longer made sense. And things just fell apart. Hallucinations. Drinking every night.
"I'll never forget when I had the realization, when I recognized that his life was over. I suppose I had realized his departure weeks earlier, but denial kept that reality hidden. I pulled up to his house and as I approached the front door I happened to catch a glance of him; I could see him through a window, and he was naked… on the kitchen floor, rocking back and forth… his lips were moving but I couldn't read them, I couldn't hear what he was saying. And his eyes… behind his eyes there was something… someone else… or maybe no one… I don't know, but as I stood there watching him I remember thinking – it's so weird because it's as if it were yesterday, so vivid – I thought I was looking at some exhibit: there he was, behind glass and encased inside his own madness, a tragically bizarre display that I could no longer comprehend; this sculpture that I once recognized – this person that I loved – had been twisted, transformed into… into… this figure that existed on some foreign plane of existence… incomprehensible. And I… I just wanted to climb inside that bubble of distortion and tell him, remind him who I was – and who he used to be – and tell him, I was there… tell him, Don't leave me, Daniel, don't leave this… this. You're sick, that's all, and I'm here. But no one could reach him, and as I stared at him through that window I realized that he was gone, and even if he did come back, he wouldn't be the same. He wouldn't recognize his mother's name, much less her face. He wouldn't remember our trip to Oregon, he wouldn't remember the significance of the insignificant, you know, those things that only possess meaning when they are shared between two lovers. Yes, I saw it there, that day. I was Jeremiah and I was powerless, useless. The tide was coming and I… I couldn't stop it. It had already arrived."
"Geez, that's quite a… I'm sorry. I didn't mean to, uh, open such a painful—"
"No, it's OK. Don't be sorry. Really. Here, you better drink your coffee before it gets cold."
So I drink the coffee – the bitterness bites my tongue. And she leaves me, the floor creaking as she walks away. And from her bedroom she calls my name.
I'm in the doorway and she has stripped herself of panties and shirt. She's naked on the bed and tells me she has a secret. "Come hither. Come to me."
She's below me, sucking my cock. I know I should be into this, but I can't stop staring at the picture next to the light switch. It's Leonardo's "St Jerome in the Wilderness." Jerome lived in the desert for four years with beasts and scorpions as his only companions. And I'm amazed – bemused, really – at how little our species as evolved. We wander, seemingly aimlessly, and subject ourselves to caustic relationships with others and with the face that greets us in morning mirrors every day.
In Jerome's right hand is a stone – an object he pounded against his chest until raw. Self-mutilation as an act of devotion. And Evin – Evin with an i, not an a – she's below me, sucking my cock, not as an act of love; no, she's sucking me as a vehicle to escape something I'll never understand. She's self-mutilating, but the damage isn't physical; no, unlike the pink mark on her cheek, this scar will leave its trail on her consciousness. And me? I know her sexual act means nothing, and I'm no closer to achieving what I really desire: a meaningful relationship that is based on platitudes and sentimental gestures. And I know that, while I may currently be an object of focus for her, I'm as forgettable as the road kill you pass at 60 mph. I could make her stop, pull her away from my waist and tell her, No. But I don't. Because her blowjob is my self-mutilation. I'll convince myself that her "act of devotion" is a testament of love. My cock is her cross and this is her crucifixion. And she loves me. She does. This is what I will tell myself. Later. When I'm alone in my shit apartment and petrified of a future of TV dinners and Internet porn. And I want to tell her, Evin, I love you, and I know we haven't even known each other for 24 hours, but I love you. And I see a future – a future that includes you and me. Together. We'll spend a lazy Sunday afternoon at some downtown coffee shop and… and it will be perfect. Like a fantasy life that flickers on the silver screen. But no. No. That isn't reality. I'm wandering like Jerome, damaging myself as some twisted method of worship. And like Jeremiah, I know what's coming. But I push it out. Push it away. Evin is sucking and I'm coming.
And I can't get the bitter taste of that goddamn coffee off my tongue.
xx
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