Constant, Steady Strokes
Then comes the part when I say, "Boy, you have to lie." She's
brimming over with terrible, horrible realizations about her shortcomings,
her wants, her wasted life, her mental aptitude, and you're not allowed
to laugh, you have to coax her back from the fears with constant, steady
strokes. She's never looked worse. She's never scared you more. And now
you know for sure that this is not the girl with whom you are going to
spend the rest of your life. Her body is convulsing, slick with tears.
You've been surrounded by a barful of people all night, but there are
just two human beings in the room, in the world, right now—and to her
there's only one because she can't see past the dark clouds in her eyes—and
it's on, and you're with it.
You make assurances that you have no way to back up. You speak of hope
and possibility and beauty and lovely things that you could never deliver.
It is the calming sound of your voice that she needs to hear, I tell you.
Then comes the part when you realize what this trip's all about. You see
the level of disconnect, the cool irony, that she happened to knock through
first. Her raw self, a little bird breaking through the shell, her first
scream, and me, this part of you telling you to stay, not to put in the
distance this time, and just being there means you've been tricked. That
the lies are not lies. That this here is the real shit. That hope is as
real as despair. That possibility is more real than doubt. You don't get
to choose, either, because there is no choice. That nothing is pure anymore.
There's as much ugliness in beauty as there is beauty in ugliness tonight.
She never worries about saying what you want to hear. She just speaks
her mind. It doesn't occur to her. You almost don't occur to her. And
why should you? You may rather she liked you for other reasons, other
than because you are funny and you drink a lot. Anyone could be funny
and drink a lot, but you hold my tongue because it is with you that she
lays naked. And so this nut became director of your stream as I watched,
with interest.
Alex Shapiro likes to stay up late. Now that all of the people formally known as his friends have significant others, or get groggy from their meds and pass out before midnight, or have just adopted normal sleep patterns, he has resorted to doing a lot more writing. Which is better for his constitution than hanging out with those hosers anyway. His first novel, Bleached Sheep: The Yearling, should be complete any day.
E-mail: alvegas999@yahoo.com.