He wasn’t really sure what she was upset about. Was it the division of her from her cash or was it really because of the purpose the money was to be used? When she came out from the white stone building and sat next to him she said, she only had twenty on her but they could walk to her car, it was ‘just over there’. Over there was the parking lot beyond the administration building where they were sitting. They were sitting where he had sat and waited while she went inside to get a stamp and a signature. He read from a book of short stories, searching for meaning.
He tried to be calm. His leg jostled like a jack hammer. He imagined breaking concrete. He looked down to see his foot over the crack in the sidewalk, where two squares abutted one another. An imperfection shaped like Brazil had been covered by his toes. This was the line of demarcation, he thought. He couldn’t remember enough history to support whether he was the Papal power or Portugal in this situation. Whatever, he was just borrowing time for money and nothing would be resolved today anyhow. It all seemed like bull and etcetera over something imaginary.
An English professor passed by wearing the green sweater and half smiling behind a partially raised hand, all expression in acknowledgement of his presence in passing, except the green sweater. He thinks she wears it every other Wednesday. He noticed she was surrounded by all males. They were particularly small and fashionable. The one closest to her had a nice argyle sweater and black rimmed glasses. Perhaps they were small only in comparison.
----
We walked fast to her car. She’s not going to lose it, I was thinking. She reacted as if she was not afraid of breaking down before she left the parking lot. No. She likes to walk a step ahead. She likes to be first in line. She likes to show off her athleticism. I wished I was her athleticism. Her hair was pulled back in a tight pony tail. It had been awhile since I’d seen her hair, snug like a bun, though jutting out into a pony tail and pinned back with bobbies. She was wearing her blue down her mother had given to her last Christmas and her black trainer pants she wore to the club. Black and blue, like a bruise.
Everything seemed so cliché in symbolic presentation. Nothing felt right rounding the corner. I looked for a white car as we walked along. I almost forgot she had a new car. This was her third in the past month. Has it really only been a month? I wondered. I was trying to feel for the lapsed time. There were a couple of white cars but none familiar. As she veered to the side of one I began to understand familiarity was a foreign concept in this matter. If she past me on the street I would not recognize her and especially her car. A month.
She unlocked the door from the device on her key chain. Headlights flashed and she opened the passenger side door. I didn’t expect anything more than $20 anyway. I wondered why she took extra effort to seem inconvenienced. Then, as if it hadn’t been a month of absence, I felt good about spending time with her. I watched as she transferred money from her wallet, to the jockey box, to her hand, to her wallet again and then back to the jockey. It all seemed like a show as I watched her long thin fingers through the passenger side window. I thought maybe she was experiencing an emotion. Her eyes got a little swollen with tears and turned bloodshot as she tried to hold them back. Her cheeks were red beneath. I had noticed this as we walked but forgot to think about it till now. Maybe she had been stifling tears the whole time.
She gathered her bills and handed me three 20’s and a five. $65 dollars was exactly half of the cost. I hadn’t done the math but it was half 130. My mind couldn’t even equate simple numbers; maybe it was the decimal in financial figures. It resembled, too much, like a period. An end of a sentence. Of periods though, she had hers several days ago. Maybe a week longer and she would ovulate again. Maybe a week later we could have a girl. "What if," is what she said. She didn’t want to "what if" the chance that she was wrong, so I hung about her apartment like I was huddling myself now against the wind outside of her car.
I took the money. I watched her face as I did and not her hands. Her eyes were about to wellspring. Her cheeks were hot with the nearness of tears and holding back. I’m not sure what she said then. There was a pregnant pause so I gave my prepared dialogue and waited for a response.
“I have to go now, bye.” She swerved her body around between the door and the car in the next space over then walked around the engine. I was already walking away. I didn’t even say as much as “bye” or “farewell“, let alone “good”. I folded the cash and stuck it into my pocket. I felt around for the keepsake I took from her bedside drawer this morning. It was in the bottom of my trousers beneath my I-pod, stuck in the very tip of the triangle where lint gathers and the strings bunch. Sometimes it is hard to distinguish if there is anything down that far. It was there though. I felt the smooth surface and let it slip around the tip of my index. The contrast against my whorls sent tiny vibrations into my shoulders and behind my eyes. I nearly choked. I half thought of half turning but remembered not to. I told myself not to. It was a time when my brain actually stopped my body from doing something. I’m still not sure why. Maybe I thought it was too late. Maybe it was the music. I put on my headphones and stepped side to side like I was exaggerating a swagger.
I almost looked back but I knew she would pass. I could watch her drive off ahead of me towards the exit. That would be my final glance. I felt like I was cheating if I did. I thought don’t look back meant don’t look at all, in any way. I wondered if she would see me in the rearview. I thought of how hurt I would be if she sneered. I walked a bit slower, swaggering for real now. I felt dizzy. Any minute she would pass. I was keeping time. Maybe she was wiping her eyes in the new mirror, with the light that illuminates when you open it. The light she was so excited to show me. Maybe she was bent over the steering wheel, finally losing it, breaking down. Maybe she was getting the strength to bound out of the car, take hold of me and ask me not to go through with it all.
The smooth ring in my pocket was familiar. The lump pierced my throat again. I thought I would choke. I swaggered until it was too late. There was the curve in the path. I would have to take the turn and round away. No looking back. I felt normal as the lining trees enveloped me. I felt warm. It was only cover from the wind but I thought it was the distance between us now. I turned again and ascended the steps to enter the building. The sudden warmth made me have to piss. As I reached the top of the steps, still parallel with the road I saw a white blur. It was her car. Two more steps and I could look out over the parked vehicles through a little space where her driver window would pass in a minute.
I made one more swagger to pause and not “look back” but look over. Through the toll booth and rail guard I had a clear view. She didn’t break down. She didn’t sneer. She wasn’t putting on make-up or staring out over the dash. She wasn’t fishing for her parking card. I saw the white car roll forward and a blue blur navigating it. The sleeve of her down coat from last Christmas was shielding her face, maybe shielding her eyes, maybe hiding her sneer. Perhaps she was picking her nose.
I opened the heavy door to the administration building and stumbled to the bathroom. I repeated to myself the last words that I said to her, my prepared dialogue. "Cheer up. You’re free." I thought I would choke.
He tried to be calm. His leg jostled like a jack hammer. He imagined breaking concrete. He looked down to see his foot over the crack in the sidewalk, where two squares abutted one another. An imperfection shaped like Brazil had been covered by his toes. This was the line of demarcation, he thought. He couldn’t remember enough history to support whether he was the Papal power or Portugal in this situation. Whatever, he was just borrowing time for money and nothing would be resolved today anyhow. It all seemed like bull and etcetera over something imaginary.
An English professor passed by wearing the green sweater and half smiling behind a partially raised hand, all expression in acknowledgement of his presence in passing, except the green sweater. He thinks she wears it every other Wednesday. He noticed she was surrounded by all males. They were particularly small and fashionable. The one closest to her had a nice argyle sweater and black rimmed glasses. Perhaps they were small only in comparison.
----
We walked fast to her car. She’s not going to lose it, I was thinking. She reacted as if she was not afraid of breaking down before she left the parking lot. No. She likes to walk a step ahead. She likes to be first in line. She likes to show off her athleticism. I wished I was her athleticism. Her hair was pulled back in a tight pony tail. It had been awhile since I’d seen her hair, snug like a bun, though jutting out into a pony tail and pinned back with bobbies. She was wearing her blue down her mother had given to her last Christmas and her black trainer pants she wore to the club. Black and blue, like a bruise.
Everything seemed so cliché in symbolic presentation. Nothing felt right rounding the corner. I looked for a white car as we walked along. I almost forgot she had a new car. This was her third in the past month. Has it really only been a month? I wondered. I was trying to feel for the lapsed time. There were a couple of white cars but none familiar. As she veered to the side of one I began to understand familiarity was a foreign concept in this matter. If she past me on the street I would not recognize her and especially her car. A month.
She unlocked the door from the device on her key chain. Headlights flashed and she opened the passenger side door. I didn’t expect anything more than $20 anyway. I wondered why she took extra effort to seem inconvenienced. Then, as if it hadn’t been a month of absence, I felt good about spending time with her. I watched as she transferred money from her wallet, to the jockey box, to her hand, to her wallet again and then back to the jockey. It all seemed like a show as I watched her long thin fingers through the passenger side window. I thought maybe she was experiencing an emotion. Her eyes got a little swollen with tears and turned bloodshot as she tried to hold them back. Her cheeks were red beneath. I had noticed this as we walked but forgot to think about it till now. Maybe she had been stifling tears the whole time.
She gathered her bills and handed me three 20’s and a five. $65 dollars was exactly half of the cost. I hadn’t done the math but it was half 130. My mind couldn’t even equate simple numbers; maybe it was the decimal in financial figures. It resembled, too much, like a period. An end of a sentence. Of periods though, she had hers several days ago. Maybe a week longer and she would ovulate again. Maybe a week later we could have a girl. "What if," is what she said. She didn’t want to "what if" the chance that she was wrong, so I hung about her apartment like I was huddling myself now against the wind outside of her car.
I took the money. I watched her face as I did and not her hands. Her eyes were about to wellspring. Her cheeks were hot with the nearness of tears and holding back. I’m not sure what she said then. There was a pregnant pause so I gave my prepared dialogue and waited for a response.
“I have to go now, bye.” She swerved her body around between the door and the car in the next space over then walked around the engine. I was already walking away. I didn’t even say as much as “bye” or “farewell“, let alone “good”. I folded the cash and stuck it into my pocket. I felt around for the keepsake I took from her bedside drawer this morning. It was in the bottom of my trousers beneath my I-pod, stuck in the very tip of the triangle where lint gathers and the strings bunch. Sometimes it is hard to distinguish if there is anything down that far. It was there though. I felt the smooth surface and let it slip around the tip of my index. The contrast against my whorls sent tiny vibrations into my shoulders and behind my eyes. I nearly choked. I half thought of half turning but remembered not to. I told myself not to. It was a time when my brain actually stopped my body from doing something. I’m still not sure why. Maybe I thought it was too late. Maybe it was the music. I put on my headphones and stepped side to side like I was exaggerating a swagger.
I almost looked back but I knew she would pass. I could watch her drive off ahead of me towards the exit. That would be my final glance. I felt like I was cheating if I did. I thought don’t look back meant don’t look at all, in any way. I wondered if she would see me in the rearview. I thought of how hurt I would be if she sneered. I walked a bit slower, swaggering for real now. I felt dizzy. Any minute she would pass. I was keeping time. Maybe she was wiping her eyes in the new mirror, with the light that illuminates when you open it. The light she was so excited to show me. Maybe she was bent over the steering wheel, finally losing it, breaking down. Maybe she was getting the strength to bound out of the car, take hold of me and ask me not to go through with it all.
The smooth ring in my pocket was familiar. The lump pierced my throat again. I thought I would choke. I swaggered until it was too late. There was the curve in the path. I would have to take the turn and round away. No looking back. I felt normal as the lining trees enveloped me. I felt warm. It was only cover from the wind but I thought it was the distance between us now. I turned again and ascended the steps to enter the building. The sudden warmth made me have to piss. As I reached the top of the steps, still parallel with the road I saw a white blur. It was her car. Two more steps and I could look out over the parked vehicles through a little space where her driver window would pass in a minute.
I made one more swagger to pause and not “look back” but look over. Through the toll booth and rail guard I had a clear view. She didn’t break down. She didn’t sneer. She wasn’t putting on make-up or staring out over the dash. She wasn’t fishing for her parking card. I saw the white car roll forward and a blue blur navigating it. The sleeve of her down coat from last Christmas was shielding her face, maybe shielding her eyes, maybe hiding her sneer. Perhaps she was picking her nose.
I opened the heavy door to the administration building and stumbled to the bathroom. I repeated to myself the last words that I said to her, my prepared dialogue. "Cheer up. You’re free." I thought I would choke.
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