clean

i had a dream there, on the sofa, that he walked in through the door. not what i expected, some rather non-descript asian kid in a white hanes shirt with a buzzed haircut. everyone acknowledged him with just the minimal amount of effort required to be polite and off he went down the hallway. i awoke to the white square of brightness in front of me, the sunlit blinds, a sliver of baby blue let me know the rain had finally moved on.

'there is no asian kid,' i thought, relieved. 'there's still no one.'

no, you're still an island, you haven't let anyone in. i sit in the airport and i wonder if you ever will. i see people on tv who look like you and something inside of me cringes, or contracts automatically, and though it's painless i can still feel it. i stand in the crowded awning of a restaurant as the rain pours down and someone sitting nearby has hair close to yours. close but just not it. i've never seen anyone match the shine.

it goes on like this, laying on the sofa. i can hear you laughing in your room, speaking on the telephone to someone. you always hear the descriptions of such a thing as "a stab in the heart" but it's not, at least not for me. it's more like cool water washing over your face minutes before you drown. you haven't lost control just yet, you're still trying to assess the situation. you're still oblivious.

so i sit upright and light a cigarette. i can't spend all morning listening to this. i'll go insane. i leave and walk past the cigarette butts in front of the strip club and the wet newspapers laid out in a grid where the homeless man slept the evening before, before the rains moved in and soaked everything.

there was the afternoon we sat in the back and petted that rambunctious dog, where our fingers brushed against each other's and you looked at me in that way you have, where it's like you're trying to figure something out or remember an old quote, and then it just dissolves into a smile. i remember sitting there in the nascent spring sunshine and realizing that finally i've gotten it, i've done something worthwhile, that this darkness has lifted.

i meet my friend for lunch. we sit and i chainsmoke. he asks how things are going with us and i'm not afraid to tell him it's all fucked. after our sandwiches we hike up to the hills, me out of breath and him in sunglasses. we reach the top and there it all is, spread out to the sea.

"the rain came through and cleaned all the air up," he says. i nod and i think if i try hard enough, i can see your house from here.

instructions in french

this goes out to premium economy class on airliners.

this goes out to steering wheels on the right side of the car's passenger compartment.

this goes out to balmy evenings that defy the season.

this goes out to recessed lighting at dinner on a weekend.

this goes out to police in manhattan.

this goes out to a windy sunday afternoon, she said "take me home" with her pink, woolen arms crossed.

this goes out to waiting in the tomb-like light of the cineplex corridor, for no one.

this goes out to sitting alone in the cabin as the descent begins; upright and alert, perhaps a bit melancholy.

this goes out to understatement.

i love you, i love this music you will never listen to

this morning as i was walking through the crunch of the elm leaves--too early for them to be soggy and limp--i made the decision that there would just be space between us for a while. yes, i thought, there needs to be a complete revision before autumn drifts quickly away and is replaced by an unending slate sky. i stopped at the junction and bought a morning paper and lamented this unfortunate yet inevitable revelation.

how will she take it, i wondered as i waited on the platform for the stratford train. well, regardless, it must be done. things can't go on like this, i considered, acknowledging a bright and breezy sunday afternoon spent sitting by the phone. you never called.

in the crowded carriage passing the backs of houses, a compromise. alright, well, maybe not complete separation. but these plans we've discussed, those will have to wait. something for the future. at the present we'll just have to take things as they come. no more investing ideas into next weekend or the following evening, or any of that.

crowding to the point that i tuck the newspaper under my arm. an african woman shuttles her two children--quiet and staring--to the sliver of space between me and the doorway. the train lurches forward, blue sky disappears as we go underground.

ok, fine, i say. we'll still have all these plans. some of them will happen, many of them won't. i'll be disappointed, then elated, then disappointed again. i'll spend nights across from you just so sure i've done the right thing with my life. i'll spend other evenings wishing we'd just passed when introduced so many years ago.

how many more years will this go on? small child looks up at me with wide eyes from under his wool cap. i force a knowing smile.

secaucus junction

if there is a rule for 2009 it is that when i ride back on the train from newark airport it is the dawn of some enormous chapter in my life. in spring it was the same as fall, high white clouds dotting the robin's egg sky, a slowly dwindling afternoon, sun just high enough that you won't get that sunday melancholy; those thoughts of being at your desk at work the next morning.

at least in spring i had no idea what was ahead. she was like a storm far off the coast, with a path leading directly to me but no one could forecast it. i didn't even know she existed.

in fall i knew everything i had to. i knew where i was going. i stood in the breezy space between cars and stared at the passing tall grass, fingering my mobile phone in my pocket restlessly.

she calls as the train sits in newark penn and we speak briefly. she never sounds emotional on the telephone (maybe even in person) when she speaks. there's no lilt, no sweet goodbye. i mean she's not like a telephone operator or anything... i just don't hear the sounds i'm used to.

i know in an hour i'll be at her house, with my bags and my jacket. sitting on her porch in the nascent autumn cool. it's still warm enough to pretend it's summer, but the sunlight is different.

i remember one evening we stood in some darkened corner, close. we wondered why the sunlight in autumn looked a certain way.

the train pulls off and again we're sprinting across the industrial wasteland of north jersey. first sun i've seen in three days.

it's going to be beautiful when we go for a walk, i think.

storms

she buries her head into her hands. everyone else around us drinks beer and eats meat. this is as close to crying as she gets. if the tears fall, it's ok, i'm used to it by now.

enough of this shit. "i think i'm done listening to you," i say. but that's a lie. i'll listen until i go deaf, which will be never; i'm always hearing what she has to say.

we go up and down like a seismograph. one second i want to scowl at her and stand up, walking off with two fingers up. then i take a sip and all i want is for a smile, just give me that.

everyone is miserable. L sits with me on the porch, sunny day, soft clouds over the tasman, saying "i just don't know what i want." B walks up kingsland at midnight, telling me no one here does anything but shag randomly. not as a brag, more forlorn than anything.

what the hell is it going to take to get away from all of this? i've gone to every corner of the world to try and find something different. maybe time is the only axis that counts, not distance.

let's all go back to when we didn't know any better.

may 2014

she came home from whole foods, sunglasses perched on her forehead, standing in the elevator humming the chorus to a pop song she heard in the market.

i heard the front door, then her solid heels on the wood flooring. i heard the rustle of the paper bag as it hit the counter top. soon she was in the study, standing in the doorway.

she found me crying silently. she didn't say anything. the book was open, upturned on my lap.

she walked over and stroked my shoulder.

"fucking sherman," i said. and she smiled and i love when her eyes and mouth begin to laugh, but it's laughter inside, warm laughter, when she finds something touching, intimately funny. an inside joke between the two of us.

she sat on my lap and the book fell to the floor. sunlight streamed through the side window. a faint horn sounded from the west side highway.

let's just sit here like this for a long, long time.

her laughter through the trees

these things are known:

1) a crunch of gravel as the dark sedan pulls up at exactly 9:47, he knows because he looks worriedly around the kitchen for a knife and glances at the green LED clock of the microwave

1a) the kitchen is a mess, there are two cats and a dog watching him as he paces from sink to table to counter; old newspapers, used coffee mugs, an umbrella. the clutter is incongruous with the luxury of the house he is in

2) looking up, past the wrought iron chandelier, lights come on in the 2nd floor alcove above him. panic increases

3) the windows are streaked with droplets, leaving his reflection akin to a watercolor left in the rain

3a) thunderstorms are ravaging this area throughout the evening

3b) he is in socks, no shoes

4) the front door is open now and muffled excited conversation can be heard, along with the stamping of wet boots on the foyer tile and rumbles of thunder from a distant neighborhood

4a) he contemplates hiding in a utility closet

5) she walks into the kitchen in a flash, removing one earring and smiling

5a) her husband follows closely behind, also smiling. his shoulders are dotted with wet spots

5b) an older fellow passes by via the hallway and waves cordially

5c) he makes small talk with the couple in slow motion and with very deliberate and leaden gestures of intimacy: arm pats, waves to recall details, rubbing of the chin

6) she enters the kitchen burning away all viscous material slowing things down; no smoke present. she wears a light blue blouse

6a) parents retreat to den with bottle of wine

6b) they stand by the tall windows, joke about him sleeping in the treehouse

6c) leaves one shade lighter than the midnight sway in the wind

6d) treehouse is illuminated by lightning