blonde dinner

i keep repeating 'look at the lights, what a night on the town' over and over, in my best kool keith impression. at first it elicits giggles from her but eventually she hits my arm in that 'god, shut up' type of way that i secretly like. we sit in silence and i merge onto periferico, heading north towards polanco.

the valet looks like a mexican version of my old college roommate but just as suave and confident. the same waves in the side of the hair, the same smile that shows only the top row of teeth but not in an awkward way. my spanish is still tricky when people speak fast, so i don't catch what he says to me as i hand him the keys. it's something something rubia. rubia is blonde. she's blonde. ok i get it, whatever. i'm starving, who gives a fuck?

we're sitting eating chips and salsa under the gaze of the towering hotels along reforma. they're a barrier of sorts between the stout villas and parisian side streets of the neighborhood and the vastness of unknown poverty and working class tenements that seems to stretch all the way to the damn guatemala border. just look at all those lights stretching south, south, south.

so now in that sort of neon blue that comes just before the inky darkness fully descends, the hotel nikko is standing there above our street, impossibly high up, not very spectacularly lit--none of the buildings here are--just sort of reaffirming its presence alongside its brothers and sisters the W, Intercontinental, Sheraton... fuck what a snooty, touristy street.

we joke about that a lot, that the only reason we drive to this neighborhood is because this restaurant is one of the few places to get a good basket of chips and salsa. can you believe that? all of mexico city and you have to single one place out for good chips and salsa. and it's a 45 minute drive when traffic is good.

we're talking, sitting out on the sidewalk tables, enjoying the night air. it's a bit cool, sweater weather, and there's a scent in the air that along with the darkened little puffs of cloud high above signal a rain coming soon. the tables around us are mostly locals, rich Spaniard looking mexicans in their late 20s and early 30s, all crisply dressed, all smoking, both sexes speaking urgently into mobile phones. i signal the waiter and we get our fifth round of negro modelo.

it's an alright wednesday night.

the valet brings the car around and i give him 40 pesos tip. he seems like a nice kid, i don't think he was saying anything slick earlier. he seems grateful but in a good way, not in the overly exuberant way that some waiters and such exhibit, which is somewhat embarrassing. it was a weird thing at first here, the issues of tipping and giving to the panhandlers. but i remember what my dad said when we sat at this same restaurant one night years back; "as long as i can buy a four dollar beer, fuck it."

i guess that's just how i'll go as well.

we start back towards the freeway but i cut a right down tennyson; i want to see if this house is still on the market. it's a beauty, fits right in with the other houses and apartment blocks on the shady, darkened street. art deco style, a curved glass front room and a white-painted stone balcony on the 2nd floor with rounded metal railings like the deck of some old cruise ship. we pull up to it and i cut the headlights and we just sit for a minute. on the radio some new english rock band is playing, i get them all confused these days.

"i wonder why no one's bought it," i say. she doesn't respond. i look over and she's laying back in her seat, hand over her forehead. alcohol really messes her up. more than two drinks and she's wasted.

"maybe someone got murdered in it," she finally replies. i consider this, as the breeze picks up and the leaves above start swaying in front of the orange streetlight.

"i don't think i could live in a house where someone got murdered." i turn the headlights back on and we coast down to the stoplight. she mumbles something about going home.

"how fucked up would that be, to scour the newspapers for murders," i say, turning slowly on the green signal. "and then later to inform the new tenants about what happened in their homes?"

but she's asleep by now. so i think about it to myself, driving along avenida horacio, under the vast darkened sky about to split at the seams with rain. it's cool and breezy.

haters

i was driving on 66 west, around nutley street, where the traffic always comes to a halt after slowly coursing silently through arlington like metal cells in the suburbs' great aorta. it was one of those early autumn afternoons in northern virginia, where the sun peeks between dense gangs of slate gray cloud occasionally, casting a golden light over the shaded treetops just beginning to change color. all around the boulevards and highways zip cars and minivans, office workers leaving early and high school kids leaving the crowded parking lots, turning too quickly into traffic or hesitating too long at stop signs. the area is full of life, you can feel it, you can feel the electricity of the friday afternoon as Suburbia prepares for a long weekend doing god only knows what.

it's a feeling, or a combination of feelings, that i only sense in the washington area. it was one of the reasons i insisted we stay, although i didn't put it to you in such terms.

you texted me as the nutley street exit approached slowly. i had been zoning out; not too interested in what was on all things considered, more talk about the war that really just all blurs together at this point. i have no real conception of who petraeus is, or what the surge entails, or where basra is strategically or otherwise. these have all become sort of buzz words. they can be strung together in infinite combinations but they all simply recall contrived mental images of dusty shootouts and explosions.

i like to believe i keep up on the war and policy. it is a necessary aspect of being a washingtonian, i suppose. but it's all just a foreign concept to me, as remote as black holes in space or geo-thermal energy alternatives. interesting to say but empty in thought, as thin as rice paper in the hands of my mind.

'meet me at home dpt on 50' read your text. at the time it didn't strike me as odd to find you there, despite the fact that we both live in the city, on the other side of the river, far from here, and there's no way you'd have known i was in virginia this particular afternoon. as far as you'd know, i would be in my office in spring valley, sitting across from max and will, feet up on my desk and killing time waiting for five o'clock. in fact, sending me any message to meet on route 50 may very well have caused me to head to the maryland side of the highway, heading towards annapolis. but none of this occurred to me; it all seemed to make sense as i veered the car into the exit lane. why did it all make sense?

the lot for the shopping center was incredibly crowded and i circled for a good five minutes to find a space, all the while looking out for your car. i never saw it but again instinct kicked in and i walked towards the store's entrance. expecting another text telling me where specifically to meet you, i decided to browse some to kill time. i know very little about home repair but it seemed a fittingly masculine thing to do to peruse the power tools, all secured to the display table with thick ropes of nylon wire.

after a few minutes or so i moved on to the lumber shelves, checking my watch and my phone. i hadn't missed your text. the oddity of the situation was beginning to sink in when there you were, walking quickly towards me from down the aisle, a nervous look on your face. you came to within an inch of my face but your arms stayed at your side.

"what's the matter," i asked, and with those words came the rush of unsteadiness that accompanied the rendezvous. just what the hell were we doing out here, in suburbia, in a home depot, on a friday afternoon? well, i knew why i was out here in the first place--and i couldn't tell you--but why were you?

do you know that feeling, when you're standing on the shore, and the waves recede, pulling little grains of sand around your feet, and you can feel the rush of all of them at once, being moved in unison?

you took me over to another aisle, leading by the hand. your fingers were cool, your palm was sweaty, you seemed determined but scared. i noticed you looked pale, your hair seemed darker; maybe it was those flourescent bulbs way up there on the high metal ceilings. maybe it was because this all felt like a dream, and dreams are blurry sometimes, like those thoughts of the war, of what the words really mean.

as we walked down the new aisle side by side, i felt compelled to regain a sense of normalcy. i kissed you. you took it but seemed distracted. you held onto my arm with one hand, gripping strongly. 'let's be a normal couple,' i pleaded inside. 'let's not fret about in this home depot like restless zombies. it's friday afternoon.' i should have said these thoughts aloud. i'm not sure why i didn't.

you finally looked me square in the eye.

"i hit a man on a road this afternoon. i think he's--i think i killed a person today. i have to leave."

i nodded to show my understanding of the situation. a family was walking by, a young wife and husband and their pre-school aged son. you continued to look at me with frightened, impatiently serious eyes.

the boy trailed behind his parents listlessly. upon looking up at us, he waved a juice box from left to right. "i have a drink!" he exclaimed proudly.

i watched him but didn't reply. forcing a tight smile i nodded. you continued looking in my eyes. i kissed you again.

'we are a normal couple. it is a normal friday afternoon.' again in my head.

there were questions that i should have asked you.