one door closes, another one something-something

--This is the end, my friend.

--That's The Doors, right?

--Right.

--Beautiful friend.

--Right again.

--The end? Fuck, I thought it was the beginning.

--Me, too.

--End, beginning, what's the difference?

--Now you sound like T.S. Eliot.

--What did she sing?

--He. He's a he. A love song.

--Is that what this is?

--A he or a she?

--No, a love song, or something else.

--You're something else.

--You, too.

--Hello, goodbye.

--You say yes.

--No, I say no.

--Sometimes.

--Drive.

--Where?

--Drive, they said.

 

 

in a white room with no curtains

Stoic, severe, Scandinavian. Appallingly clean and neat. Sleek. Sunlight streaming in from industrial loft windows. Yet somehow warm and inviting. Was it the brilliance or the offsetting curves: a sofa, a spacious enveloping futon, an armchair, a bureau, an S-shaped marble counter, curvilinear lighting sconces. A white zigzagging banister leading nowhere. One floor. Open plan. One long and deep closet with a sliding glass door. Jeans, sweaters, dress shirts, dresses, one gown, coats, scarves, fedoras, trousers, pants, a single bathrobe (black). Posing as a museum, featuring an installation of nine lambent votive candles and Gregorian chant intoned from Bose speakers. 

Footsteps, the soft rasp of a key in the lock, the jiggling of the door handle.

uneasy rider

I could do it. I've done it before. I could. This time, I could roll out before she comes to a rolling stop. How cinematic. For you in the peanut gallery wagging your fingers and saying, 'Why? What are you running from?' I say, 'Be infinitesimally original, for fucksake.' Or pretend to be original if you can't do better than that. Spare me. Point taken, okay? I'll nibble on the piece of cheese placed on the floor, if it makes you happy. I am running from my wounds, self- or other-inflicted, running from the self I don't have and never will, from pain, ecstasy, misery, and mystery. Got it! Mystery, that's it. I can't bear not knowing the ending. But who ever does? So juvenile. Running from her, her, and her, and every her imagined or real. Stop. This is fuckin' me up. Stirring the ashes. It's stupid. Speaking of mysteries, she's just that. Mysterious, inpenetrable, inscrutable. And that's exactly what gives me a boner. And precisely what enrages me, its denial, its blinding ignorance of me no matter how much I wave my semaphore scrawny arms. I could jump. To go where, do what? It didn't matter with 'her,' and look where it got me. Hold it. It got me right here, right now, in a new and different passenger seat, a freshly re-upholstered soliloquy. Not moody Hamlet's grandiose and silly 'to be or not to be.' Gawd, no. How gaudy and unseemly. To go or stay. To stay or go. And I don't even have dice to toss. 

running on Not-Quite-Full

I can't even. What am I doing? Or him, for that matter. Where's he going? Where's he want to go? I don't see a "we" in this future. Or now either. What is this? Where am I going? I could just slam the breaks, stop, and say, "Here's where you get out, Mr. No-name." But I doubt I will. But . . . but . . . but . . . .Admit it. You're not ready to cash in your chips. Admit it, I'm not ready to end the game, to give up the danger, to detox from this high. Maybe I'll never get another chance. A chance for what? Ecstatic sex? Such electric silence? Think about it. They could all be wrong. They could all be wrong about communication, soulmates, connection, like minds, all that shit. You never hear them say, 'You're compatible if you can sit in a car and not say anything through the whole fuckin' state of Utah.' In this case, the whole nonfuckin' state. Roll the dice. Flip a card. Exquisite wordlessness or Dante's 89th circle of same. Finishing each other's sentences like some kind of verbal orgasm or doing the same and calling it narcissism for couples. Stop with the couples, please. I told you. No such thing. Speaking of stopping, I could stop at the next corner. I mean, the other one, the one after after that. No one's there. Man, would he be shocked. Or would he?  

you turn

After 3 miles, she slammed the breaks, turned right, then right again into a residential driveway, backed up, drove to the corner, and turned left. Back toward her apartment.

--What are you doing? Where're you going?

--Back there. Going back there.

--Where? What.

--My place. There.

--What. Why.

--I'm going back.

--C'mon. Now you're just fuckin' with me. You're trying to drive me crazy.

--You gonna jump out and hitchhike, like you did before? Now it's my turn to ask questions. What was that all about? Did you murder someone? Rob a bank? No. You'd have a wad of cash. Do you? What were you running from?

--Now's a fine time to ask. After we fucked around, acted like desperados, and went on the lam.

--They're reasonable questions. I should've asked them right off the bat. Calmer. Slower. Quieter.

--We had a fight. One too many. I bailed. Easy.

--Who's 'we'?

--Her and I. She and I. Whatever.

--What kind of fight?

--To be honest, just like this.

--Well, you sure know how to pick 'em, don't you?

--I don't want to go back there. What about you? What was your gig?

--Same.

--Same?

--More or less.

--Great.

 

 

masked & anonymous

Anonymity as aphrodisiac. Not just not knowing the names, but no name for this territory, this wilderness, this nowhere they were drilling deeper into. Its fierce furtiveness. Astonishing forbiddenness. The anonymity fueling the excitement, as if in a conspiracy to fend off all accounting, all reckoning. Reckless danger. And yet the leaden security blanket of absent nomenclature, nameless outlaws, on the run. No name title category definition classification taxonomy to hold onto or to let go of.

But what of the naked call in the night, the step before the cliff, the whispered secret? To whom is it addressed? 

Return to sender?

Masked marauders.

Feral pilgrims with no destination, no map, no names.

house call

Based on the state of her car (soda cans, coupons, store receipts, a load of laundry, face masks, coins, shoes, a jacket, protein-bar wrappers, old New Yorkers, a copy of Lord of the Flies and of the Brothers Karamazov and of Lolita, half of a bra), he expected similar dishevelment and clutter at her apartment. But no. Its tidiness was blinding. A pared-down spartan rigor tended to by what angels or housekeepers was anybody's guess. It threw him off: a spatial version of jet lag. One bedroom, futon on the floor. no blinds, drapes, or shades. A open space less than a den or living room, by the kitchen: a squat coffee table with a white candle. Few-enough clothes and artifacts to enable a speedy getaway. The apartment's leanness conjured up a gong of silence.

 --Okay. Let's go.

--That's it?

--That's it.

the unkindest cut

A paring knife. Superior quality. forged, coated, sleek, ready. Anjou pears, Envy or Fuji apples, Havarti cheese. Its sharpness not depth. At the rest stop, the same one they went to the first time. Enter the stall. Sit on the closed lid. Open the purse. Take out the knife. Anticipation married to excitement: pain, fear, secret, danger, release. No, don't. Not this time. But I must. Just this once. Just this one last time. It's killing me. He's killing me. The suspense. The tension. Killing me. Killing. The first stab, a few inches, pierces her forearm, halts her breath. She knows she won't scream. Too practiced. The fresh red, its frank declaration. Someone in the next stall. Huge exhale. Right arm shaking. Breathe. Steady. Apply pressure. Careful. First the toilet paper, then the bandage. What? Where are they? Here. The bandage, then another, criss-cross. Stand up. Flush the toilet. Wash hands. Dryer. Survey the stalls. No one. The knife. In the bin. Push down the paper towels. Harder. More. More paper towels. Exit.