Chapter 5
You come in the night and I wake up for a second and I can hear you breathing as you stand in the doorway and place your hand against the door frame and the creaking of the floor wakes me up a second time as you step from the kitchen into the entry to leave. As the door slams I pass out again and in the morning the envelope I left on the coffee table is gone and the water has dried and everything has been put back in its place, as if last night never happened. Never happened.
Oh, it happened. It happened because your fingerprints were on the door frame, smudges against the dark polish.
I walk to a small shop down the street and buy myself a pack of rolls and a magazine. When I get home I lay on the couch and fall asleep.
You once told me that when you were six you held a stranger’s hand in the street, because for a moment his khakis looked the same as your fathers. That each man was simply a pair of pants, and you would wander around, half expecting your father at every corner.
And on the sofa while I held your memory in my arms, I recalled the little things. I remembered the way you’d hold your glass when you took a drink.
When I wake up I am on a bus and it’s arriving in Chicago and I can feel the wind already, beating against me, and even though I don’t know if that’s just a saying, if it’s just called the Windy City or if it really is the windiest place in the world, I know that my perception is controlled. I’d like to walk down Michigan Avenue. I’d like to see the great lakes. I’d like to burn burn burn this city down and build it back up, maybe your bones would reveal themselves in the ash. Then I walk and walk and all night I’m trudging down side streets and I wear baggy clothes and my hair is greasy and I hope to God that I don’t attract unsavory attention.
In the envelope on the coffee table there was something, and I don’t think I’ll find anything in Chicago because I don’t know where to look and it’s a huge city. But I find a small cafe that next morning and somehow I run into you.
It’s not a coincidence. I think you’re following me. I know I’m trying to follow you.
And you sit down across from me and you have a cup of coffee in your hand and I don’t look up because I’m scared to see what’s in your eyes. And you touch my hand and I almost faint I’m so numb.
“Why don’t you go home?” you say, and I can’t respond because my throat is dry or not dry but it hurts to sing.
“I don’t have anything for you,” you say, and I want to know what’s in the letter. What did that man want? What are you doing in Chicago?
“I…” and then when I look up you’ve gotten up from your chair and you’re headed to the door and I want to stand up and catch you and stop you and beg you to stay, to go home with me, take the bus, buy a ticket.
But then you stop at the door and you turn around and I’m looking in your eyes and I’m so scared. You come back and you take my hand.
“Let’s get you cleaned up,” you say. We go back to your hotel and in the shower we fuck, and then after the shower we make love. And between those two moments I break down and pull my bones back together again.
And even though I’m clean you say, “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
And I know exactly what you mean.