I have a friend that nobody else knows about. That’s because our rendezvous is late at night where no one else is around. Usually, Bo falls asleep in front of a TV screen smothered in static. I wait for him to and then I creep out into the night, still in my fluffy pink house slippers. Rocks and twigs poke through the slippers’ bottoms, but my feet are so calloused that I barely notice. As soon as I’m outside, it seems like the glow of the TV in every house is switched off, one after the other. It’s like there’s a widespread electrical surge. In the newly darkened and quiet word, I feel like a phantom as I head toward our meeting spot, on the corner of Main and Wilford.
I waited for her that night longer that ever had before. It was humid, and the heat of the night felt like it was pressing down on every inch of me. Maybe part of the weight was emotional; Bo and I had bickered all night, and he’d finally fallen asleep slumbered over the kitchen table still holding his nighttime bottle of beer. I had taken longer to get ready then usual; it seemed like the more make-up I put on, the more noticeable the red handprint on my cheek became.
I didn’t care that I looked like a clown. I just didn’t want her to see handprint, because she didn’t know that Bo and I were fighting constantly. I had told her that we worked it out and she looked so happy with her bold make-upped eyes smiling enough for both of us for a lifetime that I couldn’t bear the thought of ruining that for her.
I waited, the sweat pouring down my face. I was sure that it was creating streaks through my make-up, but I chose not to worry because I couldn’t do anything about it. Besides, the night would hide it front her, as long as I didn’t stand beneath the streetlight.
Even after I was sure that she wouldn’t come I stayed, mostly because I didn’t want to go back into the same house as Bo. If he woke up, we would fight again and there could be more handprints to hide.
I finally decided to leave and wander around until I became tired and went home or until the night broke into morning, whichever came first. That’s when I heard the footsteps. The night makes everything sound louder than it really is, but the footsteps could also sound like it did if the person was wearing high-heels. She always wore high-heels. It could have been anyone, but I knew it was her; the night is always dead except for us.
I moved over into the darkness as she emerged from the shadows across the street. She hurried across the street and stepped into the streetlight.
“Hey, Byrony,” she greeted.
“Hey.”
I smiled, to show her that nothing was wrong and that everything was normal. It wasn’t entirely a lie, because I never actually said anything, and besides, everything was normal. We’ve always fought; in the earliest memories I have of Bo and I, we’re fighting.
There was hardly even a second of silence before she began talking again. “Sorry I’m late,” she said. “I was riding my bike and I lost track of time, and then I realized how late it was and turned around to come but there was some kind of wreck or something and I swear the traffic was moving at like one freaking mile an hour. By the way, why are you wearing so much make-up?”
It was the dreaded question, but I knew lying to her would be easy. She has this naïve, overly-optimistic view of the world that people will always be honest to her.
It’s kind of weird, because everything about her clashes, but even though the traits are clashing, they manage to complement each other like different sides of the same coin or two colors you wouldn’t think could go together but do.
Her eye-shadow and eyeliner are always neon and bold and never match the hippy-reminiscent, mute-colored clothing that she favors. Her high-heeled shoes never go with the rest of the ensemble either, but she wears them anyway. She rides her motorcycle everywhere and her major philosophy is to live life on the edge, but she has the innocence and hyper personality of a five-year old.
And she’s always honest, so she thinks that no matter what people will be honest with her.
“Am I? I didn’t notice. The lights were off and everything because I didn’t want to wake up Bo and I couldn’t find my mirror. I thought I did an okay job. Guess I was wrong.” I smiled again, because I’ve learned that if you smile genuinely, people will believe anything you tell them. I wanted her to believe this.
“Well, I think you’re way better to Bo than he deserves. You ask me, he’s a good for nothing…oh God, I’m so sorry Bry, I didn’t mean to, it just slipped. I know he’s your husband and you love him and everything, but I swear he always seems like he’s up to something or has some dirty secret to hide. But that’s men for you I guess. I’ve never met an honest one. Personally, that’s why I love my bike; it never lies to me. It’s a great feeling for there to be nothing but you, the bike, the wind, and a worldful of roads just waiting to be driven on.”
“Bo isn’t that bad, really. He doesn’t have any more secrets than the rest of us.”
She shrugged and smiled, but it was a fake smile. I could see hatred that she felt for Bo just boiling in her eyes, rearing up like a rabid dog. It didn’t seem fair of her to hate Bo like that when she’d never even met him, but I kept quiet about it. She kept quiet for a while, too, like she was thinking about something. The night around us followed suit.
We sat down on the edge of the sidewalk to play cards then. We always play cards, and I try to stay in the shadows because it’s so easy to read my face, and because that night there was the chance she would manage to see through the make-up. She stays beneath the streetlight, and her every feature is illuminated a billionfold and every microscopic pore revealed as perfect. We followed the same routine, except that night, I was somehow uncomfortable with the usual feeling that I was a card of low suit being held in comparison to an Ace of Spades, and it was trumping me.
“I’m going to Paris next week,” she announced, excited both about her announcement as well as her impending victory. “I’m having my motorcycle shipped ahead of me so it’ll be ready for me when I get there. It’s Garret’s present for our two-month anniversary. Two months! I can barely believe we’ve been together that long, you know, it’s seriously my longest relationship. I might keep around for a little longer yet, especially if he’s got more trips to Paris in mind. You know, Bo should do things like that for you more often. What’s the last thing he bought you, can you honestly remember?”
I just shook my head, knowing that she would ignore any excuses that I came up with.
“That’s not good at all. The first time I met Garret a friend hooked us up and he bought something for me and took me on this really extensive tour of his favorite spots in town, and even took me to this guy who promised to fix my bike for free if I ever needed it. Can you even remember how you first me Bo?”
I was glad for the covering of the shadows, now because of the darkness that had entered my eyes. The word “remember” always brings up a sore spot for me. A sore spot that makes me murderously angry. Then, it took me to a place where the night’s encompassing, furnace-like heat was unable to even touch me.
“You know I can’t. It’s just another black blur. There’s a lot of those, and you damn well know that, so why bring it up?” That cracked through the silence like a whip. More angry words tumbled on the edge of my tongue, but then I looked at her light-magnified hurt and the anger drained out of me. “I’m sorry, okay. But you know. You know.”
The rest of that night was uneventful. She talked about all sorts of things that I didn’t care about and I pretended to answer and every now and then said something relevant. We played cards until she left. I sat there for a while afterward with only the company of the old man that I had seen around before and his cigarette smoke. I sat there until the fatigue threatened to claw my eyes shut.
I don’t remember anything about the walk home, but I do remember watching Bo sleep when I got there and trying to think back to the first time I met him. He turned over in his sleep a lot and once nearly fell out of the chair, but he never did awake. I never did remember, and that made guilt knot up my insides. I still felt like I was being trumped by something.
I tried not to think about her for a while. I didn’t know how long she’d be in Paris and I wanted to focus on keeping things peaceful between me and Bo. But living with Bo, things pile up like a house of cards built on a faulty foundations. Every attempt at peace ended up collapsing around me.
I went to wait on her again, and she didn’t show up for a couple of weeks. The old man was there again, always smoking, and it seemed like the cigarette was some kind of parasite sucking out his life. He always looked at me strangely, but other than that we didn’t acknowledge each other at all.
She showed up briefly, finally, chattering on about how great Paris had been and how, somehow, Garret had found the money and the time to take her on a long trip throughout France, beginning and ending at Paris. She seemed to love Paris now more than Garret.
So I was back to waiting for her. I had nothing to do but think, so I let my mind wander. I thought about the perfume that she wore when she came back, and how it resembled one that my mom always liked. I thought about how Dad and I played cards a lot. He did to make up with me after we fought, and the fights are always similar to the ones Bo and I have now. I think we played cards every night, and even with all that practice my card-playing skills never improved.
I would think, but no matter what it was about, I inevitably ran into a gap in my memory. It was like there was a brick wall placed in front of something that I really wanted to reach, but I could never find a way around it and kept colliding with it.
I’m just waiting for her tonight. I don’t feel like thinking anymore. The old man is here again, standing in her streetlight, his usual cigarette just resting between two fingers that eerily resemble bones.
The night and streetlight and the smoke drifting in the streetlight distort everything. Everything seems distance. Even the sound that I am beginning to hear, flirting at the edge of barely audible. It sounds like high-heels clicking against the concrete. I am so used to her not being here now that I don’t say anything or pay attention to it because I could be wrong. I probably am.
But now, I can faintly smell the perfume she’s taken to wearing. It wraps around my nostrils kind of like you see scents doing in cartoons. I breathe in, and I swear I can taste it and nothing’s ever been sweeter. My heart is racing. It parades through me and almost seems to shake me like an earthquake or a seizure, but I don’t mind.
The heat of the night is substituted for an airiness that buoys me into the skies, to Heaven. The man and his cigarette are gone, and the light shines down, undiluted and unpolluted. Everything is finally clear, and the night is holding its breath in expectant ecstasy.
I see her coming towards me and she looks angelic. I can’t find enough breath to even whisper. She was excited when she returned from Paris last time; this time, excited isn’t enough to begin to describe it. It looks like she’s been on a life-changing trip, one of those where you know they’ve gotten something from it that will always be with them. I can tell by looking that she’ll always have a piece of Paris tucked away inside of her now.
She comes towards me and I feel the approaching reunion resting over me like a heat spreading through frozen, numbed limbs. She reaches me and continues to walk by like she doesn’t even see me. I notice that the cigarette man is back.
“Where are you going?” I call after her. The darkness swallows my voice. I keep yelling, “Don’t leave me alone! I’ve been waiting here forever.” but she keeps walking.
I look over at the man and he smiles at me. His smile looks like death and I feel like I’m being trumped again.
“Who are you talking to?” he asks. “There’s no one there. There never is. Every night of my life I come here to have a cigarette in peace without my wife nagging at me and every night you’re here talking to the damn air. Damn loon, that’s what you are. Damn loon.” He extinguishes the cigarette with his fingertips, flicks it onto the ground, and walks off.
I don’t listen to him. I never do. I can remember that every night he’s here and says the same thing. I smile in pity because he’s so crazy and that’s just sad. I smile because she’s back from Paris, and once she realizes that she walked past me, she’ll turn around. I smile because I’m thankful to be in touch with reality, unlike some people. I smile because she’s here, and that’s all that matters.
