Author: admin

We sat together and yet respectfully apart, her hands on her purse, my left arm draped across the back of the booth and my right on the table, close to hers and aching to feel the warmth of her yet hesitant to move forward. It could have taken only one shot, one reach across the table towards her hands to show her what she meant to me, or to put it simply what she had done. She was responsible for the state I was in but she seemed to be trying her best to walk away without actually standing and walking away, just as I was trying my damndest to get closer to her without physically moving. It is what they call a Mexican standoff, where two parties find themselves in a state of equilibrium and neither is able to gain the upper hand over the other. I was no stranger to the experience and I would not allow myself to be defeated, though, strangely enough, I did not want to defeat. It would take some form of cunning to navigate this field.

“Do you have to leave? It’s been… I can’t explain it, I can’t. It’s been years of wondering who she would be, when I would meet her, what she would be wearing, if she would be older, or younger, and what her words would say when I finally found her, the person who I was meant to spend a life with. The woman whose heart would rest on mine and whose lips would reach for me in the dead of night beneath warm blankets. I will not admit that I have found her but I will simply ask that you stay and allow me one more dance.”

I thought I saw her react but her gaze was steadfast and her hands did not shift, nor her resolve waver.

“No,” she told me. A bullet whizzed past my ear. “I can’t stay here,” and a crippling shot in the leg. I was now limping.

She wasn’t smiling and that frown was not unlike a dagger twisted into my ribs, hurtful as it was. I would have mentally accused her of being a bitch and wanting nothing more than to string me along so that she could just walk away and leave me a pitiful sight to all eyes, so pitiful that there would be no ambulatory aid to raise me from this booth; but, I could not come to that conclusion. It seemed she was trying to convince herself more than she was trying to convince me.

“Why?”

“You’ve been… wonderful, but I can’t. I need to leave. I never should’ve even come out, I don’t know. Please…” and she stands! A grenade had been lobbed and I had no choice but to dash for cover and hold on for dear life.

“This can’t be it. We had a great time, didn’t we? This can’t be it.”

“This is it for us. I hope you find the woman you’ve always wondered about, but it isn’t me. Now, let go of my hand,” she told me, but I did not do so immediately. I was filled with thoughts of holding on, and bringing her back to me by force if necessary. They were the thoughts that occasionally although inevitably appear as strategies for success are considered, but I was not one to fight a dirty war, and so I let go, and meekly sat back, raising my lower lip in defeat and watching as she stood, her hips wonderfully shaped in the strapless dress, its pattern barely recognizable beneath the gaudy lights of the club debauchery. The chestnut locks of her shimmering hair fell across her face as she picked up her purse from the table and in that moment I thought I detected hesitation, a thought which quickly dissipated when her face and faint smile came into view.

“Thank you,” she said, and then fired what would be the final bullet. She walked, not toward the main entrance but toward the side door directly across from the booth where she and I had briefly been the greatest of unions. The dance floor seemed to part for her; or, perhaps, the revelers did so on my account, allowing full view of the beauty whose killer form and deadly eyes waged a decisive battle where the enemy fought bravely and died dishonorably at the feet of an adversary far greater and more admirable than the armies of all the nations on this Earth.

People of dark, ashen skin and even darker hair, draped in the remnants of once proudly worn clothing, mull about the heap of garbage on the old ocean barge, removing objects and waste they feel may be useful. The melancholy waves crash against the low sides of the foul smelling ship and splash the heavily salted water across an old black duffle bag. The old crusty cardboard inside once again soaked… the ink that once defaced a jolly fat Italian chef with the ramblings of a mad traveler now a mere smear of blue and black. One short, wiry thin woman sees the duffle bag and hunches down, groaning as her old knees and back resist the adjustment into this most uncomfortable position. The muscles beneath the loose skin of her arms ripple and stretch as she places her hands around the top rim of the duffle bag. She fights the mountain of diapers for the duffle bag and wins when the full length of it emerges. It is faded to the point where one could think this duffle bag is gray and not black, and jagged holes surround it on all sides. A strip of what was once an aluminum can juts out from beneath it, strange liquid dripping from the sharp and silvery tip. The woman is careful not to allow the bottom of the bag to get near her.

She pulls the string sealing the opening and leans over to peer inside, pausing only to move strands of graying black hair from her eyes and tuck them neatly behind her left ear. Her brows furrow as she is reminded that her once black hair is as gray as the duffle bag. A second later she is looking inside… nothing too interesting. She removes a diamond shaped shred of cardboard and looks at it, unknowingly cocking her head as she does so. It is a strange collection of symbols that she decides can only be a form of writing, but none that she is familiar with. The woman discards it along with the rest of the trash and thrusts her arm into the bag, shoveling out the contents. Strips of paper and cardboard fall out across the trash heap and as she hurriedly digs they begin to fall past the edge of the barge and into the ocean below. Once she has dug through half the bag she finds another, smaller bag. She remembers the children in the city wear these across their backs to carry school items. The woman removes this bag and sets it beside her before returning to her exploration of the graying black duffle bag. All that remains are a large, soiled green blanket, several more piles of papers and cardboard, and a plastic bag containing several rotted articles of clothing. Even her ragged wardrobe is better than these remains. She removes what remains to ensure she has scavenged what she can and then tosses the old useless duffle bag aside. It falls limp near the edge of the barge, half the bag hanging off the edge and soaked within seconds by the rolling waves.

The woman brings the smaller bag between her legs and finds several items. One is a plastic bag containing several old notebooks, all bound together by a worn red scarf. She rips the old scarf away and skims through the notebooks. The same writing from the old shreds of paper… along with many hastily drawn images. A lonely old tree… a large house surrounded by drooping willows… a round feminine face veiled by long and unbrushed hair… an old metallic oil lamp… a hazy mountain peak visible past the edge of a cliff… a large savage looking dog… all blurry and smeared across the pages they adorn. She sees no use in such frivolous garbage and lobs them out into the ocean, now angry that this seemingly unscathed treasure chest is yielding no worthwhile treasure. The notebooks make no splash and bob up and down with the waves, slowly floating away into the depths of time. The woman resumes her search of the small bag and finds yet another item containing the strange foreign symbols. A thick old book… red cover worn to the point where it is as thin as paper after having once been as thick as wood. She finds herself curious to look at more of this foreign writing in a futile attempt to understand its meaning.

This foreign writing is not smeared, but printed. It remains steadfast on the old yellowed sheets of paper. The woman does notice one smeared line on the first page of the book, a line that for some reason was handwritten while the rest of the book was not. She looks at the smeared line and cocks her head again. She will never know what that line meant. Regaining what little composure a woman of her lowly status can muster she places the book on a diaper beside her and continues searching the bag. Not much remains… several warped pens, rolls of green sheets of paper now melted into each other, more refuse. But as she reaches into a small sidepocket inside the bag she finds something hard, and long. The woman pulls it out and reveals it to be a cracked leather sheath, and as she opens the sheath she reveals its guarded treasure: a knife, with handle made of a strange dark wood and figure of yet another savage dog carved into it. The blade is somewhat dulled yet as brilliant as the day it was received. She smiles at finding such a useful treasure and places it back into the sheath, then into the pocket of her worn dress. She stands up, and looks about for the next discovery. The old red book remains on the filthy diaper for a few minutes while the woman returns from whence she came, until a large swell rocks the barge. The book skids and tumbles along the piles of rubbish and into the ocean, joining the rest of the trash that could not cling to the side of the heap. Floating away… discarded along with the rest of the evidence that, once upon a time, a man lived.

A tiny, miniscule, insignificant portion of an unnoticeable part of the universe giggles with delight and cries in agony, if only for the smallest comprehensible expanse of time, and then resumes the mundanity of existence.

Here I go.

Melany and I spent the morning before I left in her room at her parents’ house. She made breakfast and we nibbled at the meal she’d prepared after she and I made love for the final time. For a long while I just sat at the end of the bed with Melany in my lap facing me, her legs enclosed around my waist as if she was holding on for dear life. Damned if she almost didn’t make me change my mind by doing so. In hindsight I realize that we were tired, the two of us, only I’d finally managed to figure out why I was tired. Melany thought she just needed a vacation or a new job, but that wouldn’t help. Melany was the family type, and she would never leave. She would stay in her parents’ house until she met a man to take her into his home, and that would be all she wrote. We loved each other and love does transcend such differences, but love and unhappiness make for a terrible life. I didn’t tell Melany any of this of course, and when she kissed me goodbye I could see in her eyes that she still held hope that I would return to her as a changed man. She believed that after my little journey I would return a good man, a family man, and a man with a plan. The problem was I had a plan, and it did not include staying in one place and hoping it would lead to a luxurious retirement. She kissed me at her doorstep, along the path to the curb, as I opened my door, and through the window of my truck, each kiss a terrible nail in our coffin. She told me if I ever had a plan or knew where I was going to be that I should call her. A smile and a nod of my head is all I could do to tell her I’d consider it.

As I drove away I sincerely hoped that she would quickly learn to hate me so that she could move on with her life. I didn’t tell Melany any of this, because I knew I would think about her every day for a long time to come. If there’s one thing I hated, it’s hypocrisy.

As I drove home to finish selling or giving away my things I began to think about the places I thought I’d miss. The Bowler’s Lounge, Mick’s Tavern, the Mediterranean deli where the fellas and I get lunch, the drive along the coast on a rainy day. Once, Jack and I were stopped at a vista point up near Carmel and met these gorgeous girls who had just come back from sun bathing. Jack managed to sweet talk one of them and that very night he was in his room with her while I parked near the beach with one of her friends. She went by Beatrice and had the most amazing voice I’d ever heard. She said she’d thought about being a singer when she was a kid, but that was silly. Beatrice worked at a law firm as an administrative assistant, and she was planning to go to school in order to become some kind of copyright lawyer. Good, I told her. That sounds awesome. The moonlight doesn’t really come in clear through misty windows but it still lit her in such a way that if I’d been a painter I would have done my best to remember that moment forever just so I could paint it in different styles. I remember thinking that I used to draw as a kid, and if I’d stuck with it I may have been able to paint Beatrice so that she could be remembered. But I couldn’t stick to it because that required time, a lifetime even, and I’d miss too many things, too many experiences. I couldn’t tell you exactly what experiences those were.

I was at the apartment, packing a duffle with the remainder of my clothes, when the guys showed up. They were early, but I was nearly done. Francisco took the stereo and speakers, which were too old to sell for anything but still good for a garage or something, and Mike just collected all the miscellaneous small stuff that was still there. I told the landlord that he could do whatever he wanted with the rest of it and he could keep the deposit. They invited me out to lunch and although I didn’t particularly feel like stopping for yet another farewell meal I told them it was fine. We were once the GLD, Gentlemen of Last Days, and although those days were well behind us we were no less close then than back when we were high school kids rebelling against comfortable lives and trying in vain to get laid. If we were going to do the last meal, we were going to do it right. They drove me down to Astro Burgers which had once been our headquarters and home away from home. Jorge, the fat man who manned the register every day for years, had since been replaced by a high school kid with more acne than I was comfortable looking at. So, I looked at the menu and told Mike to just get me a patty melt and raspberry shake while I got the table. The kids were out in full force by mid-afternoon and we had to sit at a table in the middle between a couple on one side and a giggly group of girls on the other. Nothing had changed. These kids would continue coming here every day until they graduated high school, at which point they would either go on to college or full time jobs. Then of course there are the unfortunate ones who would remain there in that restaurant for the rest of their lives. As I sat with my arm draped over the back of the booth I glanced ahead at the gigglies and smiled at one that was looking at me. She looked away quickly and whispered some indiscernible obvious secret to her friend. I wish such a thing could have been when I used to be one of the crowd.

Mike brought the food, Francisco brought the beers. They asked what I planned to do about money, about jobs, about repairs, about food. I told them I didn’t know, and they laughed and weren’t surprised. They knew me, after all, and I knew them. Francisco used to be monumentally fat but he lost the weight in middle school when he started running. He became quite the popular guy afterward, and even then he was doing well as a sales rep for a computer manufacturer. Mike didn’t do as well but he found his calling as a manager at a shoe store in the mall, and he makes enough to pay for his home and provide for his wife and kids. They were genuinely happy, those two, and I’m glad they were. I sometimes envied that they could be so happy, but that just made me consider that perhaps I had a problem and everyone else was fine. At the time I couldn’t fathom such a thing because surely I had things right and everyone else was miserable. Poor saps, that’s what they were.

We ate and laughed for a while as everyone around us left and new customers streamed in. We weren’t there enough to be known or know them, so it wasn’t quite the same as the old days.

When I’d said goodbye to them (again) I returned to the apartment and picked up the rest of my things. I threw whatever was left into the truck bed and closed the camper before stopping by to give John, the landlord, my set of keys. He then asked me what my plan was, and I told him I didn’t know. He scowled and wished me luck. As I walked away I’ll admit I did glance at my window, but only for a moment. A room, a table, a stove… no one needs those things. I thought I didn’t need those things. With the final step into my truck I was officially done and I drove north to the highway with the late afternoon sun as my only companion. The sun and I would become very dear friends.

They told me it was dangerous, out there on the long and lonesome highway. It seems all manner of unsavory individual lurks along the veins that allow the lifeblood of America to flow. It’s difficult to understand when one is used to living within the bubble, but yes it is dangerous out there. And, well, at the time I needed some danger. I needed to get fucked up, both physically and spiritually. I could only know about the highs when I’d hit the disturbing lows, and so I did not doubt and drove on the highway eager to leave the city behind. This choice would not matter until I reached a point where no house could be seen and no other car could be heard. I played no music and allowed the hum of the engine to lull me into a state of numbness. I allowed this until the rest stop north of Barstow where I stopped for a nap. I noted there that I’d officially been gone for four hours and twenty seven minutes. It felt the same.

I smoked the last cigarette of my life that night while I stared at the ceiling of the truck cab that would be my home for some time to come. A lot of things crossed my mind, but all of them were about things I would be leaving behind. I didn’t want to think about those things anymore. I wanted to think about the long and lonesome highway ahead, where I realized I wouldn’t know what to expect anymore. The plan was no plan at all, just a drive. I could’ve very well returned to my place in the city or back to Melany’s arms, but I didn’t. I thought about the drive and the need to go.

And I’m gone.

Evening was closing in. Night was wonderful… silent. But eyes could not see in the dark. There was no need to drive when nothing was visible. The eyes needed to see.

Lids were heavy, susceptible to collapse. They were weak. He would not allow them to fall. He would hold them up, give them strength. He could not allow them to quit. They needed to remain open.

The right foot ached. How long had it been since the last gas stop? How long had that foot pressed upon the pedal jutting out from the floor of the vehicle? Too long, he figured. The ankle was more sore than usual. He must have been driving for a long time. On a typical day he did not mind. Today, he did. Why today?

A large transparent bag lay untouched on the brown and tan pattern of the passenger seat. “Bison Jerky,” read the label. As he looked over the right leg, doing what he could to absorb the pain for just a while longer, the eyes wandered to the bag. He hadn’t eaten in hours. Seemed like days, really. The mind had been active, distracting him. Too much thought. Thoughts of family not spoken to. Friends, long since forgotten. For their sake, he thought. Why worry over someone who didn’t want to be worried over? Logical? Yes, he thought.

The mind thought about eating “Bison Jerky.” He wanted to eat “Bison Jerky.” Maybe later.

The vehicle drove upon a sign: “Camino se Termina.” The neck turned, eyes locked on the sign. The mind turned, locked on a thought. He could. Why not? The hands held the dusty black steering wheel steady. The road remained stable. The mind was wondering… wandering. This is safe road. But, the road relented. It could not extend forever.

Abruptly, and quite suddenly, what little stable road remained gave way to the coarse crunching of rubber on dirt and leaves. The vehicle was becoming unstable. It was uncertain of what to do. This was not road. This was not safe. The ground pulled it to the left, the hands forced back it in line. The ground pushed it to the right, the hands brought it to the left.

The crunching eventually eased. The sore ankle turned, moving the foot below it to the adjacent pedal. The ankle creaked, and groaned, and aligned itself. The foot pressed the pedal in. The vehicle obeyed and slowed until it stopped. The left hand reached to the door, pulling a black handle hidden in a depression in the plastic molding. The door opened.

He pulled his legs out. They complained, but he persisted. The filthy denim rubbing against the door in the same place it always did. The black spot on the door. One crunch of dirt beneath a worn and weary boot, then another crunch. He stepped out of the vehicle and the eyes looked at the unsafe land ahead.

There was nothing.

But he looked, and he did see.

There was the edge of a precipice. Beyond the edge of the precipice a valley of green, sliced in two by a twisting blue wound. The river could not be heard from such a distance, but he could see it. And HE could hear it. He reached into the jeep through the open window and stared at everything there is. He pulled something out, held it in his hand. He leaned against the tire of his jeep and allowed himself to slide down, the rubber pulling his worn black t-shirt up around his lower back. And he sat, legs sprawled out across the unsafe dirt.

A bag labeled “Beef Jerky” was in his left hand. The right hand reached into the bag, ripping off one parallel strip of the heavily textured meat. He brought the meat to his mouth. A single bite, a pressured twist of the neck. A piece of the strip of “Bison Jerky” remained in the mouth. His teeth chewed on the “Bison Jerky,” his mind digesting it. Smell of marinade, of smoke. Taste of salty dead bison. The piece of the strip of “Bison Jerky” broke down in defeat. The right hand lowered to his side, resting on the loose gravel.

His eye lids fell. It was dark, and he could see everything.

“What’s the point?  I’ve been to plenty of these types of office administration seminars and they’re always the same.  There’s just nothing else I can learn for this kind of work.”

“The point, Joyce, is it looks good in your file, which in turn reflects well on our department.  Besides, Baltimore’s a nice town.  You may enjoy some time away.  Maybe meet a handsome traveler?”

Joyce looked back at Carmen and smiled politely.  Carmen’s hair hung loosely around her shoulders today and the odd strand waved about as the breeze from the window blew into the break room.

“Like ships in the night, huh?  The problem is I have to come back here.”  Joyce stretched her neck as she bobbed her head back to finish the cup of coffee in her hand.

Carmen chuckled and stood up from her seat on the windowsill. “Relax, sweetie.  You should lighten up.  You’re too young to worry so much.”

Joyce smiled again and returned her gaze to the glass of the window.

“Why don’t you come out with me tonight?” said Carmen.  “Just us, and  maybe Laurie.  We’ll have a girls’ night out before you leave tomorrow.  It’ll be fun.”

Joyce’s eyes slowly roamed back to Carmen, half-closed and distant. “Thanks Carmen, really.  But I can’t.  I already have plans.”

“You don’t seem very excited about these plans.”

“It’s nothing big.  Just meeting a friend.”

*****

“So when are you leaving?” Ben asked.

Joyce turned her head as it rested on the pillow, away from the slow hum of the spinning fan above.  She moved and her hair got in her face, forcing her to gently nudge aside the short dark strands so she could see Ben.  Her eyes came to rest upon his cheek.  The slight ravine along his jaw faded in and out as he clenched his teeth and pondered the ceiling.  His typically pallid skin shone brightly as dawn’s sunlight seeped in through the apartment’s blinds.

She then turned away and asked, “What makes you say that?”

“You know I can’t stand you.”

“That’s funny.  I was just thinking the same thing. Do you suppose we had a moment of simultaneous thought?”

“No, not us.  That’s for people who care to acknowledge each other’s worth.  Really, if it wasn’t for sex I’d have no use for you.”

Joyce sighed and sat up, facing the door of his loft apartment where the blank expression of a woodcut child prompted a tear to emerge from her eye.  She wiped it away and stood, still looking into the eyes of the plump child whose expression became more devastating with each passing moment.

“You’re a melodramatic prick, you know that?”

“And you’re a misandric bitch, but here we are.”

“Go to hell.”

Ben groaned as he stretched his right arm.  “I’ll call you.”

She mumbled something as she entered the bathroom and Ben yelled “What?” before Joyce repeated, louder than before, “You can kiss my ass and next time you can get yourself off!”

Ben silently rolled onto his side and watched a sparrow flutter and hop across a tree branch.  It paused midway along the branch and looked past him and through the wall of Ben’s apartment, into the hallway.  He waited for the sparrow to look at him until he fell asleep, which was well before Joyce was in her car and on her way back to her South End apartment.

The light of the Saturday morning revelers blinded Joyce, as she was not in the mood to shine.  She would need to get home and shower again before packing her things and calling her dad to take her to the airport for the 9:00 AM flight to Baltimore.

Ben met his friend Michael for lunch later that day while he was in town.  They discussed matters of the utmost importance.

“I don’t see the point of black,” said Ben.

Michael laughed and picked up his cup.  “What point?  It’s tea.  People drink it.”

“Well, it’s essentially coffee.  You drink it for the caffeine.”

“Not necessarily.  Some people might just prefer tea.”

“Over coffee?  Have you tried black tea?  The stuff is rancid.”

“Some might argue that coffee is just as acrid.”

Ben shook his head and lifted his cup so that it rested in the air between them.  He sniffed, as if it were right under his nose.  “The simple man may believe so.  I defy anyone decent to choose black tea over a cup of dry roasted from Charlie’s with cream and sugar.”

“Simple man?”

“Yes.  A fool.  Someone who doesn’t know good coffee because he’s caught up in the machinations of a counter-culture where running against the grain amounts to being cool in the eyes of his peers.”

“Ah.  Thanks for the clarity.”  Michael tipped his mug and smiled as Ben stared on.

“Simple fools,” he said.  “All of you.”

“Maybe,” said Michael, “but this simple fool knows what he likes. Simple as that.”

“You can go to hell.”

“Only if they serve black tea.”

Ben scowled and stood up to leave.

“Oh, come on now,” said Michael.  “Where are you going?”

“Somewhere else.”

Michael shook his head and smiled as he looked up at Ben.  The Swedish flag waving from the window of the building across the street momentarily grabbed his attention, and as his eyes wandered Ben began to reach into his pocket for money.

“You know, you’re just like a child,” Michael finally said.  “Throwing tantrums doesn’t become you.  No surprise that you and the wife are ending it.”

“Well at least Irma would go along with my thoughts instead of opposing every damn point I tried to make.  In fact, what becomes me is company that doesn’t bore me with ridiculous conversation about inferior drinks.”  Ben dropped a five dollar bill on the metal grating that was the table top and walked away.  “Fun as always, Mike.”

Michael was left alone to enjoy his tea.

When Ben was around the corner Michael smiled again and said, “Simple fools.”

*****

Ben called Joyce while she was at a conference.  A bottle of rum, 151, lay empty on the floor beside him.

“Hey… fuck, where are you?  I mean, you know… call me back.  I’m leaving Friday.”

She called him back on a Thursday, a few days after her return from Baltimore.  The rain had ceased that day and she was in a mood to check her voicemail.

01… Irma calling to ask if she could come to visit.  It’s been a long time and Joyce really should come by for a girls’ weekend.  And Irma supposed she would like someone to keep her company.  Joyce isn’t too busy, is she?  Call Irma back!

02… Joyce Freeman, this is just a reminder that her dentist appointment has been cancelled on the twenty seventh due to an unfortunate accident in Dr. Bose’s family.  If Joyce could please call back the by the end of next week they will be glad to reschedule her appointment.

03… Ben asking where the fuck she was and telling her to call him back.

She muttered the word “asshole” loud enough to believe it, then picked up the wireless phone and stepped out onto the balcony overlooking the same dull street scene she had born witness to for the past two years.  She remembered the first day she entered her apartment on the fifth floor.  The grove of trees across the street and a cute little bakery on the corner gave her hope that this was a wonderful place, and she would be happy here as she worked on her career and her new life.

Joyce dialed the phone and leaned against the rail, staring down into the masses on their way home from work.

“Hello?”

“Do you think it’s funny to leave me a voicemail like that?”

Ben laughed.  “Well it got your attention.”

“Hardly.  I can assume you only called so that I could come over and screw you?”

“You know me too well.”

“Sadly, I do.”

“Is that a yes or a no?”

Joyce smacked her lips and allowed her hair to gather around her face as she leaned further out over the edge of the railing.  She wondered if it was this easy.

“I’ll come by, but only if you apologize for being a dick to me.”

He told her, “I’m sorry.”

“Will you ever mean it?”

“Maybe.  Just don’t hold me to it.”

She remained silent as the noise from the traffic below rose up around her. Her bare toes jutted out from beneath the railing, and she wiggled them.

“Joyce?”

“Yea, Ben, I’ll be there in a bit.”

“Great.  Pick up some beer on your way over.”

“I’m not picking up shit.”

“You’re a real peach, you know that?”

*****

Joyce was in Rockport visiting her friend Irma that following Saturday.  Irma was in the middle of a divorce and needed a friend, which Joyce still considered herself to be for the time being, so she decided to spend the weekend with Irma.  The city was oppressive that time of year anyway.  The Sox fans were out in full force.

Irma, wearing an atypically unattractive frumpy red t-shirt and jeans, answered the door and began to cry immediately.  Joyce held Irma’s shoulders and allowed her to cry into the newly purchased Burberry jacket.  Irma’s tears were going to be costly, but Joyce was fine with that.  Her mother used to tell her, “Money’s money, honey, but it’s the friends in life that keep things sunny.”

Quaint sayings amused Joyce.

When Irma paused her inharmonious sobs, she brought Joyce to the dining room and explained again that he had been cheating on her with a bitch from the secretary pool at one of his offices.

“A secretary pool?  Really?” Joyce asked.

“Yea, a fucking secretary.  How cliché, right?  Fucking Ben… and some fucking bitch.”

“Well isn’t that kind of antiquated?  I mean, I hadn’t heard of such a thing these days.  Is this woman working in 1962?”

“What?” asked Joyce.  “I mean, Christ, what does it matter?  My husband cheated on me!  Some, some… some trollop eager to bounce on the boss’ penis just ruined nine years that I had to spend with that mother fucker.”

Joyce told her, “Sorry, it doesn’t matter.  You shouldn’t take him back.  Do you want some more –”

“I’m not going to stand by and let him be an idiot and then come crawling back to me.  And he’ll do it, too.  Idiot.  He’s screwed… himself.”

“I know, but calm down.  Tea?”

Irma told her yes, chamomile, and then apologized for being so ridiculous when Joyce came all the way down there to visit.  She still just couldn’t believe it.

Irma’s words were: “I hate him.”

Joyce nodded as she looked down at the mug and the teabag within, slowly floating down to the bottom.  She thought, then, that perhaps things shouldn’t be easy.  Perhaps her things should be difficult, or painful, or complicated.  Perhaps it’s all supposed to fall apart.

Joyce remained at Irma’s house until late Sunday afternoon, then drove back to Boston and arrived home in the evening.  She turned on the stereo on the shelf near the balcony and stepped outside with a six pack to just watch for a while.  The people on the street began to thin out, and the shopkeepers closed up for the night.  The odd bird still sang out to its mate, but she could not see where they were perched. Joyce sat and watched and drank until her eyes began to burn and the area between her throat and chest became thick and choked her, making her work to inhale every breath.  She rubbed her eyes and fought hard to keep them contained, going as far as to yell, “I don’t give a fuck!  I don’t give a fuck!” in hopes that she could beat them back with the strength of her voice.

Joyce’s phone began to ring and did not cease as she leaned back against the brick wall with the final beer in hand, and finally had to check who was calling.  One from her father, and one from Ben.  It all felt very familiar.

She stared at the list of names displayed on the phone’s screen, then lowered her hand to her side where it rested against the edge of the balcony, beneath the rail.  The music from the apartment wafted out into the open air as she finished the beer with her left hand and dropped the phone over the edge with her right.