Tag: prose

I can’t sit here and write with you looking over my shoulder.

I turned to look at her, just to drive the point home.  I usually end things by looking people in the eyes.  Meghan stared right back into my eyes, unlike most people, but I tried anyway.  Hers were far bluer than my dusty irides, which I believe gave her a sort of leverage.

Well, shit.  You can’t write when you’re alone, you can’t write when you’re at the café, you can’t write when there’s music playing, you can’t even write when the sun’s out!  Now you tell me you can’t write when I’m standing next to you.  What kind of fucking writer works like this?

The kind that doesn’t get any writing done.  Have you heard of breathing down someone’s neck?

I was sitting at my desk, as I do frequently, when I sit to check e-mail or hit the message forums, the laptop screen glowing back at me.  I’d gotten the panicked urge to write but when I finally sat down to start, nothing definite developed.  The morning of the day before she’d sent me an IM to tell me that she had an unexpected day off from work, and wanted to know what I was up to.

I don’t know.  I need to write something.

Not tonight.  Come out with me.

We went out last week.

She remained silent and I could not even hear her breathe.

I need to see you, she finally said.

Last night I saw her.  Her hair was up in a formation and she was dressed casually, jeans and a t-shirt, which was appropriate attire for bowling.  She picked me up and when we arrived I rented our shoes, and then ordered a cheeseburger, fries, and the first of two white russians.  Meghan called me a fucking cliché, as well as a fat ass, and only ordered a beer.  The neon lights shone above us and I was always the one keeping score.  The paper was sometimes green, sometimes pink, and sometimes blue.  She was better than me at bowling because I never tried, but I made it look good.  I waggled my jeans when appropriate and hurled with gusto, and she smiled at that.  I drank from my second white russian and placed my arm around her shoulder as we sat for a moment, then she kissed me on the cheek.

You need to shave.

Not until I write something.

To which she responded by rolling her eyes and standing to resume the game.

Sometimes I had a strike, but not as many as her.  The second game ended with XYZ having a score of 190 and MEG having a score of 223. I kissed her to congratulate her and because I wanted to and we walked out with my arm around her waist, which she was fond of, and told me so when we went on our first date about two months prior to last night.  She remarked that her car smelled nicer than mine and she said that I should consider getting the interior detailed.

It smells like me, I said.

She only laughed and we continued driving.  We were passing a wonderland of liquor stores with many wondrous glowing signs. There seemed to be many people interested in loitering last night. Many simply stood and talked silently amongst each other, and none appeared to be homeless.  They were all nicely dressed, the men and the women.  Jeans, sweaters, shoes that appeared to have been recently purchased or shined.  They were not drinking, or even consuming an evening snack.  They simply talked.

Do you ever search for clarity, I asked.

What do you mean?

I mean, you know, clarity.  A way to define and sharpen your thoughts.

Sometimes.  When I need to figure out a problem, especially at work.

No, I mean clarity in general.  Clarity about the purpose of things.  Life thoughts.

She looked at me and breathed loudly through her nose.

Not really.  I try not to think about that stuff.  It just makes things even more difficult to understand.

I mumbled, I see.

We arrived at my apartment and I asked her what she wanted to do. She said a movie would be nice, and I agreed.  My DVD collection is not one which I am necessarily proud of but I do keep a variety of films on disc format for such evenings as last night.  When I returned from the bathroom I found she had chosen a movie starring James Stewart called Rear Window.  In this movie, directed by Alfred Hitchcock, James Stewart is a photographer named Jeff who suffers from a broken leg and is forced to endlessly sit in a wheelchair due to the cast required for it to mend.  He spends time sitting at a window and looking into the courtyard between the apartment buildings on his block.  As the plot unfolds, Jeff; his girlfriend, Lisa; and nurse, Stella; become embroiled in a mystery surrounding a murder. There are several suspenseful scenes late in the film in which Lisa and Stella investigate the murder, because of course Jeff is forced to remain in his wheelchair and do nothing but look out the window.  I’d seen it before but I don’t think Meghan had, so I asked, and she said she had heard of it but never watched it.  We sat down on the couch with a blanket over us and watched the entire movie in silence.

What did you think, I asked.

I liked it, but Jeff is a dick.

What?

He treated that girl like shit.  Who does that?

I shrugged.  Some people just don’t know how to communicate appropriately.

Those poor people.

She leaned into my chest and I kissed her on the forehead, then lips, then neck, and she told me she was glad I took a break from writing to see her last night, and I was feeling light and amorous, so I agreed. We embraced and kissed on the couch for several minutes and she told me she would meet me in the bedroom.  Meghan stopped at the restroom and I immediately went to the bedroom to prepare the condom and disrobe, and afterwards we made love.

She awoke alone in the morning because when I first awoke I had an urge to check my account balance.  I had one thousand two hundred twenty six dollars and seventy three cents in my checking account, most of which would be paid to the landlord within three weeks.  I became panicked and sat alone on the balcony, watching people wake up and drive out early to go to work.  My temples pulsed rhythmically and I tried to write words for a song that would match the same rhythm.

Bal co nee boy, look at you now.  Wry teeng is muh nee, so don’t have uh cow.

I could only attain clarity when I am on the balcony.  On the mornings or nights of clarity I sit on the balcony and consider the future.  I think back to the many people in this world who I do not nor will ever know, who die alone, in poverty and obscurity, remembered only by distant family, if that, and acquaintances who might claim to have known them but in truth were only vaguely familiar with a sense of the people.  In such moments I feel as though there is no purpose to anything, and my heart is lifted ever higher.  Then I sit down and write.  It is the only reason I have a balcony and it has presented me with many ideas that would have otherwise not come to fruition.

I returned to my desk and tried to write something compelling that would sell.  I thought that perhaps an article on the glut of liquor stores and the plights of those who inhabit their vicinity would go at one of those urban living blogs, the ones that focus on keeping it real, but I could not think of anything to write about besides the fact that there were many liquor stores and people in front of them, and I was certain that everyone already knew that.  Photographs would help, of course, but that would mean paying one of the shutterbug friends to provide photographs, and I did not have the funds for it.  My next idea was a short story about a German man, originally from Rio De Janeiro, who discovers that his daughter is having an affair with a handsome taxi driver, and that they are planning to run away together to Argentina, which sickens the father because he believes Argentina to be an inferior country to Brazil.  I could not develop it any further than six hundred words or so, and when I began to consider working on one of the many archived works on my hard drive I became more lost and unable to focus.

Meghan appeared, then, and said good morning.  She poured herself orange juice and stood behind me in the old robe that I never wore.

Are you hungry?

No, thanks, I said.

Sure?  I can cook some eggs before I head out.

I’m okay, but thank you.

She remained silent, seemingly waiting for me to produce something, until I finally told her.

She got dressed and left in an irritated mood, but still kissed me on top of the head.  I got the idea to write about a young man with photographic memory who recalls every single kiss that he had ever received, and that he never discussed or wrote down any details about the kisses because he feared losing each instance from his mind. Eventually, the young man would realize that although he remembered every kiss, he only recalled them as notations in a ledger, and not as the experiences of kissing and being kissed, and only then would he realize the importance of a true kiss.  The idea seemed too genuine and hokey to function as anything more than fluff but if I could make it satirical or direly modern in some way it could work.  I made notes but did not begin the outline, at least not until I had a better sense of the types of people whom the young man would find himself involved with.  Perhaps waitresses in cafés and bars, or fellow students at a local college, or even older women whom he met through his work as a tutor of their daughters, who required assistance in one subject or another.  I thought of killing the young man at the beginning of the story in some violent manner, but that seemed too modern, and not likely to rouse the reader’s interest.

I can’t sit here and write with you looking over my shoulder.

I turned to look at her, just to drive the point home.  I usually end things by looking people in the eyes.  Meghan stared right back into my eyes, unlike most people, but I tried anyway.  Hers were far bluer than my dusty irides, which I believe gave her a sort of leverage.

Well, shit.  You can’t write when you’re alone, you can’t write when you’re at the café, you can’t write when there’s music playing, you can’t even write when the sun’s out!  Now you tell me you can’t write when I’m standing next to you.  What kind of fucking writer works like this?

The kind that doesn’t get any writing done.  Have you heard of breathing down someone’s neck?

I was sitting at my desk, as I do frequently, when I sit to check e-mail or hit the message forums, the laptop screen glowing back at me.  I’d gotten the panicked urge to write but when I finally sat down to start, nothing definite developed.  The morning of the day before she’d sent me an IM to tell me that she had an unexpected day off from work, and wanted to know what I was up to.

I don’t know.  I need to write something.

Not tonight.  Come out with me.

We went out last week.

She remained silent and I could not even hear her breathe.

I need to see you, she finally said.

Last night I saw her.  Her hair was up in a formation and she was dressed casually, jeans and a t-shirt, which was appropriate attire for bowling.  She picked me up and when we arrived I rented our shoes, and then ordered a cheeseburger, fries, and the first of two white russians.  Meghan called me a fucking cliché, as well as a fat ass, and only ordered a beer.  The neon lights shone above us and I was always the one keeping score.  The paper was sometimes green, sometimes pink, and sometimes blue.  She was better than me at bowling because I never tried, but I made it look good.  I waggled my jeans when appropriate and hurled with gusto, and she smiled at that.  I drank from my second white russian and placed my arm around her shoulder as we sat for a moment, then she kissed me on the cheek.

You need to shave.

Not until I write something.

To which she responded by rolling her eyes and standing to resume the game.

Sometimes I had a strike, but not as many as her.  The second game ended with XYZ having a score of 190 and MEG having a score of 223. I kissed her to congratulate her and because I wanted to and we walked out with my arm around her waist, which she was fond of, and told me so when we went on our first date about two months prior to last night.  She remarked that her car smelled nicer than mine and she said that I should consider getting the interior detailed.

It smells like me, I said.

She only laughed and we continued driving.  We were passing a wonderland of liquor stores with many wondrous glowing signs. There seemed to be many people interested in loitering last night. Many simply stood and talked silently amongst each other, and none appeared to be homeless.  They were all nicely dressed, the men and the women.  Jeans, sweaters, shoes that appeared to have been recently purchased or shined.  They were not drinking, or even consuming an evening snack.  They simply talked.

Do you ever search for clarity, I asked.

What do you mean?

I mean, you know, clarity.  A way to define and sharpen your thoughts.

Sometimes.  When I need to figure out a problem, especially at work.

No, I mean clarity in general.  Clarity about the purpose of things.  Life thoughts.

She looked at me and breathed loudly through her nose.

Not really.  I try not to think about that stuff.  It just makes things even more difficult to understand.

I mumbled, I see.

We arrived at my apartment and I asked her what she wanted to do. She said a movie would be nice, and I agreed.  My DVD collection is not one which I am necessarily proud of but I do keep a variety of films on disc format for such evenings as last night.  When I returned from the bathroom I found she had chosen a movie starring James Stewart called Rear Window.  In this movie, directed by Alfred Hitchcock, James Stewart is a photographer named Jeff who suffers from a broken leg and is forced to endlessly sit in a wheelchair due to the cast required for it to mend.  He spends time sitting at a window and looking into the courtyard between the apartment buildings on his block.  As the plot unfolds, Jeff; his girlfriend, Lisa; and nurse, Stella; become embroiled in a mystery surrounding a murder. There are several suspenseful scenes late in the film in which Lisa and Stella investigate the murder, because of course Jeff is forced to remain in his wheelchair and do nothing but look out the window.  I’d seen it before but I don’t think Meghan had, so I asked, and she said she had heard of it but never watched it.  We sat down on the couch with a blanket over us and watched the entire movie in silence.

What did you think, I asked.

I liked it, but Jeff is a dick.

What?

He treated that girl like shit.  Who does that?

I shrugged.  Some people just don’t know how to communicate appropriately.

Those poor people.

She leaned into my chest and I kissed her on the forehead, then lips, then neck, and she told me she was glad I took a break from writing to see her last night, and I was feeling light and amorous, so I agreed. We embraced and kissed on the couch for several minutes and she told me she would meet me in the bedroom.  Meghan stopped at the restroom and I immediately went to the bedroom to prepare the condom and disrobe, and afterwards we made love.

She awoke alone in the morning because when I first awoke I had an urge to check my account balance.  I had one thousand two hundred twenty six dollars and seventy three cents in my checking account, most of which would be paid to the landlord within three weeks.  I became panicked and sat alone on the balcony, watching people wake up and drive out early to go to work.  My temples pulsed rhythmically and I tried to write words for a song that would match the same rhythm.

Bal co nee boy, look at you now.  Wry teeng is muh nee, so don’t have uh cow.

I could only attain clarity when I am on the balcony.  On the mornings or nights of clarity I sit on the balcony and consider the future.  I think back to the many people in this world who I do not nor will ever know, who die alone, in poverty and obscurity, remembered only by distant family, if that, and acquaintances who might claim to have known them but in truth were only vaguely familiar with a sense of the people.  In such moments I feel as though there is no purpose to anything, and my heart is lifted ever higher.  Then I sit down and write.  It is the only reason I have a balcony and it has presented me with many ideas that would have otherwise not come to fruition.

I returned to my desk and tried to write something compelling that would sell.  I thought that perhaps an article on the glut of liquor stores and the plights of those who inhabit their vicinity would go at one of those urban living blogs, the ones that focus on keeping it real, but I could not think of anything to write about besides the fact that there were many liquor stores and people in front of them, and I was certain that everyone already knew that.  Photographs would help, of course, but that would mean paying one of the shutterbug friends to provide photographs, and I did not have the funds for it.  My next idea was a short story about a German man, originally from Rio De Janeiro, who discovers that his daughter is having an affair with a handsome taxi driver, and that they are planning to run away together to Argentina, which sickens the father because he believes Argentina to be an inferior country to Brazil.  I could not develop it any further than six hundred words or so, and when I began to consider working on one of the many archived works on my hard drive I became more lost and unable to focus.

Meghan appeared, then, and said good morning.  She poured herself orange juice and stood behind me in the old robe that I never wore.

Are you hungry?

No, thanks, I said.

Sure?  I can cook some eggs before I head out.

I’m okay, but thank you.

She remained silent, seemingly waiting for me to produce something, until I finally told her.

She got dressed and left in an irritated mood, but still kissed me on top of the head.  I got the idea to write about a young man with photographic memory who recalls every single kiss that he had ever received, and that he never discussed or wrote down any details about the kisses because he feared losing each instance from his mind. Eventually, the young man would realize that although he remembered every kiss, he only recalled them as notations in a ledger, and not as the experiences of kissing and being kissed, and only then would he realize the importance of a true kiss.  The idea seemed too genuine and hokey to function as anything more than fluff but if I could make it satirical or direly modern in some way it could work.  I made notes but did not begin the outline, at least not until I had a better sense of the types of people whom the young man would find himself involved with.  Perhaps waitresses in cafés and bars, or fellow students at a local college, or even older women whom he met through his work as a tutor of their daughters, who required assistance in one subject or another.  I thought of killing the young man at the beginning of the story in some violent manner, but that seemed too modern, and not likely to rouse the reader’s interest.

Bill said, “Hey! Another beer over here!”

The bartender, June, walked to the center and leaned toward Bill.

“What?”

“Beer! Anchor Steam!”

The incessant thumping resonated in their heads as Bill looked on eagerly and then around at the bar patrons. June poured the beer.

“Four dollars.”

Bill bared his front teeth and removed a five dollar bill from his pocket. He handed the money to June and she in turn pulled a one dollar bill from her apron. She gave Bill the money and he smiled, then left it on the bar.

He bobbed his head, getting into the rhythm, feeling the beat, and turned back toward her.

“Haven’t seen you before.”

June paused and smiled.

“I’m always here.”

Bill closed one eye but did not open it until several seconds later.

“I would’ve noticed.”

June watched him stagger closer to the bar. Her smile faded away.

“Something else?” she asked.

“Yea,” he said. “Tell me something so I can remember you.”

She placed her hands on the counter and leaned in again, closer than before. Bill hesitated to look into her eyes and instead scratched the back of his head and sipped his beer.

She said, “I’ve got nothing interesting to say.”

“Make something up.”

June paused and thought for a moment.

“I find you very attractive, and want to fuck you in the bathroom as soon as my shift is up.”

Bill furrowed his brows and drank from his glass again, then tipped his glass toward her.

“I’ll remember you.”

June sighed and then walked to the couple waiting for her near the tap.

Bill slept on the carpet of his living room that night and dreamt of June swimming in a glass of beer, wearing the t-shirt, jeans, and apron she’d worn that night. Her eyes were glistening like two great green marbles floating in the clear and golden ocean. Bill knew he wanted to get to her but found the glass of beer impenetrable. He circled around the glass of beer, searching, pleading for a means to get to her, and as if blessed by God a ladder descended from the sky that was just tall enough to reach the top of the glass. He climbed hurriedly and hooked his forearms over the top of the glass where he could feel the froth of the cold beer wash over them. When he dunked his head and shoulders inside Bill felt an immediate sense of relief and his ache for June subsided. He plunged himself in and floated along the top of the beer, swallowing with every other breath, forgetting everything and not caring that he was dying, dying, dead.

Bill said, “Hey! Another beer over here!”

The bartender, June, walked to the center and leaned toward Bill.

“What?”

“Beer! Anchor Steam!”

The incessant thumping resonated in their heads as Bill looked on eagerly and then around at the bar patrons. June poured the beer.

“Four dollars.”

Bill bared his front teeth and removed a five dollar bill from his pocket. He handed the money to June and she in turn pulled a one dollar bill from her apron. She gave Bill the money and he smiled, then left it on the bar.

He bobbed his head, getting into the rhythm, feeling the beat, and turned back toward her.

“Haven’t seen you before.”

June paused and smiled.

“I’m always here.”

Bill closed one eye but did not open it until several seconds later.

“I would’ve noticed.”

June watched him stagger closer to the bar. Her smile faded away.

“Something else?” she asked.

“Yea,” he said. “Tell me something so I can remember you.”

She placed her hands on the counter and leaned in again, closer than before. Bill hesitated to look into her eyes and instead scratched the back of his head and sipped his beer.

She said, “I’ve got nothing interesting to say.”

“Make something up.”

June paused and thought for a moment.

“I find you very attractive, and want to fuck you in the bathroom as soon as my shift is up.”

Bill furrowed his brows and drank from his glass again, then tipped his glass toward her.

“I’ll remember you.”

June sighed and then walked to the couple waiting for her near the tap.

Bill slept on the carpet of his living room that night and dreamt of June swimming in a glass of beer, wearing the t-shirt, jeans, and apron she’d worn that night. Her eyes were glistening like two great green marbles floating in the clear and golden ocean. Bill knew he wanted to get to her but found the glass of beer impenetrable. He circled around the glass of beer, searching, pleading for a means to get to her, and as if blessed by God a ladder descended from the sky that was just tall enough to reach the top of the glass. He climbed hurriedly and hooked his forearms over the top of the glass where he could feel the froth of the cold beer wash over them. When he dunked his head and shoulders inside Bill felt an immediate sense of relief and his ache for June subsided. He plunged himself in and floated along the top of the beer, swallowing with every other breath, forgetting everything and not caring that he was dying, dying, dead.

We spent the day hanging the paintings of Washington forests, Indian jungles, African savannah, the Salisbury Crags.  They were the places we should see together before we fell into a ditch and broke our necks, or were run over by a truck on the street.  Once, we figured it would happen on a plane from El Paso to Edinburgh, over the ocean, and we would survive the crash itself only to freeze to death in the North Atlantic.  They would find us in each other’s arms, frozen stiff.  There would be obituaries for each of us, mine in the El Paso Times, hers in the Edinburgh Evening News.

This is what we talked about, Em and I, until the evening rose and we stopped unpacking.  I had been extraordinarily tired for days as we managed moving out of our respective small apartments and into the single large domicile that we now called home.  I was so tired, in fact, that I went out for a long walk.  The area was quaint.  There were strings of little lights across the big oak trees and several restaurants and bars within walking distance.  It was the kind of place we’d hoped for, with lots of people around to add appropriate color to our neighborhood.

“Where’d you go?” said Em.  “I waited.”

She waited.  Always waiting.

“To think,” I told her.  “That’s all.  The usual.”

“You think too much for your own good.”

“Maybe.”

We broke in our communal bed and brand new sheets that night. They had a high thread count or something but felt the same as any other time.  Em liked to stand at the foot of the bed and watch me pleasure myself, and she preferred if I did so with great vigor.  I sometimes acted, sometimes imagined something that brought out the vigor.  It was after I climaxed and was coated in sweat that she climbed into bed so I could feel how excited she was, which preceded the actual act of making love.  This was our routine and I considered suggesting something different, something new, but at the end of the night I just wanted to get off, and I think that’s all she ever wanted, too.

The new larger bed did make it easier to sprawl out, though.

The following morning was gray and Em was hungry for something, so I offered to go out for food.

“Something fattening!” she said, and I jangled the keys to acknowledge her request.

I’d seen a few interesting places the night before.  Indian food, barbecue, and even a place that specialized in cream puffs.  I was just past the cream puff place when I saw a taqueria on a corner next to a liquor store.  The smells were overpowering, rich with spices, cilantro, and all manner of meat.  Em would enjoy tacos that morning.

I approached and ordered a chicken super burrito for myself and sometacos de tripas for Em (she loved that gross stuff, but then anyone who eats haggis would), and stood aside to allow the next person to order. I was standing alone and staring at the cloudy sky when I heard her weak little voice for the first time.

“Nice converse,” she said, and I nearly fell back in shock.  I looked down and right there in front of me was a little girl, no older than ten and no heavier than a person made of sticks.  I remember thinking that little girls standing in front of fast food order windows should not talk to strange men minding their own business.  My arms were folded over my chest which in my experience is a clear indication of stay the hell away.

I’d later find out her name was Bianca.

I looked around for a parent and saw what must have been the mother on the phone around the corner.  She wore old sweats and the haggard hair around her face almost blocked the view of her lost eyes as she stared off into the tree across the street.  She was completely unaware of the child, her child, behaving in a very peculiar manner, specifically along the lines of looking at people she shouldn’t be looking at.  I glanced away and her eyes persisted.

“Um, thanks,” is what I said, hoping that it would end there.

“Where did you buy them?”

“I forget.”

“Oh.  Well they’re cool.”

Cool?  Those were old and stringy, and moldy to boot.  They were hardly nice or cool.  It was unexpected and my order was almost ready, but not quickly enough.  An expectant smile awaited me upon the next glance.

Her tactics were astounding.

“Yours ain’t bad either,” I told her, for lack of a generic shoo.  “I dig the straps.  I wish mine had straps.”

I detected a hint of snark as Bianca informed me that those shoes, they were for kids.  I clearly do not know this.

“That’s not true,” I said.  “Only smart people wear shoes with straps. Imagine the time you save in the mornings.”

“I guess.”

I looked at her and noted something else that was strange.  Velcro-strapped shoes, jeans, and a t-shirt were to be expected.  A big yellow cap was not.  It became all too apparent that there was no hair beneath the cap and I did not want to make anything of it.  The mind drew its own conclusions about bald little girls well before I did.

“Twenty three!”

Saved by the order, I grabbed my bag and said “take care.”  It was sincere, for the most part.  I felt that she waved as I walked away but did not turn to confirm.  When I got home Em practically pounced on me and took the bag, kissed my cheek, and muttered, “Om, nom, nom.”

Em wasn’t much of a cook and I never bothered, so we ate out a lot. We sat and ate at the outdoor tables, watching people come and go, enjoying the patter of soft, flat shoes or the clicks of sharp, smart heels.  Parents walking with their children on their way to the theater, the fathers with their arms around the mothers’ shoulders, the children practically skipping along.  Teenagers walking hand in hand, old people doing the same. We ate pizza siciliana, macher jhol and luchi, California cheese steaks, cream puffs, and ice cream.  And, of course, tacos de tripas.  Those quickly became Em’s favorite and she always ordered them when we sat at the old wooden tables at the taqueria.  I’d watch her bite into them, the grease dripping from the corners of the tortillas, her red hair blocking my view of her face. When Em bites into something she crinkles her nose, like it’s too pleasurable.  I couldn’t stand it but didn’t have the guts to tell her.

It was a few weeks after we’d settled in when I saw Bianca again, and at the taqueria again.  She was sitting at one of the outdoor tables with her mother next to her, on the phone again.  This time she was wearing a red cap, but the mother was in the same old, tired clothing. I thought she looked like an old hag.  I feel really bad about that.

Bianca recognized me before I even ordered.

“Hey!” she yelled, but I didn’t respond, didn’t even look at her.  I hoped she wasn’t yelling at me.

“Hi!”

I kept still.  She’d give up.  People give up, eventually.  I was about to approach the window when she walked up and pulled on my sweater sleeve.  I looked down and there was the smile again.

“Hi!  Remember me?”  She pointed at her shoes.  They were the same white, strapped sneakers.

“Um…”

“Converse!”  She pointed at my shoes, the same ones I’d worn that first time I suppose.  I gave a half-hearted smile and nodded.

“Sure, yea.  Straps.”  I pointed at her shoes and she nodded.

“Yep!”

I looked toward her mom, who was in turn looking intently at me.  I’d never been so glad to see a cold, hateful glare.

“Your mom’s waiting for you,” I said, and pointed at the frumpy woman at the table.  Bianca walked back to her mother which freed me up to place my order.  They knew me by then and so all I had to say was, “Lo mismo,” and pay.

I glanced at Bianca and noticed she was talking to her mother and pointing at me.  A profound feeling of guilt came over me.  Bianca then approached me again but this time with her mother in hand, practically pulling her along.

“Hello,” said her mother, and I nodded and said, “Hi.”

“I’m sorry if my daughter is bothering you…” and she looked at my shoes.

“Tell him!” said Bianca, and the mother looked at me again.  Her eyes were soft now and I could tell she was going to ask something. Sometimes you can just see it coming.

“My name is Alta.  This is Bianca, but you have already met she tells me?”

“Sort of.  We chatted about shoes.”

“Yes, I know.  The shoes.  My daughter has strange interests—”

“Tell him, mom!”

The mother threw her hands up and said, “Aye Bianca, por favor!” Bianca scratched the brim of her red cap and looked down in defeat.  I didn’t understand what was going on but I wished they would hurry my order.

“This is very strange, I know, but Bianca likes to take pictures of shoes and people.  It is a very strange thing.”

“I see…”  I looked down but Bianca was suddenly very shy and wouldn’t look up.

“It is just that Bianca would like to take a picture of you and your shoes.”

I paused for a moment and looked at them, those old sneakers I kept for lazy evenings.  I really didn’t understand any of it but just then I had to chuckle.

“Really?” I asked.  Bianca looked up and again and nodded.  “Well, sure, I guess.”

They smiled and I stood and waited for them to say something that never came.

“Sorry, I’m Peter.”  I offered my hand and shook Alta’s hand, then Bianca’s.  She seemed to have gotten over the bout of shyness and was now grinning wide.  Her teeth looked too big for her mouth and it looked like she would have needed braces.  She was a cute kid.

“So’s this going to be a phone picture?” I asked.

“Oh, no,” said Alta.  “Bianca has a camera.  Go bring it, mija.”

“It’s a camera for professionals,” said Bianca, and she ran to a blue Honda in the parking lot to get it.

“I am so sorry,” said Alta while we waited, and I shook my head.

“No problem.  It’s good for a kid to have hobbies.”

“Yes,” she said.  “Bianca has become very involved in photos.  She wants to take pictures of people and their shoes…”  She trailed off as Bianca returned with a large black camera.  It had a big lens and looked like something found on a red carpet or on safari.  It definitely wasn’t what I expected a kid to be using.

“Nice camera,” I told her.

“My daddy bought it for me,” said Bianca.  “He wants me to be a photographer, too.”

Alta nodded and I scratched the back of my head.

“So,” I said.  “Do I just stand here?”

“Yea,” said Bianca.  She had the camera strap around her neck and began to back away from me with the camera in front of her like a shield.  She turned the red cap backward and again I noticed that she had no hair at all.  It was unsettling.

“Could you look cool?” she called, and I looked at Alta who shrugged at me.

“Sure,” I said, and I crossed my arms and put on what I think was a tough guy face.  Bianca furrowed her brows and then stepped closer to me, looking at me through the viewfinder.

“Be yourself,” she said.  “Be cool like before.”

I don’t what that meant exactly so I just put my hands in my pockets. She found that satisfactory and snapped the picture.  She looked at it in the camera’s viewer then grinned and walked back to us.

“Look!”  She seemed thrilled.  Alta and I looked at the photograph of me standing awkwardly with my hands in my pockets and a line of people waiting to order behind me.

“You can barely see my shoes,” I said.

“It’s because you’re too tall,” said Bianca.  Alta and I chuckled and Bianca just smiled deftly and turned the camera off.

“Thanks,” she said.

“No problem.”

We talked about other people she’d taken pictures of, including a set of twins wearing shiny red shoes like the ones Dorothy wears in The Wizard of Oz, and then said goodbyes when their order was ready. Bianca thanked me again and said it was a really “awesome” picture.  I continued to wait in silence until the tacos and my burrito were ready.

That night, Em was rambunctious.  She moved from the living room, where we had been sitting on the couch watching figure skating and hovering around second base, to the bedroom.  I didn’t bother to watch her leave and she called out from the darkness.

“Peter?”

“In a minute.  She’s about to pull off one of those crazy spins in the air, I just know it.”  I was struck in the head by a pillow and smiled into the darkness of the room.

“Well, she was.”

She asked, “Do you love me?”

“Yea,” I said.  “Of course I love you.”

“Then come to bed.”

I stood up and turned off the television.  I stopped in the doorway to look in but I couldn’t see anything now that the television was off.  I couldn’t sense her, or smell her perfume, or make out anything inside. I couldn’t even hear her breathe.

The final time I saw Alma and Bianca was only a few days after she took my picture.  I was at the taqueria once again, this time late in the evening.  The fog was pushing its way over the hills to the West and I was just standing there and staring as it pushed over the hill and vanished into wisps of air.  The fog kept pushing and kept evaporating into nothing and I thought it was brave.  It felt like maybe there was a lesson in that.  Keep pushing and don’t stop, even if you evaporate into nothing.

It was after this moment of reflection that I saw Alta approach the restaurant.  I smiled and waved.

“Peter?”  Her face was more ragged than usual and she looked horribly depressed.

“Yea.  Um, Alta?”  I remembered her name so I don’t know why I pretended I didn’t.

“Yes.  Can I speak with you for one moment?”

I nodded and looked concerned to match her somber appearance.  Her eyes were soft.

“I am sorry to bother you with this.  It’s Bianca.”

“Yes?”

“She… Did you notice her head, before?  Under her hat?”

I nodded and swallowed.  My mouth was dry and swallowing nothing scratched my throat.

“She, eh… She has cancer.  Lymphoma?”

I nodded even though I didn’t know what that was at the time.

“I’m sorry.”  It was all I could think of and it felt so terribly pathetic. The woman’s daughter had cancer and I was sorry.

“Thank you.  She is fighting it.”

“That’s good.”

It was silent for a moment as if she was waiting for me to say something more, but I had nothing else.

“I wanted to ask you, and this is strange I know… She lost the photo she took of you.”

“Lost it?”

She nodded.  “The memory card broke or got erased.  She lost of lot of people and it has made her very depressed.  Her pictures mean so much to her.  She just lies in bed and says nothing or cries…” Her eyes began to glisten and it made me even less certain of what to say.

“That’s terrible.”

Alta nodded again and dabbed her eyes.  “Yes, I know.  I have been looking for the people she took pictures of to ask them if they can visit her so she can take the pictures again.”

“Oh,” I said.  I knew that she was going to ask but she seemed embarrassed to do so.  She paused again and looked off to the side, dabbing at her eyes.

“So you’d like me to visit her?”

She let out a breathy laugh and smiled, still looking to the side.  “Oh, you would?  She would love it.  It would make her so happy.”

“Sure.  No problem.”

She reached into her pocket and pulled out a pen, then grabbed a napkin from the dispenser next to the order window.  “This is the hospital and her room number.  Oh, and my number.  Do you mind if you visit her in the hospital?”

“No.  Um, when should I stop by?”

“The afternoons are best for her, when she is resting.”

I was hesitant to tell her when I’d visit because then I’d be committed to it, but she looked at me expectantly and I became very nervous. The only way I could think of it was the feeling a kid gets before going on his first date.  I decided the sooner, the better.

“This afternoon?”

She nodded and reached out for my hand.  “Okay, good.  This afternoon, anytime after three is okay.  Thank you, thank you.”  I smiled and nodded but she still went in for the hug.  She held me tight against her sweatshirt and then pulled back, dabbing at her eyes again.

“No problem,” I said.

Hospitals save lives but they depress just as effectively.  Matte white, cornflower blue, canary yellow.  Muted and suited for people in pain. The other four senses help to alleviate the fifth, and eyes on white walls help.

The people at the front desk asked me who I was and I told them a friend of the family, which felt like a great lie.  They checked in with somebody on the phone and told me to go ahead, it was just around the corner.  As I walked down the aisle I saw Alta standing outside talking on the phone.  She smiled when she saw me and pointed at the open door nearest to her.  I smiled back and nodded then proceeded toward the door.  I unknowingly held my breath until I was finally at the doorway and looked inside.

Beeps.  Lines jump up every second or so.

Bianca was lying in a large white bed, too large for a little girl I thought, and all around her were pictures of people taped to the walls.  There were children, old people, couples, random assortments of individuals.  In one picture I saw two girls in yellow dresses wearing red, sequined shoes.

I stepped inside and looked at Bianca’s face.  She was looking at the wall opposite the door.

“You awake?” I asked.

She looked at me and beamed, shaking her head.

“Hi.”

She was wearing the yellow cap again, but didn’t look as sad as her mother had made her out to be.  Her face was sickeningly pallid beneath the halogen lights.  An image of her bed in the middle of a supermarket aisle came to mind.

I approached but wasn’t sure what to do, being unfamiliar with death and kids and all, so I stood by her bed and scratched my one arm with the other hand.

“Nice place.”

She looked around and nodded.  Pride is sometimes difficult to see but that’s what I saw when I looked at her.  Some sort of pride.

“You can sit down,” she said, so I did.

“It’s like a museum here.  You’re quite the photographer.”

“Maybe.  My mom says the new pictures are better.  Oh, look!”  She pointed to a pile of photographs on the table nearby and nodded excitedly.

“Look at the top ones.”

I picked up the stack and saw a woman in the first photograph.  She looked young, just starting college perhaps.  Her eyes were squinting in the sunlight, her hair was short and blonde, cut and styled in the way of girls who are becoming women.  She wore a green t-shirt with an unfamiliar logo on it and small jeans of the kind that people wear now.  She was holding a camera in her hands and pointing it at the photographer.  Her backpack was at her feet where I noticed that she was wearing a pair of red Converse.  They were low tops, like the ones I’d worn when Bianca took my photograph, the ones I was wearing as I was sitting in that hospital room.

“I never had them in red,” I said.

“Yea, they’re cool in that color.  I want ones like that.”

Bianca reached out for the stack and I handed them to her.  It took her a few seconds to find a photograph and hand it to me.  It was a photograph of Bianca, wearing the red cap, a pink hoodie sweater, and jeans.  I could see she was wearing the same Velcro strapped shoes and a large camera was blocking her face from view.

“She took that,” she said.  “Her name is Poleth.  She came yesterday and dropped this off for me.  We took each other’s picture.”

“That’s nice of her.”

“She’s a photographer like me.  She takes pictures of all kinds of things, not just shoes.  She showed me a picture she took when she was driving to the ocean with her friends.  The sky was really blue, like heaven, and the water was shiny.  She’s going to give me a copy of it. She’s so awesome.”

“She sounds like it.”  I stared at the photograph of Bianca as she spoke and I don’t know why, even now, but I felt a great pressure in my chest.  It had started when I entered the room but now that she was talking about heaven and the ocean in her little voice the pressure boiled over and my eyes began to burn.  By the time I’d returned the photographs to the table there were tears in my eyes and I had to look away to wipe them off.

We were silent and I was conscious of the fact that she was looking at me as I composed myself, and I shouldn’t have done that, I know, but sometimes a thing can’t be helped.

Then she started talking which made is so much worse.

“I’m sorry.  I’m sorry I’m making you sad.”

I took a deep breath and smiled the smile one smiles when everything has to be okay.

“No, no.  You’re not making me sad.”

“Yes, I am.  My dad cries, too.  It’s okay to be sad.”  I stared at her hand as it lied unmoving on the blanket and waited for my eyes to resume a dry state.

“So,” I finally said.  “I hear you need a picture of my shoes?”

She said she did, and I stood awkwardly against the white wall, hands in my pockets, waiting for her to set up and take the photograph of the last time we’d see each other.

When I got home that night Em was out.  She often headed out to hang out with coworkers at some bar, one of those girl’s night outs.  I needed space sometimes so I didn’t mind it.  My original intent was to watch some television but I began to think about Bianca in her large bed at the hospital with all those pictures surrounding her.  She barely even knew any of the people in the pictures and yet she felt so close to them, like they were family or somehow just very important to her.  I looked around our apartment and we had almost no pictures.  There were a couple of small ones of Em on a table near the balcony, one of me from that time I’d gone fishing holding a fish the size of a baseball, and several of both Em and I from various points in our relationship. I began to wonder if I should tell Em about Bianca, about the conversations we’d had and her lymphoma and the pictures, but I decided against it.  I’m not sure why.

Then I decided I didn’t want to be alone.  It felt worse, everything did. My head wouldn’t stop talking.

I walked outside.  The sky was ragged, streaked by clouds and poor attempts at a lovely sky.  The same people milled about, smiling, eating ice cream and holding each other’s hands and waists.  People sat and ate, and talked about things.  It all seemed so meaningless. Nothing seemed liked it could look beautiful.  Everything was terrible.

I stopped at the Catholic church.  Only one of the large, wooden doors was open and when I stepped inside it smelled like burning candles. There was a donation box to the left of the arch that leads into the church proper and a basin of holy water on the right.  I felt compelled both to donate and dip my fingers in the water.  It was cool to the touch and made me feel sad, sadder than I’d ever been.  I stepped inside and found an elderly couple sitting at the pew closest to the front.  I sat at the back so as not to interrupt them.

I sat for a while, looking at the large metal cross placed in the center of the farthest wall from the entrance.  I thought about my parents, and that I hadn’t seen them for a long time because once I left El Paso I had no intention of returning.  They are Christians of no particular denomination but still go to church regularly.  As a kid I’d go with them and sit in the wooden pew waiting for the service to end.  They would let me sit while everyone else stood or kneeled, and it never made sense that anyone would move around so much just to hear a man read from a book.  I thought about Em whose parents were Protestant but allowed Em to choose her own path to God.  Like me, she chose not follow a path at all.

The old couple eventually stood and walked down the center aisle toward the exit.  The old man was slightly shorter than the old woman, and held a newsie’s cap in his hands.  He had deep, dark wrinkles running down his neck.  The old woman was thin and looked like she may have been the prettiest girl in the world, once, with what may have been light brown hair and twinkling green eyes.  That old man didn’t look like he was handsome at any time in his life and was probably lucky to have found her.  They both nodded at me as they walked by and I pursed my lips and nodded back.

Then I thought about angels.  I thought about how angels don’t just live in heaven and how they can look like people we see every day of our lives, or just once in passing.

We spent the day hanging the paintings of Washington forests, Indian jungles, African savannah, the Salisbury Crags.  They were the places we should see together before we fell into a ditch and broke our necks, or were run over by a truck on the street.  Once, we figured it would happen on a plane from El Paso to Edinburgh, over the ocean, and we would survive the crash itself only to freeze to death in the North Atlantic.  They would find us in each other’s arms, frozen stiff.  There would be obituaries for each of us, mine in the El Paso Times, hers in the Edinburgh Evening News.

This is what we talked about, Em and I, until the evening rose and we stopped unpacking.  I had been extraordinarily tired for days as we managed moving out of our respective small apartments and into the single large domicile that we now called home.  I was so tired, in fact, that I went out for a long walk.  The area was quaint.  There were strings of little lights across the big oak trees and several restaurants and bars within walking distance.  It was the kind of place we’d hoped for, with lots of people around to add appropriate color to our neighborhood.

“Where’d you go?” said Em.  “I waited.”

She waited.  Always waiting.

“To think,” I told her.  “That’s all.  The usual.”

“You think too much for your own good.”

“Maybe.”

We broke in our communal bed and brand new sheets that night. They had a high thread count or something but felt the same as any other time.  Em liked to stand at the foot of the bed and watch me pleasure myself, and she preferred if I did so with great vigor.  I sometimes acted, sometimes imagined something that brought out the vigor.  It was after I climaxed and was coated in sweat that she climbed into bed so I could feel how excited she was, which preceded the actual act of making love.  This was our routine and I considered suggesting something different, something new, but at the end of the night I just wanted to get off, and I think that’s all she ever wanted, too.

The new larger bed did make it easier to sprawl out, though.

The following morning was gray and Em was hungry for something, so I offered to go out for food.

“Something fattening!” she said, and I jangled the keys to acknowledge her request.

I’d seen a few interesting places the night before.  Indian food, barbecue, and even a place that specialized in cream puffs.  I was just past the cream puff place when I saw a taqueria on a corner next to a liquor store.  The smells were overpowering, rich with spices, cilantro, and all manner of meat.  Em would enjoy tacos that morning.

I approached and ordered a chicken super burrito for myself and sometacos de tripas for Em (she loved that gross stuff, but then anyone who eats haggis would), and stood aside to allow the next person to order. I was standing alone and staring at the cloudy sky when I heard her weak little voice for the first time.

“Nice converse,” she said, and I nearly fell back in shock.  I looked down and right there in front of me was a little girl, no older than ten and no heavier than a person made of sticks.  I remember thinking that little girls standing in front of fast food order windows should not talk to strange men minding their own business.  My arms were folded over my chest which in my experience is a clear indication of stay the hell away.

I’d later find out her name was Bianca.

I looked around for a parent and saw what must have been the mother on the phone around the corner.  She wore old sweats and the haggard hair around her face almost blocked the view of her lost eyes as she stared off into the tree across the street.  She was completely unaware of the child, her child, behaving in a very peculiar manner, specifically along the lines of looking at people she shouldn’t be looking at.  I glanced away and her eyes persisted.

“Um, thanks,” is what I said, hoping that it would end there.

“Where did you buy them?”

“I forget.”

“Oh.  Well they’re cool.”

Cool?  Those were old and stringy, and moldy to boot.  They were hardly nice or cool.  It was unexpected and my order was almost ready, but not quickly enough.  An expectant smile awaited me upon the next glance.

Her tactics were astounding.

“Yours ain’t bad either,” I told her, for lack of a generic shoo.  “I dig the straps.  I wish mine had straps.”

I detected a hint of snark as Bianca informed me that those shoes, they were for kids.  I clearly do not know this.

“That’s not true,” I said.  “Only smart people wear shoes with straps. Imagine the time you save in the mornings.”

“I guess.”

I looked at her and noted something else that was strange.  Velcro-strapped shoes, jeans, and a t-shirt were to be expected.  A big yellow cap was not.  It became all too apparent that there was no hair beneath the cap and I did not want to make anything of it.  The mind drew its own conclusions about bald little girls well before I did.

“Twenty three!”

Saved by the order, I grabbed my bag and said “take care.”  It was sincere, for the most part.  I felt that she waved as I walked away but did not turn to confirm.  When I got home Em practically pounced on me and took the bag, kissed my cheek, and muttered, “Om, nom, nom.”

Em wasn’t much of a cook and I never bothered, so we ate out a lot. We sat and ate at the outdoor tables, watching people come and go, enjoying the patter of soft, flat shoes or the clicks of sharp, smart heels.  Parents walking with their children on their way to the theater, the fathers with their arms around the mothers’ shoulders, the children practically skipping along.  Teenagers walking hand in hand, old people doing the same. We ate pizza siciliana, macher jhol and luchi, California cheese steaks, cream puffs, and ice cream.  And, of course, tacos de tripas.  Those quickly became Em’s favorite and she always ordered them when we sat at the old wooden tables at the taqueria.  I’d watch her bite into them, the grease dripping from the corners of the tortillas, her red hair blocking my view of her face. When Em bites into something she crinkles her nose, like it’s too pleasurable.  I couldn’t stand it but didn’t have the guts to tell her.

It was a few weeks after we’d settled in when I saw Bianca again, and at the taqueria again.  She was sitting at one of the outdoor tables with her mother next to her, on the phone again.  This time she was wearing a red cap, but the mother was in the same old, tired clothing. I thought she looked like an old hag.  I feel really bad about that.

Bianca recognized me before I even ordered.

“Hey!” she yelled, but I didn’t respond, didn’t even look at her.  I hoped she wasn’t yelling at me.

“Hi!”

I kept still.  She’d give up.  People give up, eventually.  I was about to approach the window when she walked up and pulled on my sweater sleeve.  I looked down and there was the smile again.

“Hi!  Remember me?”  She pointed at her shoes.  They were the same white, strapped sneakers.

“Um…”

“Converse!”  She pointed at my shoes, the same ones I’d worn that first time I suppose.  I gave a half-hearted smile and nodded.

“Sure, yea.  Straps.”  I pointed at her shoes and she nodded.

“Yep!”

I looked toward her mom, who was in turn looking intently at me.  I’d never been so glad to see a cold, hateful glare.

“Your mom’s waiting for you,” I said, and pointed at the frumpy woman at the table.  Bianca walked back to her mother which freed me up to place my order.  They knew me by then and so all I had to say was, “Lo mismo,” and pay.

I glanced at Bianca and noticed she was talking to her mother and pointing at me.  A profound feeling of guilt came over me.  Bianca then approached me again but this time with her mother in hand, practically pulling her along.

“Hello,” said her mother, and I nodded and said, “Hi.”

“I’m sorry if my daughter is bothering you…” and she looked at my shoes.

“Tell him!” said Bianca, and the mother looked at me again.  Her eyes were soft now and I could tell she was going to ask something. Sometimes you can just see it coming.

“My name is Alta.  This is Bianca, but you have already met she tells me?”

“Sort of.  We chatted about shoes.”

“Yes, I know.  The shoes.  My daughter has strange interests—”

“Tell him, mom!”

The mother threw her hands up and said, “Aye Bianca, por favor!” Bianca scratched the brim of her red cap and looked down in defeat.  I didn’t understand what was going on but I wished they would hurry my order.

“This is very strange, I know, but Bianca likes to take pictures of shoes and people.  It is a very strange thing.”

“I see…”  I looked down but Bianca was suddenly very shy and wouldn’t look up.

“It is just that Bianca would like to take a picture of you and your shoes.”

I paused for a moment and looked at them, those old sneakers I kept for lazy evenings.  I really didn’t understand any of it but just then I had to chuckle.

“Really?” I asked.  Bianca looked up and again and nodded.  “Well, sure, I guess.”

They smiled and I stood and waited for them to say something that never came.

“Sorry, I’m Peter.”  I offered my hand and shook Alta’s hand, then Bianca’s.  She seemed to have gotten over the bout of shyness and was now grinning wide.  Her teeth looked too big for her mouth and it looked like she would have needed braces.  She was a cute kid.

“So’s this going to be a phone picture?” I asked.

“Oh, no,” said Alta.  “Bianca has a camera.  Go bring it, mija.”

“It’s a camera for professionals,” said Bianca, and she ran to a blue Honda in the parking lot to get it.

“I am so sorry,” said Alta while we waited, and I shook my head.

“No problem.  It’s good for a kid to have hobbies.”

“Yes,” she said.  “Bianca has become very involved in photos.  She wants to take pictures of people and their shoes…”  She trailed off as Bianca returned with a large black camera.  It had a big lens and looked like something found on a red carpet or on safari.  It definitely wasn’t what I expected a kid to be using.

“Nice camera,” I told her.

“My daddy bought it for me,” said Bianca.  “He wants me to be a photographer, too.”

Alta nodded and I scratched the back of my head.

“So,” I said.  “Do I just stand here?”

“Yea,” said Bianca.  She had the camera strap around her neck and began to back away from me with the camera in front of her like a shield.  She turned the red cap backward and again I noticed that she had no hair at all.  It was unsettling.

“Could you look cool?” she called, and I looked at Alta who shrugged at me.

“Sure,” I said, and I crossed my arms and put on what I think was a tough guy face.  Bianca furrowed her brows and then stepped closer to me, looking at me through the viewfinder.

“Be yourself,” she said.  “Be cool like before.”

I don’t what that meant exactly so I just put my hands in my pockets. She found that satisfactory and snapped the picture.  She looked at it in the camera’s viewer then grinned and walked back to us.

“Look!”  She seemed thrilled.  Alta and I looked at the photograph of me standing awkwardly with my hands in my pockets and a line of people waiting to order behind me.

“You can barely see my shoes,” I said.

“It’s because you’re too tall,” said Bianca.  Alta and I chuckled and Bianca just smiled deftly and turned the camera off.

“Thanks,” she said.

“No problem.”

We talked about other people she’d taken pictures of, including a set of twins wearing shiny red shoes like the ones Dorothy wears in The Wizard of Oz, and then said goodbyes when their order was ready. Bianca thanked me again and said it was a really “awesome” picture.  I continued to wait in silence until the tacos and my burrito were ready.

That night, Em was rambunctious.  She moved from the living room, where we had been sitting on the couch watching figure skating and hovering around second base, to the bedroom.  I didn’t bother to watch her leave and she called out from the darkness.

“Peter?”

“In a minute.  She’s about to pull off one of those crazy spins in the air, I just know it.”  I was struck in the head by a pillow and smiled into the darkness of the room.

“Well, she was.”

She asked, “Do you love me?”

“Yea,” I said.  “Of course I love you.”

“Then come to bed.”

I stood up and turned off the television.  I stopped in the doorway to look in but I couldn’t see anything now that the television was off.  I couldn’t sense her, or smell her perfume, or make out anything inside. I couldn’t even hear her breathe.

The final time I saw Alma and Bianca was only a few days after she took my picture.  I was at the taqueria once again, this time late in the evening.  The fog was pushing its way over the hills to the West and I was just standing there and staring as it pushed over the hill and vanished into wisps of air.  The fog kept pushing and kept evaporating into nothing and I thought it was brave.  It felt like maybe there was a lesson in that.  Keep pushing and don’t stop, even if you evaporate into nothing.

It was after this moment of reflection that I saw Alta approach the restaurant.  I smiled and waved.

“Peter?”  Her face was more ragged than usual and she looked horribly depressed.

“Yea.  Um, Alta?”  I remembered her name so I don’t know why I pretended I didn’t.

“Yes.  Can I speak with you for one moment?”

I nodded and looked concerned to match her somber appearance.  Her eyes were soft.

“I am sorry to bother you with this.  It’s Bianca.”

“Yes?”

“She… Did you notice her head, before?  Under her hat?”

I nodded and swallowed.  My mouth was dry and swallowing nothing scratched my throat.

“She, eh… She has cancer.  Lymphoma?”

I nodded even though I didn’t know what that was at the time.

“I’m sorry.”  It was all I could think of and it felt so terribly pathetic. The woman’s daughter had cancer and I was sorry.

“Thank you.  She is fighting it.”

“That’s good.”

It was silent for a moment as if she was waiting for me to say something more, but I had nothing else.

“I wanted to ask you, and this is strange I know… She lost the photo she took of you.”

“Lost it?”

She nodded.  “The memory card broke or got erased.  She lost of lot of people and it has made her very depressed.  Her pictures mean so much to her.  She just lies in bed and says nothing or cries…” Her eyes began to glisten and it made me even less certain of what to say.

“That’s terrible.”

Alta nodded again and dabbed her eyes.  “Yes, I know.  I have been looking for the people she took pictures of to ask them if they can visit her so she can take the pictures again.”

“Oh,” I said.  I knew that she was going to ask but she seemed embarrassed to do so.  She paused again and looked off to the side, dabbing at her eyes.

“So you’d like me to visit her?”

She let out a breathy laugh and smiled, still looking to the side.  “Oh, you would?  She would love it.  It would make her so happy.”

“Sure.  No problem.”

She reached into her pocket and pulled out a pen, then grabbed a napkin from the dispenser next to the order window.  “This is the hospital and her room number.  Oh, and my number.  Do you mind if you visit her in the hospital?”

“No.  Um, when should I stop by?”

“The afternoons are best for her, when she is resting.”

I was hesitant to tell her when I’d visit because then I’d be committed to it, but she looked at me expectantly and I became very nervous. The only way I could think of it was the feeling a kid gets before going on his first date.  I decided the sooner, the better.

“This afternoon?”

She nodded and reached out for my hand.  “Okay, good.  This afternoon, anytime after three is okay.  Thank you, thank you.”  I smiled and nodded but she still went in for the hug.  She held me tight against her sweatshirt and then pulled back, dabbing at her eyes again.

“No problem,” I said.

Hospitals save lives but they depress just as effectively.  Matte white, cornflower blue, canary yellow.  Muted and suited for people in pain. The other four senses help to alleviate the fifth, and eyes on white walls help.

The people at the front desk asked me who I was and I told them a friend of the family, which felt like a great lie.  They checked in with somebody on the phone and told me to go ahead, it was just around the corner.  As I walked down the aisle I saw Alta standing outside talking on the phone.  She smiled when she saw me and pointed at the open door nearest to her.  I smiled back and nodded then proceeded toward the door.  I unknowingly held my breath until I was finally at the doorway and looked inside.

Beeps.  Lines jump up every second or so.

Bianca was lying in a large white bed, too large for a little girl I thought, and all around her were pictures of people taped to the walls.  There were children, old people, couples, random assortments of individuals.  In one picture I saw two girls in yellow dresses wearing red, sequined shoes.

I stepped inside and looked at Bianca’s face.  She was looking at the wall opposite the door.

“You awake?” I asked.

She looked at me and beamed, shaking her head.

“Hi.”

She was wearing the yellow cap again, but didn’t look as sad as her mother had made her out to be.  Her face was sickeningly pallid beneath the halogen lights.  An image of her bed in the middle of a supermarket aisle came to mind.

I approached but wasn’t sure what to do, being unfamiliar with death and kids and all, so I stood by her bed and scratched my one arm with the other hand.

“Nice place.”

She looked around and nodded.  Pride is sometimes difficult to see but that’s what I saw when I looked at her.  Some sort of pride.

“You can sit down,” she said, so I did.

“It’s like a museum here.  You’re quite the photographer.”

“Maybe.  My mom says the new pictures are better.  Oh, look!”  She pointed to a pile of photographs on the table nearby and nodded excitedly.

“Look at the top ones.”

I picked up the stack and saw a woman in the first photograph.  She looked young, just starting college perhaps.  Her eyes were squinting in the sunlight, her hair was short and blonde, cut and styled in the way of girls who are becoming women.  She wore a green t-shirt with an unfamiliar logo on it and small jeans of the kind that people wear now.  She was holding a camera in her hands and pointing it at the photographer.  Her backpack was at her feet where I noticed that she was wearing a pair of red Converse.  They were low tops, like the ones I’d worn when Bianca took my photograph, the ones I was wearing as I was sitting in that hospital room.

“I never had them in red,” I said.

“Yea, they’re cool in that color.  I want ones like that.”

Bianca reached out for the stack and I handed them to her.  It took her a few seconds to find a photograph and hand it to me.  It was a photograph of Bianca, wearing the red cap, a pink hoodie sweater, and jeans.  I could see she was wearing the same Velcro strapped shoes and a large camera was blocking her face from view.

“She took that,” she said.  “Her name is Poleth.  She came yesterday and dropped this off for me.  We took each other’s picture.”

“That’s nice of her.”

“She’s a photographer like me.  She takes pictures of all kinds of things, not just shoes.  She showed me a picture she took when she was driving to the ocean with her friends.  The sky was really blue, like heaven, and the water was shiny.  She’s going to give me a copy of it. She’s so awesome.”

“She sounds like it.”  I stared at the photograph of Bianca as she spoke and I don’t know why, even now, but I felt a great pressure in my chest.  It had started when I entered the room but now that she was talking about heaven and the ocean in her little voice the pressure boiled over and my eyes began to burn.  By the time I’d returned the photographs to the table there were tears in my eyes and I had to look away to wipe them off.

We were silent and I was conscious of the fact that she was looking at me as I composed myself, and I shouldn’t have done that, I know, but sometimes a thing can’t be helped.

Then she started talking which made is so much worse.

“I’m sorry.  I’m sorry I’m making you sad.”

I took a deep breath and smiled the smile one smiles when everything has to be okay.

“No, no.  You’re not making me sad.”

“Yes, I am.  My dad cries, too.  It’s okay to be sad.”  I stared at her hand as it lied unmoving on the blanket and waited for my eyes to resume a dry state.

“So,” I finally said.  “I hear you need a picture of my shoes?”

She said she did, and I stood awkwardly against the white wall, hands in my pockets, waiting for her to set up and take the photograph of the last time we’d see each other.

When I got home that night Em was out.  She often headed out to hang out with coworkers at some bar, one of those girl’s night outs.  I needed space sometimes so I didn’t mind it.  My original intent was to watch some television but I began to think about Bianca in her large bed at the hospital with all those pictures surrounding her.  She barely even knew any of the people in the pictures and yet she felt so close to them, like they were family or somehow just very important to her.  I looked around our apartment and we had almost no pictures.  There were a couple of small ones of Em on a table near the balcony, one of me from that time I’d gone fishing holding a fish the size of a baseball, and several of both Em and I from various points in our relationship. I began to wonder if I should tell Em about Bianca, about the conversations we’d had and her lymphoma and the pictures, but I decided against it.  I’m not sure why.

Then I decided I didn’t want to be alone.  It felt worse, everything did. My head wouldn’t stop talking.

I walked outside.  The sky was ragged, streaked by clouds and poor attempts at a lovely sky.  The same people milled about, smiling, eating ice cream and holding each other’s hands and waists.  People sat and ate, and talked about things.  It all seemed so meaningless. Nothing seemed liked it could look beautiful.  Everything was terrible.

I stopped at the Catholic church.  Only one of the large, wooden doors was open and when I stepped inside it smelled like burning candles. There was a donation box to the left of the arch that leads into the church proper and a basin of holy water on the right.  I felt compelled both to donate and dip my fingers in the water.  It was cool to the touch and made me feel sad, sadder than I’d ever been.  I stepped inside and found an elderly couple sitting at the pew closest to the front.  I sat at the back so as not to interrupt them.

I sat for a while, looking at the large metal cross placed in the center of the farthest wall from the entrance.  I thought about my parents, and that I hadn’t seen them for a long time because once I left El Paso I had no intention of returning.  They are Christians of no particular denomination but still go to church regularly.  As a kid I’d go with them and sit in the wooden pew waiting for the service to end.  They would let me sit while everyone else stood or kneeled, and it never made sense that anyone would move around so much just to hear a man read from a book.  I thought about Em whose parents were Protestant but allowed Em to choose her own path to God.  Like me, she chose not follow a path at all.

The old couple eventually stood and walked down the center aisle toward the exit.  The old man was slightly shorter than the old woman, and held a newsie’s cap in his hands.  He had deep, dark wrinkles running down his neck.  The old woman was thin and looked like she may have been the prettiest girl in the world, once, with what may have been light brown hair and twinkling green eyes.  That old man didn’t look like he was handsome at any time in his life and was probably lucky to have found her.  They both nodded at me as they walked by and I pursed my lips and nodded back.

Then I thought about angels.  I thought about how angels don’t just live in heaven and how they can look like people we see every day of our lives, or just once in passing.

Blasius was a decrepit old fellow who cared not for his fellow man but for his fellow man’s skill at brewing a fine pint of dark ale.  The t-shirt and slovenly denim jeans belied the sophistication and well-bred demeanor that he claimed to possess with boisterous laugh and thunderous jest.  His unshaven complexion (for this man was hirsutely blessed beyond compare) gave him an air of tramp and rogue, seeking places that were once common but now dwindled as the generations after him decided the fashion and appropriate social clubs of the day.

One such gathering place gained recognition for the refusal to assimilate (more due to cost of improvement than any notion of quaint old world charm), and it was in this establishment that Blasius was most likely to be found.  It was The Karmen House, once owned by renowned and now deceased club owner Karmen Indehar and since owned by two business men, the first of which found that his dream of owning a social club was no longer his dream and the latter now old and not willing to depart with the only business he knew.

Although Blasius did not care for his fellow man he was keenly aware and drawn to his fellow woman, a number of which he personally addressed in his most charismatic manner.  In this establishment, his Karmen as he called it, Blasius found the cure that he yearned for, and relished in the perceived company of the women who happened by, either alone or with escorts.  One such occasion, the evening described herein, began with two young women flanked and petted by three older men, although only one of the men showed any amorous intent.

Blasius sat at a corner of the bar, a usual place to spend an evening although he could sometimes be found at a table where he appeared to sit and wait for a guest that would never come.  “Oh ho!” bellowed Blasius at the sight of the group of men and women, “I see we are joined by a fine pair of lasses on this beautiful evening!  Come, gentlemen and ladies, and take a seat at the peaceable end of the bar.”

“What, dude?” they asked of him.

“I am no ‘dude.’  I am Blasius!  Now, come and join me.”

The group silently walked past to the back entrance as Blasius’s head rotated to follow them out through the door.

“Your clientele’s manners leave much to be desired, Jorge.”

“Yea,” said Jorge, the barman standing nearby but intently watching the game of fútbol on the television hanging overhead.

Blasius sat on the stool furthest from the door, near a place in the back corner where no light could penetrate and the back entrance door creaked wistfully.  Blasius enjoyed the pleasant sound of creaking metal for reasons he did not care to explain.  The cackle of a woman’s laughter also pleased him, and this he did feel the need to expound upon.

“Gets me all riled up.”

As the evening wore on, a woman of a good and decent age stepped into the bar.  Strands of her hair, prepared in a top bun, hung loosely around her pale round face.  The skin of her finely tailored yet obviously well-worn dress suit stretched in several good places and perhaps a few bad ones as she approached young Jorge who was busying himself with a plastic pitcher full of a lighter Belgian brew.  Her manners were direct, unlike her passive voice.

“Hi,” she told him.

“Hello.”

“I wonder if you could do me a favor?  My car is stalled outside and I need someone to help me push it.”

“Um, to help you push the car?”

“Yes.”

“I can’t right now, but if you wait a few minutes then maybe,” he replied.

“Well, perhaps someone else can help.”  She peered into the farthest recesses of the club but was dismayed to see that there were not many patrons in The Karmen House that evening, and of the few that were present, none seemed capable of the task at hand.

The woman sighed and smiled in defeat at Jorge.  She turned and was nearly out through the door when she heard a bellow echo from the far end of the bar.  She turned to see Blasius standing before her, his hefty stomach peering out from beneath his t-shirt and a wry grin across his rounded face.

“Do you seek help, madam?”

She looked hesitantly toward Blasius and then at Jorge, who had already returned to the fútbol game.

“Well, yes… but it’s okay.  Please, don’t bother yourself.”  She turned to walk away but was once again stopped by a booming voice calling after her.

“Madam, wait!  I am Blasius and I can help you.  I could not help but overhear and I, a man of great physique and cunning, am more than a capable of assisting with your vehicle.  Please, please, come sit and explain the situation.  What exactly is the problem?”

The woman smiled nervously and appeared to be on the brink of escaping through the swinging wooden door, but paused and let out a long, exhausted breath.  She moved strands of her hair behind her ear and then approached Blasius, who was once again seated, but did not sit down herself.

“Well, my car’s just stuck outside.  I think it’s all this darn rain.”

“Yes, yes,” nodded Blasius.  “Weather is a most temperamental mistress.  Hers is the power to control our very way of life, as is the case with all women, hm?”  He smiled and winked before drawing a mouthful of ale from his glass.

“It’s not that bad,” she said.  “I really just need someone to help me push my car toward the curb.”

“Ah, so it is merely physical, manly strength that you require?  Well, fear not!  I am a man of great physical capability.  Please, sit and allow me to ease your woes with a pint of ale before we see to the matter of your vehicle.”

“Um, no thanks.”  She smiled nervously again.  “I need to get going.  If you could just come out and help me push the car…”

Blasius narrowed the slits of his large, globe-like eyelids.  He paused and looked at his glass.  The Karmen House became silent, and the woman looked about her more anxiously than before.  She glanced back at Blasius who remained fixed on the pint glass before him, and he spoke.

“I know you, madam.  You are a temptress: a seducer of men’s souls.  We have already met.  You are strong in your subversive strategies to subdue and overtake my very being but I am not one to fall.  Do not attempt to entice me with your feminine wiles.  I do not sway for the wind as does the weak young sapling growing among groves of equally weak brethren.  I am the oak tree that stands in the field and observes over all of creation with the will of iron and stance of pride.  A mere rock fails to capture the essence of what I have become after these long years of strength and vigor.

“I crossed the ocean as a young man and witnessed the freedom of men as they sailed their ships of wood and strode upon the back of the bare-chested visages of these sirens of the sea.  How they spoke of women and knowing women and losing women and longing for women.  Their goal was not to deliver goods or earn their wage but to find the objects of their desire.  They lusted after them and wondered over them and wept in spite of them at crowded taverns at every port between the Americas and the great Western shores of Spain, France, and England.  They paid for them and lost not only their souls but their dignity and their very being, the poor fools.  It is a willful man that denies his obsession and a stupid man that denies the attraction altogether, for all men crave what men have craved since the dawn of the sun and the moon and the stars of heaven above.  Those stars shone upon those men as they clamored out of the taverns with costly maidens in hand, eager to part the flesh and ease the soul.

“Beyond the Old World I bore witness to the wonders of middle Asia, where dark-skinned men of mysterious origin developed unholy cultures of magic and sorcery which they utilized in their attempts to control the indomitable spirit of Eve and make it their own.  The fools!  Their empires fell and they ceased to exist in their vainglorious attempts to dominate that which has known the purity of freedom.  Our arrogance, madam, and your trustworthy legions of sirens!  That is the reason for it all.

“Sirens of the sea, and sirens of the sand.  I have seen the great deserts and crossed them with the determination of the American bulldog and the endurance of the great African camel.  Through the deserts I witnessed men fall and perish beneath each other’s feet as they warred and toiled for the love of power, which they needed in order to win the affections of their subdued mistresses, for women are women no matter the culture.

“It was in the desert, in the lands of the House of Saud itself, where I witnessed your true power and contempt.  It was the gathering of men that caught my attention.  All dressed in thick layers, shielding themselves from the sun and sand even in the populated city-center in which they found themselves.  Though unfamiliar with local customs I felt compelled to attend the spectacle that had garnered so much attention.  A sideshow, perhaps, or a brawl?  No such thing, madam, and as I tell my tale I fear you are already aware of its conclusion.

“Much to my disbelief, there was nothing more than a woman in the center of this crowd of ruffians!  She was buried in the ground up to her shoulders, and a dark shroud covered her head and shielded her from the sun.  All the men gathered around in a circle and before I could comprehend what I was witnessing they began to stone her!  And the terror, the horror!  The men believed they were beating the spirit out of that woman, but no.  Her eyes, her horrible eyes.  She cursed them all and they would perish horrible deaths, every one of them.  She stared at me as the stones struck upon her and deformed her face until she could no longer physically stare into my soul.  Do not, nay, dare not ask me why I did not look away for I have no answer that is satisfactory.  If you wonder why I did not attempt to stop such cruelty then I must confess fear, for even men of great prowess must be humbled by their ineptitude.

“But here I am, madam.  Alive, having survived my travels.  My will is iron, my mind is stone.  My body may succumb but by God I am stronger than the flesh and mightier than a sword.  I stand atop the highest mountain and shout at the wind as it forces upon me its sweetest caressing breath and attempts to enter me and engulf my mind.  I am a man.  I will not succumb!  I know the power you hold within you!  Keep yourself!”

The woman stared at Blasius, as if waiting to be certain that Blasius had reached a conclusion to his rambling.  She looked around her and no one else seemed to have noticed Blasius’s speech, or they did not care to listen.  When a minute or more passed she asked Jorge for a shot of brandy, which she paid for, and then drank eagerly.  She regained her composure and turned toward Blasius, who had just finished consuming the last of his ale.

“The car?”

Blasius nodded and stood, his head lowered.

“At your service, madam.”  He plodded along ahead of her and held the door as she approached him.

“You know that you will not receive compensation in any form,” she said.

He waited for her to pass alongside him.  “Your presence, madam, has been more than charitable.”

Blasius was a decrepit old fellow who cared not for his fellow man but for his fellow man’s skill at brewing a fine pint of dark ale.  The t-shirt and slovenly denim jeans belied the sophistication and well-bred demeanor that he claimed to possess with boisterous laugh and thunderous jest.  His unshaven complexion (for this man was hirsutely blessed beyond compare) gave him an air of tramp and rogue, seeking places that were once common but now dwindled as the generations after him decided the fashion and appropriate social clubs of the day.

One such gathering place gained recognition for the refusal to assimilate (more due to cost of improvement than any notion of quaint old world charm), and it was in this establishment that Blasius was most likely to be found.  It was The Karmen House, once owned by renowned and now deceased club owner Karmen Indehar and since owned by two business men, the first of which found that his dream of owning a social club was no longer his dream and the latter now old and not willing to depart with the only business he knew.

Although Blasius did not care for his fellow man he was keenly aware and drawn to his fellow woman, a number of which he personally addressed in his most charismatic manner.  In this establishment, his Karmen as he called it, Blasius found the cure that he yearned for, and relished in the perceived company of the women who happened by, either alone or with escorts.  One such occasion, the evening described herein, began with two young women flanked and petted by three older men, although only one of the men showed any amorous intent.

Blasius sat at a corner of the bar, a usual place to spend an evening although he could sometimes be found at a table where he appeared to sit and wait for a guest that would never come.  “Oh ho!” bellowed Blasius at the sight of the group of men and women, “I see we are joined by a fine pair of lasses on this beautiful evening!  Come, gentlemen and ladies, and take a seat at the peaceable end of the bar.”

“What, dude?” they asked of him.

“I am no ‘dude.’  I am Blasius!  Now, come and join me.”

The group silently walked past to the back entrance as Blasius’s head rotated to follow them out through the door.

“Your clientele’s manners leave much to be desired, Jorge.”

“Yea,” said Jorge, the barman standing nearby but intently watching the game of fútbol on the television hanging overhead.

Blasius sat on the stool furthest from the door, near a place in the back corner where no light could penetrate and the back entrance door creaked wistfully.  Blasius enjoyed the pleasant sound of creaking metal for reasons he did not care to explain.  The cackle of a woman’s laughter also pleased him, and this he did feel the need to expound upon.

“Gets me all riled up.”

As the evening wore on, a woman of a good and decent age stepped into the bar.  Strands of her hair, prepared in a top bun, hung loosely around her pale round face.  The skin of her finely tailored yet obviously well-worn dress suit stretched in several good places and perhaps a few bad ones as she approached young Jorge who was busying himself with a plastic pitcher full of a lighter Belgian brew.  Her manners were direct, unlike her passive voice.

“Hi,” she told him.

“Hello.”

“I wonder if you could do me a favor?  My car is stalled outside and I need someone to help me push it.”

“Um, to help you push the car?”

“Yes.”

“I can’t right now, but if you wait a few minutes then maybe,” he replied.

“Well, perhaps someone else can help.”  She peered into the farthest recesses of the club but was dismayed to see that there were not many patrons in The Karmen House that evening, and of the few that were present, none seemed capable of the task at hand.

The woman sighed and smiled in defeat at Jorge.  She turned and was nearly out through the door when she heard a bellow echo from the far end of the bar.  She turned to see Blasius standing before her, his hefty stomach peering out from beneath his t-shirt and a wry grin across his rounded face.

“Do you seek help, madam?”

She looked hesitantly toward Blasius and then at Jorge, who had already returned to the fútbol game.

“Well, yes… but it’s okay.  Please, don’t bother yourself.”  She turned to walk away but was once again stopped by a booming voice calling after her.

“Madam, wait!  I am Blasius and I can help you.  I could not help but overhear and I, a man of great physique and cunning, am more than a capable of assisting with your vehicle.  Please, please, come sit and explain the situation.  What exactly is the problem?”

The woman smiled nervously and appeared to be on the brink of escaping through the swinging wooden door, but paused and let out a long, exhausted breath.  She moved strands of her hair behind her ear and then approached Blasius, who was once again seated, but did not sit down herself.

“Well, my car’s just stuck outside.  I think it’s all this darn rain.”

“Yes, yes,” nodded Blasius.  “Weather is a most temperamental mistress.  Hers is the power to control our very way of life, as is the case with all women, hm?”  He smiled and winked before drawing a mouthful of ale from his glass.

“It’s not that bad,” she said.  “I really just need someone to help me push my car toward the curb.”

“Ah, so it is merely physical, manly strength that you require?  Well, fear not!  I am a man of great physical capability.  Please, sit and allow me to ease your woes with a pint of ale before we see to the matter of your vehicle.”

“Um, no thanks.”  She smiled nervously again.  “I need to get going.  If you could just come out and help me push the car…”

Blasius narrowed the slits of his large, globe-like eyelids.  He paused and looked at his glass.  The Karmen House became silent, and the woman looked about her more anxiously than before.  She glanced back at Blasius who remained fixed on the pint glass before him, and he spoke.

“I know you, madam.  You are a temptress: a seducer of men’s souls.  We have already met.  You are strong in your subversive strategies to subdue and overtake my very being but I am not one to fall.  Do not attempt to entice me with your feminine wiles.  I do not sway for the wind as does the weak young sapling growing among groves of equally weak brethren.  I am the oak tree that stands in the field and observes over all of creation with the will of iron and stance of pride.  A mere rock fails to capture the essence of what I have become after these long years of strength and vigor.

“I crossed the ocean as a young man and witnessed the freedom of men as they sailed their ships of wood and strode upon the back of the bare-chested visages of these sirens of the sea.  How they spoke of women and knowing women and losing women and longing for women.  Their goal was not to deliver goods or earn their wage but to find the objects of their desire.  They lusted after them and wondered over them and wept in spite of them at crowded taverns at every port between the Americas and the great Western shores of Spain, France, and England.  They paid for them and lost not only their souls but their dignity and their very being, the poor fools.  It is a willful man that denies his obsession and a stupid man that denies the attraction altogether, for all men crave what men have craved since the dawn of the sun and the moon and the stars of heaven above.  Those stars shone upon those men as they clamored out of the taverns with costly maidens in hand, eager to part the flesh and ease the soul.

“Beyond the Old World I bore witness to the wonders of middle Asia, where dark-skinned men of mysterious origin developed unholy cultures of magic and sorcery which they utilized in their attempts to control the indomitable spirit of Eve and make it their own.  The fools!  Their empires fell and they ceased to exist in their vainglorious attempts to dominate that which has known the purity of freedom.  Our arrogance, madam, and your trustworthy legions of sirens!  That is the reason for it all.

“Sirens of the sea, and sirens of the sand.  I have seen the great deserts and crossed them with the determination of the American bulldog and the endurance of the great African camel.  Through the deserts I witnessed men fall and perish beneath each other’s feet as they warred and toiled for the love of power, which they needed in order to win the affections of their subdued mistresses, for women are women no matter the culture.

“It was in the desert, in the lands of the House of Saud itself, where I witnessed your true power and contempt.  It was the gathering of men that caught my attention.  All dressed in thick layers, shielding themselves from the sun and sand even in the populated city-center in which they found themselves.  Though unfamiliar with local customs I felt compelled to attend the spectacle that had garnered so much attention.  A sideshow, perhaps, or a brawl?  No such thing, madam, and as I tell my tale I fear you are already aware of its conclusion.

“Much to my disbelief, there was nothing more than a woman in the center of this crowd of ruffians!  She was buried in the ground up to her shoulders, and a dark shroud covered her head and shielded her from the sun.  All the men gathered around in a circle and before I could comprehend what I was witnessing they began to stone her!  And the terror, the horror!  The men believed they were beating the spirit out of that woman, but no.  Her eyes, her horrible eyes.  She cursed them all and they would perish horrible deaths, every one of them.  She stared at me as the stones struck upon her and deformed her face until she could no longer physically stare into my soul.  Do not, nay, dare not ask me why I did not look away for I have no answer that is satisfactory.  If you wonder why I did not attempt to stop such cruelty then I must confess fear, for even men of great prowess must be humbled by their ineptitude.

“But here I am, madam.  Alive, having survived my travels.  My will is iron, my mind is stone.  My body may succumb but by God I am stronger than the flesh and mightier than a sword.  I stand atop the highest mountain and shout at the wind as it forces upon me its sweetest caressing breath and attempts to enter me and engulf my mind.  I am a man.  I will not succumb!  I know the power you hold within you!  Keep yourself!”

The woman stared at Blasius, as if waiting to be certain that Blasius had reached a conclusion to his rambling.  She looked around her and no one else seemed to have noticed Blasius’s speech, or they did not care to listen.  When a minute or more passed she asked Jorge for a shot of brandy, which she paid for, and then drank eagerly.  She regained her composure and turned toward Blasius, who had just finished consuming the last of his ale.

“The car?”

Blasius nodded and stood, his head lowered.

“At your service, madam.”  He plodded along ahead of her and held the door as she approached him.

“You know that you will not receive compensation in any form,” she said.

He waited for her to pass alongside him.  “Your presence, madam, has been more than charitable.”

She sat alone on a Wednesday night wearing a sheer nightie that revealed hints of her nipples and traces of her thighs below the hem but did little to hide the slump in her shoulders or the stiffness of her knees.   She was looking at a chat window and a live feed of a man who called himself Greg and claimed to be thirty.  It may have been the poor quality of his cam but she thought she could see a lot of gray hair around his temples and loose skin under his jowls, and believed him closer to forty.

She was thankful when they preferred for her to lay back and not have to face the cam.  Sometimes, that was enough, but seldom were they that passive.  They often asked her to switch to several poses and insert the dildo in multiple places, whatever they had seen in the video clips that they had become bored enough with to pay for a live performance.  She did as they asked and made the appropriate faces when she had to face the cam, writhed her body in such a way to make it seem like ecstasy.  Sometimes the men who had cams fixed it on their crotches and she derived some giddy joy from that, despite it being part of the job, and sometimes all she could see was their faces. They never smiled.

“Are you French?  Do you live in France?” asked one man.

She did not keep track of the number of times she received specific messages but she was certain that the most frequent was, “How are you baby?”  So, she decided that her stage name would be Baby.

Baby smiled very well for someone who had performed for such a long time.  She kept her skin tight around the sinews and bones and her face was always made-up in lipstick and powder and kohl, her eyelashes flared out of her hazel-tinted eyes.  Some still paid her directly but most found her through other places, other websites. They thought she was “interesting” and “hot.”  She thinks it was only the old men who used the word “exotic” because only old men think a tan is exotic.  She couldn’t tell the age of some beyond the age they gave her in chat because they did not use cams.

“Do you do parties?  Can we meet?  I bet you would make a lot more money if you did parties,” typed another.

She never met any of her clients for public shows because although she was keen to the potential for increased revenue she was fearful of the types of people who attended such events.  She was not high-class by any means and had long ago given up the notion of being so, and as such could probably never get invited to the types of events where she would just be another girl for a crowd of rich, indifferent men.  Her fear of admirers surpassed her need to expand her clientele.  She remained Baby, behind the cam.

They wanted a friend, a pretend lover, someone to read them and know them and love them in some small way, for a little while, for $2.00 a minute.  They were of many ages, some baby-faced and sold old enough to be grandfathers.  Some were polite, or seemed polite, telling her she was pretty and asking questions when she lied about being a college student or working her way through dental school.

“Are doing well in your classes?”

“You must be dedicated to school.”

“I’m glad I can help you with your school payments.”

But sometimes it was just a chance for a man to tell her she was too hot, too amazing to waste time in school.  She could be a model or an actress or Baby girl to someone’s sugar daddy.  She didn’t want to be any of those, she just wanted to perform and earn a living.   She just wanted to treat them like lovers in some far away land and show them what they were missing.

Her mother wanted to know why she did not leave to a new place and find a job.  Her mother knew what she did for a living and her father was dead, but he would not have approved.  Baby and her mother would probably have lied to him.

“I like it here.”  And she did, she liked the city.  It made her feel small, but she never felt small back home and she liked it.  Back home she felt like nothing.

Baby was walking to the train once and thought she noticed a man staring at her. She looked in his direction and he looked away, but then she turned and continued and she felt horrible, sick to her stomach.  She felt like stabbing the man with the knife she kept in her bag.

She laughed out loud frequently and always asked “how do you want me?” when they chatted for too long.  Some liked to do that, prolong the show, show interest in her as a person, but she could never figure out why.  She once asked a male friend who knew about her profession.

“I don’t know.  Probably lonely.”

“Yes, but why do they just chat and chat and chat?  They are paying for a show and just wasting their time.”

“No, that’s what they’re getting.  They’re buying your time.”

Baby thought about that and said, “I’m not a whore.”

Her friend shrugged.

“I know you’re not, but I know you.  They don’t.”

Baby sighed out through her nose and smiled apologetically.  She did not like to discuss her work but sometimes she could not help herself. So very few people understood what it meant to perform for men.

Baby once dreamed of being a dancer.  Perhaps in a musical or in Las Vegas, where pretty girls with long legs could get a job doing beautiful things, like dancing.  She wanted to live in the towers, at the very top, where she could wake up on a blanket of fur and look out across the city and the desert and the mountains, like a princess surveying her kingdom.  She spoke of this to no one because she knew that she would someday run away from her life of boredom, of beers and sad boys who would not grow up until they got someone pregnant. She refused to be the girl who would make a boy grow up.

Greg typed, “You look so hot baby.  How old are you?”

She remained slumped but smiled and typed, “23.  Why do you want me?”

“Because you’re so gorgeous, so beautiful,” he typed, and she shook her head slightly.

“So sweet but I meant how do you want me?” and she included a smiley face to acknowledge her mistake.  He told her and she kneeled in front of the cam, smiled wide and stretched one hand back onto the bed, baring her soul with the other.

She sat alone on a Wednesday night wearing a sheer nightie that revealed hints of her nipples and traces of her thighs below the hem but did little to hide the slump in her shoulders or the stiffness of her knees.   She was looking at a chat window and a live feed of a man who called himself Greg and claimed to be thirty.  It may have been the poor quality of his cam but she thought she could see a lot of gray hair around his temples and loose skin under his jowls, and believed him closer to forty.

She was thankful when they preferred for her to lay back and not have to face the cam.  Sometimes, that was enough, but seldom were they that passive.  They often asked her to switch to several poses and insert the dildo in multiple places, whatever they had seen in the video clips that they had become bored enough with to pay for a live performance.  She did as they asked and made the appropriate faces when she had to face the cam, writhed her body in such a way to make it seem like ecstasy.  Sometimes the men who had cams fixed it on their crotches and she derived some giddy joy from that, despite it being part of the job, and sometimes all she could see was their faces. They never smiled.

“Are you French?  Do you live in France?” asked one man.

She did not keep track of the number of times she received specific messages but she was certain that the most frequent was, “How are you baby?”  So, she decided that her stage name would be Baby.

Baby smiled very well for someone who had performed for such a long time.  She kept her skin tight around the sinews and bones and her face was always made-up in lipstick and powder and kohl, her eyelashes flared out of her hazel-tinted eyes.  Some still paid her directly but most found her through other places, other websites. They thought she was “interesting” and “hot.”  She thinks it was only the old men who used the word “exotic” because only old men think a tan is exotic.  She couldn’t tell the age of some beyond the age they gave her in chat because they did not use cams.

“Do you do parties?  Can we meet?  I bet you would make a lot more money if you did parties,” typed another.

She never met any of her clients for public shows because although she was keen to the potential for increased revenue she was fearful of the types of people who attended such events.  She was not high-class by any means and had long ago given up the notion of being so, and as such could probably never get invited to the types of events where she would just be another girl for a crowd of rich, indifferent men.  Her fear of admirers surpassed her need to expand her clientele.  She remained Baby, behind the cam.

They wanted a friend, a pretend lover, someone to read them and know them and love them in some small way, for a little while, for $2.00 a minute.  They were of many ages, some baby-faced and sold old enough to be grandfathers.  Some were polite, or seemed polite, telling her she was pretty and asking questions when she lied about being a college student or working her way through dental school.

“Are doing well in your classes?”

“You must be dedicated to school.”

“I’m glad I can help you with your school payments.”

But sometimes it was just a chance for a man to tell her she was too hot, too amazing to waste time in school.  She could be a model or an actress or Baby girl to someone’s sugar daddy.  She didn’t want to be any of those, she just wanted to perform and earn a living.   She just wanted to treat them like lovers in some far away land and show them what they were missing.

Her mother wanted to know why she did not leave to a new place and find a job.  Her mother knew what she did for a living and her father was dead, but he would not have approved.  Baby and her mother would probably have lied to him.

“I like it here.”  And she did, she liked the city.  It made her feel small, but she never felt small back home and she liked it.  Back home she felt like nothing.

Baby was walking to the train once and thought she noticed a man staring at her. She looked in his direction and he looked away, but then she turned and continued and she felt horrible, sick to her stomach.  She felt like stabbing the man with the knife she kept in her bag.

She laughed out loud frequently and always asked “how do you want me?” when they chatted for too long.  Some liked to do that, prolong the show, show interest in her as a person, but she could never figure out why.  She once asked a male friend who knew about her profession.

“I don’t know.  Probably lonely.”

“Yes, but why do they just chat and chat and chat?  They are paying for a show and just wasting their time.”

“No, that’s what they’re getting.  They’re buying your time.”

Baby thought about that and said, “I’m not a whore.”

Her friend shrugged.

“I know you’re not, but I know you.  They don’t.”

Baby sighed out through her nose and smiled apologetically.  She did not like to discuss her work but sometimes she could not help herself. So very few people understood what it meant to perform for men.

Baby once dreamed of being a dancer.  Perhaps in a musical or in Las Vegas, where pretty girls with long legs could get a job doing beautiful things, like dancing.  She wanted to live in the towers, at the very top, where she could wake up on a blanket of fur and look out across the city and the desert and the mountains, like a princess surveying her kingdom.  She spoke of this to no one because she knew that she would someday run away from her life of boredom, of beers and sad boys who would not grow up until they got someone pregnant. She refused to be the girl who would make a boy grow up.

Greg typed, “You look so hot baby.  How old are you?”

She remained slumped but smiled and typed, “23.  Why do you want me?”

“Because you’re so gorgeous, so beautiful,” he typed, and she shook her head slightly.

“So sweet but I meant how do you want me?” and she included a smiley face to acknowledge her mistake.  He told her and she kneeled in front of the cam, smiled wide and stretched one hand back onto the bed, baring her soul with the other.