Snow Blind

Press the button.

It lights yellow amber.

I wait at the elevator doors, one hand in pocket counting change with my fingers.

Quarters, nickels, dimes tossed by tips of flesh and added up while my mind recounted recent events.

I had a knack for it. Seventy-six. Two, two, one, one.

Count again while my mind played, brown tape, reel to reel, thoughts I’ve heard and the feel of her hips, straddling, eyes smiling.

My natural state was a jazz drummer rim click, sweat, pinkie while hearing the next change, fill, she’s in the crowd, after the show, mornings were a reckoning, coffee or scotch.

The man in the elevator stoic as I walked in.

Pause.

I felt the next few minutes coming…somehow.

I wanted to shrink, become smaller, comic book powers, disappear. Not face the mystery of energy that stood tall next to me in a five by five box floating down.

Passing the sixth, on to five, here it comes.

“You should have stayed home,” the voice was full and carried through me like a ghost’s hand reaching between my ribs.

Every moment of precarious thought hadn’t prepared me to respond.

“I pondered the idea. Actually, said it out loud over the phone,” words in a corner of my brain unsecured escaped from my mouth.

Not sure what we were talking about, I let out, “she wasn’t having it.”

We were nearly ground floor. It was the shortest drawn out moment I’ve experienced. A rubber band of time pulled and recoiled to reveal loose tension.

“Next time hold firm. He’ll be wearing a bell. Seventy-six,” and with that, his posture never changing, I could feel the bottom, the short long ride ending.

The doors would open to a lobby I could not remember. Which hotel was I in? A well dressed couple who looked better walking the street than fucking or a family in Target shorts and amusement park, ill fitting tee shirts?

The tall man disappeared. Finding my bearings took the seeming hours to walk elevator to carousel front doors and manic NY streets.

‘He’ll be wearing a bell’ played like Eddie Vedder chorus la, la, la’s, repetitive nonsense, corner of Thompson and Grand. What? This will take some time to shake. It’ll either make sense or I’ll doubt it happened.

The outside, crisp lines of shade from tall buildings creeping slowly across other buildings. People walking at twice the pace of any other city. Going, doing, plans, schedules. In between lies the Paris cafe to Shibuya crosswalks. My brain slowed it all down to background. Dream while staring out a train window. ‘Seventy-six, a bell’.

From the time I left the room and counted change, my mind wandered past the thin shell that keeps me protected.

I was oars up, whim of currents and momentum under the surface.

Like the first drops of rain that snap your skin, my thoughts tried to find peace with sitting on a couch surrounded by familiar. Afternoon forced lull and dissatisfaction that buzzed like a fly unseen and everywhere. I couldn’t tell you how I felt about anything sometimes. If you asked, I’d fake an answer in order to be closer to finished with time lost.

She solved the problem as well as any drug. Fuck. The man’s voice started to sound as though I’d heard it before. My wavering and desperate discontent became ice dropped in, crackling to life, sounding off.

I didn’t really love her, though I’d told her so too many times.

I wanted to. Like jumping from a plane without checking the chute, I longed to fly regardless.

One phone call months ago and stepping softly around you need, I need, fix it.

Temporay.

It was dressed in tight curves and smelled like summer. It tasted like gooey glycerin honey licked. Chocolate interchanged with tequila savored sips.

It stood at mirrors naked doing make up and smelled like only sex smells.

But, quenched like a sunrise passed into noon day swelter, warm drinks in a melted cooler.

I like my dick in her mouth and the fall of hair on shoulders. Her laugh wasn’t half bad, but she said fuck all other than ‘I want to marry you’ with a thigh between mine, but it all felt like Scarlett Johansson doing Ibsen to a crowded house.

I knew all I needed to know, but ignored the sick in favor of the binge. Kicking her habit was like losing a thumb, or so I made myself believe.

Her and I said a final good-bye months later. A drawn out capitulation to the need for feeling undone.

I still count change and will most likely hear that voice again. But, not till after the calendar has peeled several times.

Rest for the weary.

Still waiting for the bell.