Dénouement

Detail from“Girl Reading a Letter in an Interior” 

by Peter Vilhelm Ilsted

And then he came back. Like a quiet lightstorm. She saw him. From the distance. Coming up the driveway. She watched. From a window. His arrival. As if from some invisible realm. His return.

She opened the door. Stood there. Clenched fists. Curled toes. Frozen tears.

She heard everything. The crunch of tires on the gravel. The car door closing with a gentle thud. His tentative footsteps on the pebbled walkway.

She waited.

Time seemed to move like it does in hospital waiting rooms.

He stood in front of her.

He smiled. A gentle kiss on her open heart. Her heart that twitched like a phantom limb.

She smiled. Hesitantly. Skirting the well. Skirting. But not plunging.

He held her. "I'm home."

He said.

That night they lay in the dark. Together. She on her back. Her lips caressing the air. He on his elbow. His breath caressing her face. She told him of herself while he was away. The waiting. The pain. The isolation. The loneliness. The madness. The emptiness.

She told him of the news.

"They said you were dead."

She said.

"And in this whole world everything was grey."

supplication

i beseech you
in the darkest hour
in the deadest silence
if the snow should whisper to you
if you should hear my soundless cry
if i should not return
feel my absence
think of me

Don't Think About a Pink Elephant

Art by Salvador Dali

You're restless. Uptight. Bored out of your wits and out of your senses. So, why do you keep pretending? Why do you keep trying to show interest when you're not interested? The only thing you want from Vera is her body. You know it. She knows it. And she's already giving you what you want. Why the games?


She's asleep on the sofa in her small apartment. And you want her to wake up and take you in her arms. Right now. Right this very minute. Don't count on it. She's tired. You keep switching on that light and switching it off and plumping up the cushions and messing with her blanket, and you think any of this will do the trick? She's even snoring a little, that's how dead tired she is. You're touching the back of her knee with your fingers and you're teasing yourself and getting a hard-on and getting pissed off and getting resentful because she's not responding. But you don't have that right. She gave herself to you twice before she fell asleep. And, she's the one who has to wake up early in the morning and rush over to a full day of smiling at ungrateful customers who never smile back, and trying to communicate with them in her broken English with the Russian accent that makes them cringe. Whereas you, you just have to sit at your computer for a few hours a day, in the comfort of her apartment, and read what someone else wrote and check it for typos. How about that for easy living!


But none of this is really taking the edge off. You want her and you want her now. You want to feel her warm body against yours, her mouth moving all over you, her brightly painted fake fingernails digging into the small of your back. So, here's a suggestion - think of something else. I know it sounds easy, but it really isn't. And, knowing you, you'll be just like those fools in that psychology experiment who were told to not think about a pink elephant. Fat chance of that happening! You'll know you're deliberately trying to distract yourself, and that'll take you right back to thinking about her. And her laying right there beside you on that freakin' sofa isn't helping, either. So you'll have yourself a real pink elephant on your hands. But then, maybe you'll get so tired of trying to focus, you'll fall asleep. And then maybe, in the morning, when you're both awake, all you'll have to do is roll her over and look into her eyes, and she'll read your mind and do whatever you want her to do. Not that you'd pressure her or anything. Or would you?


Take a drink of water. Your throat is dry from all that nervous breathing. Just make sure you don't knock over the glass when you're setting it back down like you did last week. You did that on purpose, too, didn't you? Just to wake her up. She's breathing deeply. She just moved. And you can smell that sleeping smell of hers that drives you insane. That freshly-baking-cookies smell of hers. And you're waiting. But she's back to snoring. You hear the clock ticking. And your breath is ticking with it. And you're trying to distract yourself. Again. You're thinking about those damn classics that Vera loves to read and that you despise. Again. Oedipus Rex and War and Peace and The Idiot. But you can't even get into thinking about those books. And what's anyone gonna do about it if you never read those classics anyway, sue you? Vera doesn't care if you read the classics or not. She likes them. But that doesn't mean you have to. She grew up reading the stuff. You didn't. But you should've been honest about it instead of  pretending like you were all over it. And maybe she was partly to blame for making you feel so challenged that you hadn't read those damn books. But had she really even mentioned it? Or were you the one who'd gotten yourself worked up over that shit? Actually, you did allow Vera to think you're interested, and she believed you. And you liked it when she fell like that, didn't you? You liked that she was innocent and naïve because it gave you that false security. It made you feel like you were somehow older, or more mature, than her. But nothing can change the fact that she's older than you. And nothing can change the fact that, after six months of being with her (way longer than you had banked on), and even moving in with her, you're feeling kind of stuck.


Remember the first time you saw her? You were so charmed. You heard her talk with that Russian accent to the lady in front of you in line and you just about dropped to your knees in worship. And when you walked up to the counter to order your coffee and threw around a couple of Russian phrases that you'd picked up in Russian 101, she just about creamed her panties. It was the first Russian she'd heard outside of home in months. You manipulated her, you dickhead. And you're still doing it. You know she isn't your type. She's a little too white, a little too blonde, her eyes are a little too blue, and her face is a little too round. And that Russian accent that once sent you into orgasmic explosions? Now it gets on your nerves. You feel like someone is sliding your ears against a cheese grater whenever she says, "How was your day today, Robert?" And add to that the fact that she never calls you "Rob". You're always "Robert", like you're being introduced as the key speaker at a freakin' convention. Besides, you hadn't seen yourself getting so entrenched. You were out to get a few lays before moving on to a new conquest. But a couple of weeks into meeting her, she started to get all warm on you, started to get all serious. And then she expected you to tell her you love her. And you knew it. She really wanted it. A confession. A declaration of love that she could use to tie you down. All women want that. You know how they get with their relationship shit - all dreamy and sappy. And they start planning long-term, like you're gonna be with them forever.


But it's wrong of you to mislead her. You're taking advantage, and that's not cool. You should do the right thing and break it off. That's exactly what you want to do and exactly what you should do. Her apartment is too far out from your favorite hangouts. Her accent is about to drive you insane. And, truth be told, you're really not that into her. So cut it off. But, you won't. You don't have the balls. Because you know you have something a little more for her than just wanting her body, don't you? When you talk to other women, you see her face and hear her voice. When you see a woman that looks remotely like her on the street, you want to reach out and grab her. And when you have to sleep at your own place because you've had one drink too many with the boys at the Making Whoopee, you're just down in the dumps. But let me tell you something - if you don't break it off with her, she's gonna break it off. And you know, you just know, that your healthy little ego is not gonna like that! This woman has a grip on her shit. She knows what she wants to do with her life and she knows how she's gonna do it. And even though she sells lattes and muffins for a living and doesn't have a college degree, she's self-reliant and independent. She is a woman. And you are not a man.


I know that hurts. Badly. But it's the truth. Sure, you look like one. Like a man, that is. You even look like a pretty cool man. You're tall. You're handsome. You're stylish. You walk with a swagger that says you know what you're doing. And women like that. They fall for the looks and the swagger. Sometimes, anyway. But you... you don't like the way you feel... inside... about yourself. You don't feel half the man that you look. And she's a smart one, that Vera. So you won't have her fooled for much longer. And it's not about age, either. Sure, she's older than you, but what's three years in a life? Her life is a lot bigger than yours. Her cup is a lot fuller. Her ambition is a lot more far-reaching. You're not as passionate about living. You're not as loving and trusting of people. You're a freakin' chronic complainer, is what you are. And though you like Vera, and you sometimes think you can't live without her, when you're out together you look at other women. Don't! Don't even try to deny it. You look at other women. You even fantasize about them when you're having sex with her. And that's just the kind of scum you are.


It won't be long, now, before she sees right through your act. And you're waiting to see those expressions of disrespect and impatience and intolerance and superiority on her face when she finds you out. They're all coming. Soon. She even gave you a little preview, just last night. You were both sitting at her kitchen table, drinking the split pea soup she had made when she came home from work. And you reached out to take a napkin from the napkin holder. And just because you knew she's OC and she'd be pissed and itching to fix your mess, you grabbed the napkin with a jolt, like you were pulling some Houdini trick, and sent all the napkins in the holder hanging over its edge. And then you'd just sat there, all smug, with the napkins looking like they were preparing to springboard dive off of that holder, and you'd continued to drink your soup while waiting for her reaction. But she was on to you. And so she just sat there, too, smug in her own right, and waited until you straightened up the napkins that you'd disturbed and returned them to their place before she gave you one of her "You idiot!" looks. She's ten rungs up the ladder, and you're still contemplating getting off your lazy ass. Go do some growing up. Take some blows and some headaches and some tears. And take some shots, too, while you're at it. Tell her the truth and stop being a jerk. And maybe, maybe, with time, you'll be able to look out at the world and not feel like a little kid hiding in a grown-up costume.

at dusk, communion with cairo

at dusk the kites rise
billowing in the air
coloring the sky
circling over the city of the dead
like the skirts of a whirling dervish
circle over a stationary floor
red yellow green blue

your air smells of smog
of fried eggplant
of white tuberose
strung on silk thread and
worn around my neck
your datepalms are
pregnant with secrets
(my secrets and yours)
and life-bearing fruit
they tower over you
and over your glorious sand
your glorious dust
your glorious mud
and over your tent-covered market
offering cardamom seed
and hibiscus blossom
and over your ancient temples
where the air lays upon the ruins
like painted glass upon the horizon
and over your ancient river
the father of rivers
as it glows and flows
emerald and elegant
while boats ride it into
the expectant sky of you
my beautiful cairo
my victorious one

the people amble in the streets
and over your bridge of dreams
their long shadows stretching
graying your sidewalks
and the stiff air does not move
to let them pass
to let them breathe
light slivers slowly
threatening to fall
while grains of dust
sporadically speckle the air
and i hold my breath
not for lack of need to breathe
but for worship of you
my beautiful cairo
my victorious one

a child touches my hand
and tugs
and pulls
his toffee eyes look into mine
upturned and dreamy
the saddest eyes i've ever seen
(his or mine)
eyes that have seen
too much too soon
and he smiles
and he wraps
his little fingers in mine
and he says
bahebbik ya amar
while the perfume vendor
sings to me of amber
sings to me of rose
sings to me of musk
and other aromatic aphrodisiacs
that promise sensual satisfactions
and i blink
in the dust
in the dusk
in the purple splendor of you
my beautiful cairo
my victorious one

in your glamorous palaces of old
the exiled deceased sleep and dream
while in your shattered graveyards of new
in those squatted mausoleums of broken bones
the trampled living dwell amongst the dead
and offer me tea prepared on a primus stove
and we sit and sip in silence and listen to you
come alive
between your saffron sunset
and your mercury moon
come alive
between crypted cenotaph
and stolen solitude
we sit and sip in silence and listen to you
my beautiful cairo
my victorious one

and the pigeons flock
and the pigeons preen
and the pigeons coo
and the pigeons draw circles
and the pigeons paint silhouettes
upon your sky
and the pigeons chant
in tongues unknown
bestowing their blessings
upon me
upon you
my beautiful cairo
my victorious one

and the minarets hum to one another
in the lavender haze of a day gone by
one more day in your life
my most beautiful cairo
my most victorious one
one more day in your life
that will endure forever
or if not forever
then at least until i die
and am buried beneath
the eternal dust of you
my beautiful cairo
my victorious one

my womb
my mother
my shelter
my tomb


(Ar.) bahebbik ya amar: I love you, gorgeous.