She dropped her bag at her side and began to slide her coat from her shoulders. The tragedy tattoo on her shoulder shone out to me in the dim astral illumination. I watched her walk in slowly diminishing concentric circles around my bed telling me the several events in her life that led up to meeting me that day in the community food kitchen. For a girl with striking green eyes that shone in alarmingly rare fragments of optic opportunity, she never looked anywhere except into my eyes. For a dame with such angelic features, I began to under stand that she was here to cause harm to me.
Sitting beside me, she unfolded like an origami rose. All the creases in her character began to flatten and unwind in front of me. I sat fixed and perplexed. Why she had come here, why she had gifted me with the common curse of attraction, I had yet to know. Still now I stand holding this item in my hands knowing she left it here on purpose to give me some invisible message. Earlier she had begun taking off items of clothing at random stating that it was rather warm in my room. First a sock, then a scarf, followed by a stocking. Noises of my roommates in the hallway provided a backdrop of noise information behind us.
Although she was coming undone here, outside a revolving system of daily activities continued to occur with the regularity of a well-maintained machine. The hallway light ignites from its ceiling shackles; a hand releases from a leather glove and begins to reach into my shirt. The bathroom faucet cascades city water through the porcelain glittering catch. She looks into my hands at my sides. I hear a whisper she lets go like a feather in a delicate conversation breeze.
“Let go will”.
Someone releases a glass in the kitchen foyer; a cup shatters to the ground broken shards chase each other into unreachable depths beneath all the modern appliances of daily living/ slavery.
“Just let go will”.
A radio hums in the next room, as a roommate dials through the static intervals of the AM range, white noise permeates through the thin walls, he finds the desired frequency and a slow serenade turns his room into a mezzanine for the play about to unfold into my stage/room. Sitcom theme songs and commercial grade lighting patterns dance in the spaces beneath my door from a nearby TV set. She’s asking to “let go” to the theme of “My so Called life”. All my judgment about wrong and right, situational ethics and moral applicability fade into the patterns of color on my floor. So I release the tension in my hands, my fists become retired sentries. Open hands and open eyes, I allow her to wrap my arms around her. She directs me; marionette strings hang in the invisible cavities between us.
“Trust Me,” she says.
Every light in my room seems to dull into a candle, the sounds of the bustle outside all whisper down to a deliberate hum, all the roommates just freeze for a few minutes. I felt atomic clocks malfunction; I sensed a snowfall in Boston come to a standstill. All street side pedestrians caught in the outdoors walk beneath a motionless snowstorm, where all the flakes hang like white chandeliers above the skylines and neon displays. A reverb in the Mazzy Star song hangs on for a second longer that indefinite. I still have abrasions on the backs of my hands where I was pinned against the windows behind my bed. The latch that locks the windows shut is a semi permanent fixture in my hands.
Now I stand here reviewing the destroyed room I occupy; a broken lamp, a window out of frame, a spilled glass of water a door on one hinge, and hair tie in my pillow case. All the broken events that took place here. I can retrace who was here simply by examining the forensics to the scene of the rhymes that took place within an hour. She leaves disappearing ink in all her footsteps. Only you need the right kind of eyes to see where the heels meet the hardwood. It’s almost invisible. Now I ask myself the real meaning behind her leaving this hair tie in my pillowcase. There is a larger meaning to be extrapolated here. Is she suggesting that I am simply a restrictive element in her life, that I hold her back in some metaphorical sense? Perhaps she feels liberated by revealing this to me. This may be the symbol of emancipation. On the other side this may be a Freudian suggestion that she wishes to be restrained in some elusive manner. I might need to examine a more primal element to our nightly encounters like this one before. Is it conceivable that this item left behind is a manner of saying she longer needs to see me? Thereby releasing a token of sentiment to me. A calling card so that I seldom forget the way windows feel on the backs of my hands. Now surely there is a larger more abstract meaning here. If I simply step outside myself and stop being so analytical I could develop the reality of the situation.
It could have been entirely accidental and therefore a more sub conscious matter of her hidden agenda revealing itself to me. I may better fill her needs in this way. Without her awareness she is telling me to call her. I can inquire to her about the logistics of the situation. Surely she will understand my interest my concern and she will most definitely appreciate the advance work I have done into figuring out this conundrum. She will be relieved to know that the footwork has already taken place so she can enlighten me with the conclusion she has already prepared im sure. I dial her number into a rotary phone; I take my time so I can adjust to the series of indeterminate clicks that spin around the circular dial like a communication Ferris wheel. A female voice activates on the far end of the copper two-wire phone line. Her voice is unromantic, unobtrusive, and unalarming. Yet the female quality to the sound of her makes me defensive and afraid. I politely explain all the work ive done, and I lay out my questions in an outlined manner so that she is best equipped to answer them.
“Surely Mary”, I say “I have consumed the questionable nature of this dilemma and while I want just as swift a verdict on this as im sure you do, I cant tell you how much stress has incurred on me to discover that you wish to communicate to me this way. Leaving items of female accessory strewn about like a tornado courier darted about in my room spiraling your possessions into various locations of strategic importance. Let us be face to face with each other. Tell me what you are really saying by leaving this important thing in an important place. Your hair tie in my pillow case?”
A roommate in the hallway stumbles over a cable beside the answering machine. I make out the words “Will, it’s not even my hair t…” The ‘T’ lets go because my roommates’ clumsy nature detaches the phone cable from its plastic copper womb and the line goes silent coffin mode. I didn’t even get to fill in the gaps of the last words where she was surely going to reveal to me the purpose behind this possession. Maybe she was meaning to say “Will, its not even my hair telemetry” That would explain that this was a different systematic method of conversation. I had interpreted the elements all-wrong. Though my room is still in a mess, though my door is still on one hinge, though my wrists still feel like windows…