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Wayne Wolfson |
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A Little Waltz For Beauty Music is my main source of inspiration. I think, for everything. I entered the room as quietly as I could. There was a hat on the bed. She had probably put it there on purpose. I tried to back out of the room just as silently, in the hopes of the bad luck which was bound to follow, not noticing me. I went too far, the breaking glass sounded almost delicate. The window frame with its jagged shards, a prize fighters grin. The sidewalk rushed to meet me, but the air was strangely still. Lastly, I heard the horn. It swelled, but to the casual listener it would seem just part of the song. Did it swell? Either way, I'd never know. That was the last time I died, but the scene kept repeating without variation, so it had lost power. Even still, I felt I could use a drink. All these deaths could just be a justification, but who cares. Who kept track of these things? Faust's. The slow part of the year. Tourists are gone. People trying to save money. Everyone is tunnel visioned by the whole holiday thing. Nostalgia for a sentimentality that had never actually existed. It's quiet now and that won't help me. Some woman, it really does look like fruit. Engorged fruit, dark skin glistening as it awaits harvest. I am haunted by a literary cliché, but just for now. Will she be back? Did I leave the door unlocked? Usually she was good about remembering keys, coupons for food shopping. No, the cut on my forehead, the keys had been her parting shot. I probably left the door unlocked any ways. Aside from the low murmur of a few regulars it's quiet. The kind of heavy silence that weighs down the arms of a clock. How long until I can go home? With a halo of empty cups surrounding her, last century's war bride sits in the corner. En Francais, she sings school songs from her youth. Thin voice barely making it from yesterday to now. All those yesterdays. I would join in, but I don't know the words. Besides, it's not my time yet. Sonny is tending bar, everyone calls him "Champ" although I am not sure why. Murky ink. He has a giant cobra coiled around his forearm. Mostly it sleeps, only moving as if to strike when Champ twists the top off a bottle. They have all given me their stories. I have taken their pasts, pen to paper. I have nothing more to say to them, at least not tonight. I have enough money left for a coffee or the train home. The train is quicker, but then I could find myself with nothing to do but wait. Time to think, that is what I get with the coffee and my walk home. I stop at a kiosk figuring if it's slow I can talk to the girl behind the counter. She can't be bothered with even pretending to see me. She sees the clock. She sees the numbers, searching for the right one that will tell her she can go home. She doesn't see me. I stand off to the side, alone. She can't be bothered. Bad milk, spoiled cream. My coffee had eyes. Even as lips drew closer they just watch. White dots that may move to the side of the cup, clinging, when all else is gone. I start my walk. Should I sing? Whistle? Whistling is always so suspect. I almost broke my neck scurrying down the embankment to see what was written on a piece of paper sky blue. I won't tell you, but the embankment is steep. I went down, so you can gather its potential importance. "Essex" A place? No, a good English name. There was nothing else. No number, nothing. The land lord was having a holiday party. It still seemed to be going strong. I was under dressed or I might have joined in. I was feeling my walk. My next place would have an elevator. I was on the landing. Below the dancing. The music speeding up. Eyes flutter. All those brightly colored dresses of soft silk. They spin and from up here, the effect of oversized flowers in full bloom. Below, a hot house. The apartment is as I left it. Dark and silent. The sheets are stripped off of the bed, they lay crumpled on the floor. The silhouette of a thing in defeat. She will be back. |