Of Course Alita Jumped Out the Window

Of course Alita jumped out of the window. The whole conversation was leading up to it, really. My wife, wearing a black sweater, grey slacks, black flats, a Gauloises Blonde in her left hand. Hotel room in Paris, she drawing out these long breaths, exhaling as if to punctuate. The ashes never fell into our coffees.

Her body splayed on the asphalt — on her belly. The right side of her face rested on the ground, her left cheek facing upward.

Then she blinks. A painful stilted blink. But I knew that she would toss herself out of the room. It started, well, a long time ago, but was especially apparent this morning when she laid into:

Her Father — he was both overbearing and “never there,” wore too much black in the winter, had too many books, took too many trips. His warnings about life were seen as transgressive attempts to control. His two rifles somehow represented oppression. Didn’t ground her when she got nipple piercings and a tattoo at age 16. I said “You told your dad about your nipple piercings?”

“I showed him.”

I hadn’t known until that foggy Parisian morning, where pigeons could be heard fluttering about some Baroque architecture. I chortled in horror. “Why?”

“Why not? He deserved it. He was never there when he needed to be.”

Her Brothers. One older, one younger. Ben was seven years older and left home for college, then a stock gig in Chicago, then Europe. Barely called. Called him a “Salinger-esque mess who abandoned the siblings who looked up to him, gave him the wrong idea.”

Jacob, the younger brother, stupidly idolized Ben and was taught “how to survive” by Alita. She said that since Ben left, she was left to pick up the sibling pieces. She was four years older than he was, so had physical edge on him. Fist fights, arguments, and all that, until they were old enough to defend each other from common enemies. Public schools, you know. Then Jacob left to find Ben somewhere and nobody’s heard from him since, except some odd phone call from Chennai. “He never really did yoga or anything,” puff and exhale, sips the coffee, “so I don’t know why he’d go there.”

“Spiritual crisis, perhaps? Maybe he knew people there who did either one?”

“That’s not helping at all. Why would you take their sides? They’ve abandoned us.”

Not us, nor anybody really. I know it’s totally pop psychology, but “Maybe you’re mad at your pops? I mean, he travelled a lot, did a lot of things, had an eventful life.”

“That’s not the point, at all. You don’t get it. You’re parents divorced. You only had a kid sister. Played ‘Hello Kitty’ or whatever.”

“Well, that’s not all that happened in life. Some kid pulled a knife on me in eighth grade ’cause I wore Converse shoes.”

That was when she got up. Looked at me, then at the window. Which made me think of the time she said “I’m going to jump out the fucking window, like, right now, if you don’t listen/understand/concede/quit” to whatever argument we were having at that time in our apartment. I never ignored it, always rushing to apology or admitting my mistakes and transgressions.

Her eyes were glassy and blank.

Luckily, we were on the first floor, a slight rise of about five feet above the ground. Or about one and a half meters. She got up. There was a small scratch on her cheek, detritus and dust mixing with the small spots of blood. Then went to pick up the shoe that slipped off. A small speck of red on her toes, next to the black nail polish. She looked at me with diffidence. Likely thinking, you lucky fucker that we were only so high up.

Classic attention seeking behavior. I decided I should probably wear a different style of shirt than her dad. Shopping may be on the itinerary today, and I’ll let someone else find my new wardrobe.

He said fucking What? “Classic attention seeking behavior?” Does he not know the amount of counseling I had to go through to get over the crap my brother and dad did to me? Sure, it’s total first-world, white girl problems, but come on, it was the 90s. Like, that was it. That was the big thing then. Nip the issues in the bud because god, if you’ve got issues when you go to ‘Nam, my dad said, you’re going to be even more fucked up when you get back. Sort the shit out first, then go get traumatized.

How could he not figure out that his merely doing that was the trauma! I was fine until I got shrinked.

And what’s wrong with self-expression, huh, Rick? I can’t believe I married a guy whose friends call him Rick. I mean, Dick is stupid but subversive. Richard is classy, and apt. When he gets passionate about something, he is lion hearted. Excuse me. Coeur de lion. We are in Paris, after all, for the next few weeks. Okay, so there is a slight advantage to those first-world, white person things.

And yeah, for years it was a “threat,” but my god, who could take that seriously? Me and my friends would say that shit all the time. “I’m going to get some poison and die,” or “Hello, Mr. Kevorkian? Mix a little heroin in there for me — I wanna go happy!” or “I’m going to build a car jump and kaboom! Go out famously!”

I thought Richard was cool. But he always took those things seriously. I decided to fially fucking do it. Teach the bastard to listen.

Then he just looks out the window, probably at my bloody toes, creepy fucker. Yeah, he’s got a thing. Why else would I be sockless in Paris in April? We’re not talking Chennai here.

She said I’m creepy?

I was mad. I don’t mind it, really. Sometimes it’s cute, too. A little awkward at first, but I thought, you know, I like to watch his hands when he writes or plays guitar. Or when he’s fixing things around the house. So I get it, really. Digital movement. Something sensual about it.

She does swear a lot, but usually when she’s really angry. I don’t know what got her this morning. Maybe the “I Hate Pink Floyd” t-shirt. Maybe because I defended people who’d offended her? Wait, she told you I have a foot fetish?

He swears a lot too. Don’t let him fool you.

And she’s got a thing for my hands. And ears. Likes ears, but not like to stare at them or something. Biting them, a little licking. Nothing like penetraty about it. Maybe that’s not really a fetish at all. I don’t know. They’re cute. A lot of dudes like boobies, which are nice, don’t get me wrong. Also, she’s kind of pale, you know? But olivey too. Scottish and Lebanese. The contrast of dark colors with her skin. Man.

God, he’s a pervert. But he’s right. I’m goddamned hot and he better remember that he’s a lucky fucker I love him so much. The moron.

She looked a little hurt. I hope over the rail and land on my feet. Badly though. I feel the pressure on the balls of my feet. I scrape over to her and wipe the dirt and blood from her face.