Visiting
She looked into every temple, every church, every synagogue she walked by. She didn’t stop or even slow down. She just looked and was happy if there was a window or a door slowly shutting so she could see a closing column of what was inside.
It was February, and too cold. She burnt her tongue that morning on coffee, making it the only part of her that felt warm.
That is how she spent her days.
She wasn’t religious, but she liked to pretend.
There was too much dust in her apartment but it seemed there was nothing she could do about it. Sometimes she tried to dust, once every couple months, when she felt motivated in a manic-like drive that felt similar to when she used to do bumps of cocaine in dirty bar bathrooms or in the too-brightly lit living rooms of her friend’s apartment, but it was always a disaster. Failing at dusting seemed so stupid. But it happened. And not because there was always more dust but because it would just churn up into the air, glitter in the light, and dance its way back down to what she had just cleaned. She tried damp towels, high-end products, and sprays that were nicely packaged and promised “next to no effort.” But no matter what she bought, she could never get rid of the dust. She could never tame it, trap it, or make it go away. She just moved it around. Which was maybe the point of dusting, she conceded, but she didn’t really know, so sometimes she still tried.
Mostly, though, she would forget about the dust. Until she was walking hurriedly from one room to another, thinking about the running list of things to do in her head, and caught a particularly filthy glimpse of some knickknack or corner or stack of papers, and a bolt of shame would cut through her.
There wasn’t much she could do. It was only dust, after all.
Her friend, Michael (not Mike, never Mike) was down for the weekend. Michael had a beard and knew he looked like he should have a beard, even though when she met him he didn’t. She agreed with him on this, that he should have a beard, one the fuller the better without crossing over to creepy, of course, even though they had never actually had a conversation about it.
Michael had taken the train down, and was presently talking about how nice the ride had been. How smooth, how quiet, how it was nice to watch the countryside go by as he was taken further and further toward the city. She was trying to listen as they bobbed and weaved amongst crowds of people on the sidewalk, trying to make their way to get coffee. He was two or three paces ahead, which struck her as odd, since he was visiting her.
“Do you want to go in here?” He had suddenly stopped, in front of what looked like a dimly lit pub. It was a little past two in the afternoon.
“I thought you wanted coffee.”
She looked through the glass. The place looked deserted, except for a man in a suit at the bar, who was probably older than he looked, even from outside the place. Her reflection was there, dim and opaque. Her hair was falling down to her shoulders and she wished she had worn her hat.
“Let’s have a drink. It’s still early. We can get coffee after. Coffee and beer. What’s more perfect, right?” He laughed, which was more like a nervous giggle, something she used to like but was irritated with at the moment because his hand was already on the door, opening it too quickly,getting her sucked inside already. They sat next to the man who looked too old to be in a bar at two in the afternoon in such a nice suit, who would try to talk to them, because that is what men like him do, and of course Michael would engage and delight in the exchange, because that is what boys like him do.
As she followed Michael into the bar, she wondered what she would be doing if he wasn’t there.
Michael was sleeping next to her, close enough so that their skin was accidentally touching but they had not kissed yet. It always took her too long to fall asleep. Not minutes, or what seemed like minutes. She squinted into the dark, looking for her clock. More than an hour.
Michael’s breath filled the air in the room. It wasn’t especially loud breathing, and it wasn’t irregular enough to be grating. In, out, soft. She had hoped the rhythm would be comforting, but it wasn’t. She didn’t know exactly how to describe how hearing him breathe made her feel, besides different. She began breathing along with the rhythm he had unknowingly set, accompanying it with the song she currently had stuck in her head.
There was no other sounds: no sirens, no music, no rain or wind. No light or movement in the dark. Just her and Michael and their breath, keeping the same beat over and over.
They drank coffee and ate cereal on her bed, and it was already after 11 in the morning.
“I slept so good. Seriously. Your bed is awesome. Normally I have trouble sleeping in places I don’t know.” He was chewing and talking. His beard appeared to be in perfect shape. How does that happen, she wondered. How do you sleep on something with that much hair all night and then have it look flawless when you wake up?
Her head hurt slightly, and she was trying to remember where her bottle of aspirin was. In the cabinet? Under the bathroom sink? She could never keep track of things like that.
Michael reached over and opened her laptop, and she watched as he put on music and turned up the volume. He started talking to her about the new album this band had just put out, how great it was, what the best tracks were and what killer lines really, you know, just … resonated with him, and how he had listened to it almost the whole way down on the train, just listening to it over and over and looking at the scenery.
“I should have burned a copy for you. I can’t believe you don’t have it yet.”
She shook her head. “I know,” she said and smiled. She imagined hitting him in the nose with her spoon, remnants of milk splattering his cheeks, maybe even a droplet or two on his forehead. It made her laugh, quickly, a burst that surprised her and her fingers went up to her lips.
He narrowed his eyes, tilted his head, deciding. She was briefly worried he could read her thoughts and would deem her immature and cartoonish, something devastating and something she would never forget. “You’re so cute,” he said instead, pleased because he had decided he thought she was laughing out of delight with him. He leaned forward and they kissed, then, all milk and cereal and sleep, while she wondered how cold it was outside.
