The Stranger With Paint On His Cheek
The amber of the setting sun had seeped into the very air that day, painting the entire sky the color of orange juice. That day, your old bright blue Beetle was parked under the bridge under the cloudy, orange sky, in freshly washed air, by puddles on roadsides.
I was lounging with the passenger seat tilted back, my hand out the window, drinking in the freedom that comes with anonymity.
I close my eyes, my mouth a crescent. You park. I rest my head on your shoulder, and we watch the cars go by in silence so comfortable I wish to perish in its embrace.
You tug me to the back seat with the wine in your eyes. You let me curl up in a ball, hugging my limbs, veiling my tears. You whisper and whisper and whisper how you want to hold my sighs, my fears, my essence; kiss them until they see the sun. You take my hand and hold it so lightly, you may as well have seen the bloodied bird in my soul ready to take flight.
I watch you. I let you cry. I close my fist around your shirt and pull you close. I let my other hand fall.. right into the cans of yellow paint stashed in your car with their loose lids.
I paint your cheek with my fingers, you mark me with your teeth. My hands trace the windows, the leather seats, your hair, you — an abstract masterpiece of happiness that never could be attained.
I wonder, why can’t I have this? This artful intimacy with each movement, each breath like a paintbrush lazily tracing fiery reds and sultry pinks and deep purples on canvas?
The thought isn’t sharp, or painful. It’s as gentle as the note of a faraway lullaby on a sleepy afternoon. As patient as a sheet of paper leisurely swaying in the air before meeting the ground.
I remember red. Of blood that never left the body but might have painted the room and the lightbulbs. The crack of bones that were never hit but may as well have splintered into shards so small, they cut your eyes. The dull plop of the heavy stone of the heart plunging into a lake. The black of the bottom of a grave that was the stomach. The pleas of dying words that never were voiced. The ugliness of brutality that never was violent.
Why can’t I have this instead? The coreopsis you traced down the small of my back, drawing the spine. The clover I tucked into your ear. Your hushed voice, my gentle thoughts.
I laugh a small, sad laugh and turn my face away to the horizon, now bleached of its color.
I don’t voice my question; I don’t intend to, for words do not reach the tip of my tongue anymore. Neither do they stay in the mind for long. They burrow their way into the heart instead, eating, chipping, digging away silently, never painlessly. I had, after all, mastered the art of swallowing syllables before they rose up into the throat.
You don’t notice the laugh. I realize the time has come. Yet again, the time has come.
I rest my cheek against the stars on your torso, wishing they’d leave a print somewhere. I drink in your heartbeat, learn the rhythm until mine beats to it.
I do not squeeze your hand one final time.
You flow languidly into another dimension, swirling into smoke, into nothingness.
I rub my arms, hold my legs close for some semblance of comfort.
It doesn’t work. It never does.
