His nose was bleeding. Looked like it had been for a while. There was blood all over his hands and shirt and his teeth were pink with it when he smiled.
I watched him when he boarded the subway car. He selected a seat by the door and sat with his elbows on his thighs, letting the blood drip from his lips and fingertips. The crimson drops vanished on the black rubber carpeting.
Like the other passengers, I thought about helping him — they were watching him too, like I was — to perhaps offer him a tissue or to ask whether the police should be called. But I think it was the perceived threat of him that made us wary, the danger that he’d been party or victim to. We were also held back by his confidence. He walked onto the subway like he had everything under control, and I was convinced that perhaps he did. It felt strange to envy a man in ruins.
A day later I attended a wedding. My ex was marrying an engineer. Young, talented, successful, loathsome. A lot of things I wasn’t. I had heard more than enough about him, a side effect of having never left the city, having never made a clean break from her. I was there to satisfy my sick curiosity. She loved having me around since our split and I had been stupid enough to suspect that we could get back together. It was a game of chicken at this point. Who would give first, her or me? This wedding was another feint, I thought. I had to show up to test her nerve. To see me looking on as she stood there with a different man and writhe in the regret and cowardice rightfully hers.
Nice and drunk, I took a cab to the chapel. I had no intention of making a scene, but left myself the option. I positioned myself close enough to be seen, but far enough away to remain inconspicuous. By the altar the groomsmen showed too much gum and tongue with their rowdy conversation. Accompanied by the organ, she walked up, demure, and then she was joined to the groom by her hands. He smiled over the crowd. Anxious, impervious.
I was losing the game, if it even was a game anymore. The theatricality made my skin crawl. Elbows resting on my thighs, I looked through my fingers and envisioned my fury there in dark drops on the floor. My shirt was plastered with it and it coursed hot along the veins my neck, though I bared my teeth in a smile. That man I’d seen on the subway — he was beaten, yes, but still had the grace to compose himself, to stay afloat. He seemed not to need any help, though maybe he could use it. I, pathetic, needed whatever I could get, had lost all I had, and on top of it all, had no destination ahead. My next stop was woe. Far beyond that was acceptance, to be swallowed like a shot of nasty liquor. She had secured her victory and I had ground myself neatly into the dirt by crawling inside the chapel to witness my own undoing.
The first opportunity I had to run was with a swell of applause when everyone rose to let the bride and groom parade back down the aisle. I squeezed out of the pew and jogged out the door before anyone could stop me. Once through the door and standing a moment in the tepid spring sun, I kept going. I couldn’t risk being caught, and a limousine waited at the curb flanked by nicely dressed people that my brash appearance had distressed.
I reached the subway and somewhat drunkenly hopped a turnstile, then quick-stepped down to the platform and its musty graffiti smell. I paced, thought that perhaps I couldn’t be caught if I kept moving, obvious as I was among the few others waiting. I yanked my tie out of my collar like a ripcord and let it hang loose in my hand, and as the train finally arrived and groaned to a stop, I could feel the shadow of a police officer fall over me. Still, I stepped past the disembarking passengers and took a seat beside the door. The cop and his indignation followed me in.
“It’s all right, officer,” I said. I looked up for a second to see the whites of his eyes and the flare of his nostrils, then I saw his blue shirt and shined black shoes. I straightened myself and contorted my face until my teeth showed. “It’s all right, officer, I’m not bleeding.”
