Red Dreams

He is standing at a payphone. I wait.

I want to see what he is doing. In my rear view mirror, has he noticed my watching him? What could I do? Could I stop and ask him what time it is? Look for a trace of familiarity in his face? This fuels my anger and I leave to collect myself.

Always the same scenario. An isolated parking lot. I’m just watching. I get up, the house is cold. I blame him, but what am I to do with this anger? How much longer until a final confrontation?

Discovery. I am walking down the street. Trees. A gentle breeze, fall. Leaves upon the ground, the last moments of play from the children before dinner is called and winter comes. I look around as I walk. Empty street. Families home from their days, settling into their routine. Comfort, something I can’t feel. I live alone, where I sit, alone, and wonder. Where am I to go, what am I to do? I wait in the dark, cold.

Down the road and to the stairs, I climb up to my room. I pray that I can make it to my door without an intervention. A neighbor, the landlord downstairs. I just want to be alone. The voice tells me that I am never alone. It is always there when I need it most. I want to accept its reason.

Alone on a mattress on the floor, I don’t know if there is a path. I am so cold. The feeling in me is not. There is a door, I open it. I enter into a dark room and pray that he is in there. I feel scared but am excited by the opportunity.

"All I have is this.” I motion, in the dark, to the room. Empty, cold. I am naked.

He looks at me.

“You need to make a choice,” he says.

I begin to move towards the door, I can't look at him. I stumble to the floor. I am weak.

I reach down and feel the mattress is soiled. I’ve pissed myself. I look up at the ceiling and make a decision. Today has to be the day.

The mirror reflects a truth but does not reveal all.

It tells me to leave. The decision is made. I have no choice.

I know where to find him. Running, scared. Our separation is going to end.

“Do it right,” I am told. It always has an opinion.

“I only have once chance,” I tell it.

“Slow,” I say, “as long as it is slow. I don’t know.”

I walk, I am afraid. I hate to see the others. The people who have lives, they look busy, happy, like they know where they are going. They scare me. I fear they will truly see me; I look to the ground as I walk.

The library. I go in. The restroom, in the front entrance, I enter it. I hope that I am not followed, not noticed. I go into the stall. A fever comes over me. I am released from my zipper and begin to find the pleasure that I am missing. It is warm in here, I am not cold. I am alone, but there are voices. I try to find myself, give myself warmth.

“You are going to do it,” I am told.

The image enters my head. Blood. On the walls, in the carpet. Wounds.

I begin to shudder and a release from all this trouble is found.

I close my eyes. I lean against the wall and begin to cry. I should just take myself out of the equation.

I look up. Blood on the walls, in the carpet. I am on the ground over him. He is lying there, reaching for his breath. I touch my hand to my mouth and taste him. The knife is cold. His eyes. He can’t speak, but tries. I like it like this. Slow. Everything I have wanted. He continues to breathe, I don’t cry. The carpet continues to grow in stain. It is.

I rest my head on his slowly heaving chest.

I remember. A bicycle, Christmas. Happiness as I watch him put it together. This always comes after the blood. I get up. It is now dark. I get up.

I look for a trace of familiarity in his face. Do I know him? He is gone, but he is there before me.

I am scared. It is not him.

I was wrong again.

Where is he now?