Clear
Cloudy
I always kept telling her "when" --
"when" not "if". As in: When you
have decided to leave me, please tell me straight
out. Please don't simply stop being thrilled at
coming to spend the night. Please don't start
contriving thin excuses in order to decrease the time
you spend with me. Please don't take other lovers and
so make a pathetic fool of me. Just tell me straight
out: John, you can't be my boyfriend, we can't be
lovers anymore.Something inside me -- Martin calls it
spider sense, which tingled for Spiderman in tricky
situations -- something always told me she would
either stay with her husband or dump me soon after
the divorce. "Dump" is too harsh a word for
what she has done, though. The simple fact is that I
have become one of those statistics the psychologists
like to refer to as the "transitional
person". She fell out of love with her husband
and so became frantic and needy. I was there. I
listened to her long stories about marital routine,
chore schedules posted on the fridge next to the
latest Far Side cartoon, pizzas ordered in the
disarray of arriving home from work cranky and tired
without a planned dinner. ("I thought it was
your turn?") I advised her gently about smoking
less and getting a good lawyer and trying not to
start the day with scotch. I made crazy unprotected
love to her on my living room floor, set her head
softly on a cushion near the fire, licked her breasts
and went down on her as she moaned into
forgetfulness.
Partly
Sunny
Martin is the only one who understands what I'm
trying to do. When I first told him he just nodded,
offered no particular discouragement apart from
asking if this is what I really wanted, and then
afterwards listened attentively to updates.I stopped
telling other friends and acquaintances after a
couple of disappointing reactions:
"You're what?"
"John, listen to me: you need a little help. I know a psychologist ..."
"Those rays are killers, yes, John, but it would take years if it happened at all. She's not worth it. Join a club or something."
"You're doing what?"
I'm
trying to kill myself by getting skin cancer.
Variable
Conditions
I assured her throughout our -- what?
relationship? affair?-- that I could still love her
unreservedly even though I knew we would break up.
The only demand I made was that she act genuinely,
that she not plan to break up and only maintain the
facade of a relationship for the purposes of sex and
friendship. As far as I can tell, she was true to her
word, though that doesn't make this any easier.We
were both excited when she finally moved into that
apartment on Third Avenue. It was 10:30 at night
before all the boxes were in the place. We put about
ten of the taller ones together in what would be the
living room, threw a piece of foam and some sheets on
top, and then held each other to sleep. In our
absolute peaceful unconsciousness we were oblivious
to the possibility of falling to a very abrupt
awakening.
Hot
and Humid
I take the day off, sleep till noon. I go to the
beach prepared: Discman, baby oil, towel, lunch,
fluids, money. I lie here till dinner time, turning
myself as on a very slow spit. I always position
myself to maximize the surface area which is exposed
to the sun.The superficial effects have been
pleasing. I am a luscious brown, quite a contrast to
the sickly alabaster which is covered by my Speedo. I
am gorgeous as Adonis, determined as Icarus. Women
and gay men can't help looking as they pass by. Some
stop to chat. Most of them warn me about the
dangerous effects of prolonged exposure."You're
gonna kill yourself," they say, sometimes
worriedly, sometimes self-righteously.I just nod.
"Yes, I know."
Cooling
That Third Avenue apartment was bright and
comfortable after a few months. Summer breezes lapped
softly at the eyelet curtains she had made for the
bedroom. Ladders of light shone through dark blue
Venetian blinds in the living room. And in the
kitchen the sun washed in through the large high
window, casting elaborate dancing shadow puppets of
the plants and ornaments which adorned it.We spent a
lot of time at the kitchen table, where I noticed her
smoking give way to pistachios and finally to simple
soda water as we talked about the dramatic change
which she had initiated in her life. "You've
been a great help, John," she said, splitting
the shell, putting it in a separate bowl, and popping
the green salted nut into her mouth.The shadows were
thrown into sharper focus as the sun freed itself
from cloud cover.
"I'm happy now, John. Much more settled. I feel like a new person, like a free person. I can do anything."
She
sipped the soda water, tonguing the lime.
High
Pressure
I go to my doctor to find out whether I have the
cancer, or even any of the early signs. It is a hot
day so I wear only shorts and sandals. There is a
well-insured and brightly dressed man in the waiting
room. Shades of green that do not exist in nature,
white, a straw sun hat.My doctor scares me, too. He
is pallid, the stethoscope dangling from a scrawny
neck. We chat for a while about the weather.He has
the results of my test. They are very good, he says,
they are the kind of news he wishes he could tell
everyone.
"You don't have any signs or symptoms of skin cancer, John. So: go home, enjoy, stay out of the sun, wear a block. You have nothing to worry about. You are healthy, cancer-free, and will probably outlive us all."
"Oh,"
I say.
Lightning
She gave me a pen as a memento before she left, a
cool black Sheaffer that I could never get to write.
I scratched embarrassingly on the back side of the
wrapping paper, scratched and actually apologized,
scratched and told her it's just a problem with the
refill, scratched and babbled on about quality
control and the beauty of the pen as an object.
Black, absent of light, severe, thin, serene. I put
it aside. I walked to the bedroom and got a very
mundane Paper Mate, blue, the color of the bay on the
best of days. I started to write on the outside of
her left thigh, just above the knee. Names only at
first, SARAH AND JOHN, the same crazy way teenagers
express their undying love on trees or the sides of
bridges. A little more elaborate on her left palm,
crossing over the love and life lines
indiscriminately, not even noticing or seeing the
thin career line thrusting between them. SARAH WAS A
SPEEDING SPINNING CAR I CAUGHT A GLIMPSE OF.I moved
to her belly. The line this time is unnamed, the
crease which separates the flat abdomen from the
small bulge just above her black pubic hair. I
started near the bottom of the right side of her rib
cage. I KNEW YOU WERE JUST ZOOMING BY. I KNEW THAT
RIGHT FROM THE START. THERE IS NO BLAME POSSIBLE
HERE. I WAS HAPPY WITH THE TRIP EVEN AS SHORT AS I
PREDICTED IT WOULD BE. YOU WERE ALWAYS CAREENING,
SARAH.I read her belly to her. I took off my own
clothes. We made love luxuriously, wantonly as always
-- Sarah's body moving, her face reddening, her voice
screaming as she came, my chest hairs sticking to her
wet belly like punctuation in the text.
Calm
I surprise myself. I go to the top of a small rugged
hill just outside the city. The day is a scorcher and
I am sweating heavily by the time I reach the top. I
am alone. I strip naked and slather myself in oil
till it is dripping off me. I lie on three large
towels. I feel as if I'm melting, the sweat and oil
parts of me which are simply falling off, falling
away. I cross my hands over my chest. I think for a
moment that this is how I want to be laid out in the
coffin, after I am diagnosed too late and die
suddenly. I want to be dead and attractive. Want
people to come up to me and feel compelled to state
the comforting inanity: "He looks good, you
know".
I
reconsider in the next moment. No. Not burial, too
traditional, too spacious, too incomplete. Cremation.
Burn me as the sun simply refuses to burn me. Reduce
me to ashes, destroy me, but don't display me in a
vase on a middle-class mantel. Throw me, eject me,
take what's left of me to the top of this hill and
disperse me.