“Why did you buy me a present?”
“This may seem weird, but I feel like god told me to buy you this present.” I’m completely lying, but I manage to say it with a serious old-school Hollywood face and I can tell she buys it, mostly because she wants to buy it. “He spoke to me. Told me you had been praying hard. And so he wanted me to give you a sign today.”
Her lips are parted just a little. She doesn’t wear any makeup ever, so she looks natural right now, which I love.
Her breath is slipping in and out of her like a soul yo-yo.
I hand her the little pink box.
“I don’t know that I can accept a present from you, Leonard,” she says, but she’s also staring at the box like she really wants to know what’s inside.
“It’s from god,” I say. “So it’s okay.”
She sucks her lips in between her teeth and then her mittens come off and she’s unwrapping the paper, which makes me so so so happy.
Lauren lifts off the lid and pulls out the silver cross on the silver chain.
“I know how much you love Christianity, so I found this on the Internet. It’s simple enough to go with your style, but—”
She clamps it on around her neck, holds the cross in front of her nose, and gives it a good stare before tucking it into her shirt. Then she smiles beautifully.
“Did God really tell you to buy this for me?”
“He sure did,” I lie. “I’m really thinking about turning around my life and avoiding hell. Giving my life to Jesus and all the rest. I just have to sort through some issues first, but your dedication, the fact that you stand out here three times a week, the strength of your faith is amazing and really won me over.”
Her eyes open wide and I can tell I’m totally making her day, like she was waiting for some sort of signal from god, some sort of affirmation, and I’m her miracle, so I just keep piling it on, talking about being a changed man, and wanting to live a good life, and spending eternity with her in heaven.
Inside I start to feel terrible, thinking about how disappointed she’ll be when she sees the news tonight—how crushing that will be for her—and I wonder if her faith will be able to withstand it.
I think god is just a fairy tale, but I’m really starting to like the fact that Lauren has faith.
Don’t know why.
It’s weird.
A contradiction, maybe.
Or maybe it’s like wanting little kids to believe in Santa after someone else already ruined it for you, or you just figured out that your parents were Santa after all and the magic of Christmas instantly evaporated. But thinking about my destroying her faith by tricking her and then killing myself really starts to bring me down, until I just can’t lie to her anymore.
“Life can be really hard, you know. It makes it difficult to believe in god sometimes, but I’m trying—for you, and maybe for me too,” I say, and then I just start to fucking cry. I’m not sure why. Man, I bawl and bawl.
She hugs me and I clutch her, sob into her neck that smells like vanilla extract baking inside cookies—so fucking wonderful!
The sad suits and briefcases pass us in droves, but no one even seems to notice us as I drink her up.
“God works in mysterious ways,” she says, and rubs my back all motherly. “This world is a test. It’s hard. But I will continue to pray for you. We could pray together. You could come to church with me. It would help you. My father will help you too.”
She’s saying all of these really nice things, trying to comfort me the only way she knows how, and I love just being on someone’s radar so much that I start kissing her neck and then her mouth. Our tongues touch, and she kisses me back for a fraction of a second— Her mouth is so warm and wet and mint-y from the gum she’s chewing and my heart’s pulsing spikes of adrenaline through my veins, which is exciting and animalistic and primal, but maybe not quite what I was expecting, because I thought kissing Lauren would be like the epic kisses in Bogie films, like the string section would kick in and I’d get that swirling feeling Baback’s playing produces, and Lauren would pause to gaze at me and say, “I like that. I’d like more,” just like Bacall says— in that infamous husky voice—to Bogie in The Big Sleep, and when I kissed her glossy battleship-gray lips again, she’d say, “That’s even better,” but instead it’s just the hot sweaty rush of bodies mangling when they maybe shouldn’t even be mingling—and she tries to push me away, but the rush forces me to hold on to her tight, even though I want to let go, even though I should really LET GO!, so she turns her face from my mouth and yells “Stop” in this high-pitched squeal that is the complete antithesis of Bacall’s warm sexy brassy voice and when I keep kissing her cheek and ear, she smashes my chin with the heel of her hand, jolting my brain back to reality and knocking off my Bogart hat in the process.
I stagger backward and then pick up my fedora.
The warm rush freezes into a heavy lump in my chest and suddenly I feel so so shitty—like I need to vomit.
“Is there a problem here?” says this subway rent-a-cop who has magically appeared. He has this dirt moustache that makes him seem about twelve years old. He’s hilarious-looking in his official uniform with the little silver badge. Almost cute. Like a kid wearing a Halloween costume.
“I’m just delivering a message from god,” I say, and pop my hat back onto my head. I’m acting again, keeping my true feelings repressed—I’m aware of that, but I can’t help it.
Lauren looks at me like maybe I’m a demon from hell or the Antichrist, and says, “Why did you do that?”
“What did you do to her?” the rent-a-cop asks, trying to look official and tough.
“I gave her a cross on a silver chain and tried to tell her I love her—I do love you, Lauren; I really do—then I kissed her passionately.”
She looks at me with her head all cockeyed and her wet lips parted.
She’s so confused.
I’m kind of confused too, because I’m not attracted to Lauren at all anymore and the kiss was a spectacular failure.
I can tell that some part of her deep inside liked the kissing, because it’s natural for teenage girls to like kissing, but she feels conflicted, like she’s not supposed to like it, that she’s supposed to deny her instincts here, like her religious training bids her, and that’s what’s really eating her up inside.
Maybe that’s how rapists justify their actions.
Maybe I’m a monster now.
Because I can see the thought process happening—it’s written all over her face.
Yes.
No.
Yes.
No.
Yes.
No.
No.
No.
No.
I can’t.
I really can’t.
I really truly absolutely can’t.
Why did you do this to me?
Why did you make me feel this way?
Why?!?
Lauren says, “I have to go,” just before she drops her stack of religious pamphlets and runs away.
I hate myself.
She literally runs.
I really fucking hate myself.
And I don’t have the heart to chase, mostly because I used up whatever courage and strength I had just to kiss her.
There’s a part of me that still wants to believe the kissing was wonderful.
Black-and-white Bogie-Bacall perfect.
Even though it wasn’t.
My dad used to say that the last drink of the day, when the work and thinking are over and you’re just about to surrender to unconsciousness, that’s always the best drink regardless of how it tastes.
Maybe Lauren was my last drink of the day.
The tracts blow all over the concrete sidewalk like dead leaves in the breeze.