“You’re not coming?”
I was standing on the asphalt, looking at Jane and the palm trees lining the street behind her. I was inside my body, in with all the millions of habits I’d spent my life creating. Her invitation was an invitation to be in the world and to see the world in a new way, to see her in a new, and therefore unknown, way. Going to my car and driving off alone, that was already known, and I felt the lure of the already known. She opened her door and stood by her door, holding the door with her hand. I was about to tell her about my car, that I was parked in a different residential neighborhood, in a one-hour-only zone, and I could feel myself about to speak, but as I was about to speak, instead of speaking, I remembered something. I remembered Cary Grant in North by Northwest reaching across the brow of one of the presidents, taking the hand of Eva Marie Saint, pulling her off the face of the president and into his arms.
I’m standing in the street, the image of Cary Grant in my mind turning into an image of Steve Martin, then turning into a single thought: If I’m going to become something, why not become something with Jane. She’s looking at me and I’m looking at her, and the distance between us is like an ocean. And I’m thinking about the ocean, and about how water, when it flows down a stream and enters the ocean, is doing the necessary thing. I know I’m breathing because I can feel the breath coming into my lungs and then leaving my lungs and oddly, it’s happening on its own. I see Jane, wedged between the door and the car, and it’s as if I can see myself. I see myself turn to my right and take a step. I take one step, then another, watching myself as I walk away from the place where I’m standing and the skin I’m standing in. I watch myself walk away from myself, around the back of the car, onto the grass and across the grass to the passenger door. Part of me is standing on the asphalt, watching, and part of me walks to the door. It’s unlocked, so I open it. We both get into the car at the same time, and then she closes her door. I look over at her, fitting into the cushion of the seat, her hands in her lap, the steering wheel in front of her. The keys are in the ignition. She’s looking through the car window, and the light is diffuse but sharp. We’re both aware that I’m looking at her, and then she turns to me and looks at me. I see, as if through my eyes, and I see her entire face. I see the contours of her cheek and the shine on her nose and the freckles below her eyes. I can see her eyes looking into my eyes. She’s looking into my eyes but she’s seeing the person behind those eyes.
“Okay?” she says.
“Okay?”
“Are you ready?”
And I’m not ready. I’ll never be ready. “I’m ready,” I say, and I close my door.
She starts the car.
She turns the wheel, pulls out of the parking spot, and as we drive up the tree-lined street I turn around. Looking back through the window of the car I can see myself, still standing on the asphalt, a hand raised as if waving. I can see the palm trees receding, and I see myself, a human figure, standing there, watching me getting farther and farther and farther away, until eventually I disappear.