“That love like the leaf must fall into the sear…”
I ask her to tell me all about herself; about us, and our life together, our future together.
“That time will come on when remembrance deploring…”
“You know all about me. What can I tell you?”
And of course I do know all about her. I know that she wanted to be an actress when she was in high school, before that she wanted to be an artist, and now she designs hats and makes jewelry. I know that she was a tomboy in high school, and that she didn’t get her period until she was fourteen, and didn’t develop breasts until she was sixteen. I know that she lost her virginity (to me) at age eighteen, and that when she was in college she decided she was a lesbian and gained nearly twenty-five pounds saying that she no longer felt compelled to conform to male standards of beauty. I found that amusing. It seemed to imply that the true nature of femininity was obesity. When I shared this observation with her she called me every son-of-a-bitch she could think of, and punched me ‘til her arms got tired…even after I’d apologized. I can still remember sitting there, hugging my battered body, as I continued to apologize, laughing and being secretly amazed at how hard she could hit. I guess all that extra poundage did have its practical applications.
I remember all of it like it was yesterday. The memories are always clear as a photograph. They ought to be. They’re only about a few hours old. Wasn’t that when she was here last? When all those years went by? Just a few hours ago?
“Please just tell me. Act like…like we just met.”
She talks into the night, pausing occasionally to ask me why I’m crying, as I struggle desperately to keep my agonized eyes wide. She designs our future home, room by room. It is an old colonial mansion complete with angels, and gargoyles, and swirling designs in hand-carved wood. The interior is black and white art deco with gray marble floors and large sculptures (seemingly in place of furniture.) She manages to engage me in a discussion on what we should name our child. After going through a few less-than-flattering suggestions (including Rusty and Dusty) we decide to name our child Pharaoh if it’s a boy. We come to the mutual conclusion that I shouldn’t have a girl. Not with my Karma.
As we talk, I find myself slowly slipping into the fantasy, actually starting to believe that she is more than just an illusion resulting from all five senses hallucinating at once, actually starting to believe that she will not disappear like the rest of them. I find myself believing in the forever and ever, voicing concerns over a house, a child, a family, an entire life, that will never exist.
“I know you don’t believe me, really believe me. You probably never will. But I do love you and I’ll never leave you. Never. I’m not like the others. I love you.”
I don’t want to tell her how many times I’ve heard that same statement, spoken from countless faces with eyes just as honest and sincere as hers… because this time I believe it. I believe her.
Even though my eyes are twitching and itching in their sockets. I believe her even though they are burning as if someone massaged them with rock-salt and left a little tucked under each eyelid. Even though my tear ducts are empty and my eyes are so dry and tacky that I can’t even see her. Even though one of my eyes has now plastered itself shut, causing her image to fade, shiver, and shift in and out, transposed with the image of the next woman. Even though I know I’m about to blink.
“Shana…”
I pull her tightly to me and we begin to make love, passionately, furiously, our bodies crashing against each other as if in battle, as if somehow she too senses that time is short.
“No. No. No! No! Noooooo!!! Don’t leave me! Not you too! Don’t leave me!!!!”
My eye feels as if it is about to explode from my head. I see the worried look on Shana’s face. Then I blink. And it is over. She is gone.
I scream and blink a dozen times, hoping I can bring her back.
“Why? Oh God why? Why do they always have to go!?! Why? Why? Why?!!!!”
Beneath my body, for split seconds between blinks, I see a staggering menagerie of different women appear. Fat ones, skinny ones, Black ones, White ones. One or two that look old enough to be my mother, or young enough to be my daughter. A Samoan woman with hard warrior eyes, a wide nose, and full lips like my own, who I met at a grocery store. A Nigerian woman with a shaved head who I met doing the butterfly at a Reggae club at five o’clock in the morning. A Filipino woman with massive breasts and eyes like an abused child that I met at a shopping mall. Some of them look like Lynn. Some of them look like Shana. But they all disappear, and I feel each loss and neither Shana nor Lynn return. They are gone forever. Back into nonexistence or someone else’s bed.
Finally, I stop crying; stop blinking. Beneath me now, is a woman with long black hair. Her eyes are black as pools of liquid obsidian. Her pale white skin is the unearthly pallor of a vampire’s. Her lips are so red they appear to have been soaked in blood. She is inhumanly lovely. Her name is Renee’
“How long have we been together?” I ask her.
“Three wonderful years.” She replies while stretching a body not half the equal of her face. She has a faint German accent. Where the fuck did I meet her?
“That’s the longest I’ve ever been with anyone.”
“I know.” She purrs, “That’s why you married me.”
For a moment I am too shocked to speak. I guess my traitorous face betrayed my bewilderment, because she stared at me, looking simultaneously worried and annoyed. I allow the memories to seep from my subconscious to the forefront of my mind.
It seems we met at Lynn’s funeral. She’d gotten her cap peeled by a jealous boyfriend after he caught her dirtying the sheets with some other stud. Renee’ had been her roommate after Lynn and I had parted company. Following the funeral, we’d kept in touch under the pretense of comforting each other through that terrible time. It wasn’t long before we became lovers.
She was there for me when my mother died. She let me move in with her when I lost my apartment. She was with me to celebrate the publication of my first novel. So when she wanted to get married and raise a family, I felt duty bound to be there for her. Today is our wedding night. I look down at the little gold band on my finger, and a weak, unenthusiastic hope swells in my chest before flickering out forever.
“I wonder if this is the answer? Just getting married? I wonder if this will stop the carrousel? The rotation of the earth? End the infinite loop? No. No. It wouldn’t…it couldn’t be that easy. Ain’t shit ever that easy. The merry-go-round ain’t ever going to stop. It just keeps going and no little ring is going to stop it. No vow of fidelity, no fucking ‘til death do us part is going to freeze its gears. It just keeps going ‘round grinding my sorry black ass into the dust!”
I begin to laugh.
Again the worried look from Renee.
“Forever and ever.” She says then catches me staring at the ring and adds: “’Til death do us part.”
This makes me laugh harder. Then I blink, and she is gone, and for the first time it is a relief.
“I won’t open my eyes again. Not this time. Not ever again.”
I imagine digging my fingers into my eye sockets and tearing my eyes out of my head. I imagine lacerating the tendons and optical nerves with my jagged fingernails. It would be just like ripping oysters from their shells.
“I love you. I’ll love you forever.” I hear someone saying.
My eyes are still squeezed shut. I don’t know who’s lying next to me now. I don’t care who it is any longer. Just as long as they stay…
…forever and ever…
“I’ll never leave you.” The woman says.
…’til death do us part.
No, you’ll never leave me. Because I’m going to rip my eyes right out of my fucking skull and I’ll never blink again.