“¿Estás contento?”
The question pierces through my daze and snaps me back to reality. Contento. I reply, “Yes.”
“It's just that you were staring into space. You do that a lot.”
Do I? I hadn't noticed, but this is the second time she's caught me, reeled me back to the present, rescued me from the furthest reaches of my mind.
She sits back and sips the rich wine from her clear goblet, casually observing through deep, brown eyes creased by smiles and middle age. “You think a lot?” It's styled as a question but comes across like a statement she already knows the answer to.
“That's just my personality,” I say, trying hard to stay focused on the present, on the now, on where I am, who I’m with - me and Sandra sitting at this table, plates empty, wine aroma wafting, her worried about being a good host, me worried about . . .
I’m doing it again.
She asks, “Do you like it here?”
“I love it,” I say. “Everything’s so different and interesting. It’s a whole ‘nother world.” It’s enough to keep me momentarily distracted in order to make it through the day. Every day, a new adventure with new activities and a new culture to explore. New distractions to keep me just ahead of the lapping waves.
“It’s not at all like America, is it?”
“No, everything is different. It’s interesting. When you’re living one way, you don’t even realize there are others.”
Concentrate. What’s that look in her eye? It’s the same look she gets when she talks about her son. She already loves me like a son, and what have I done? And how do I feel? Trying not to mess things up. I don’t want her to hate me.
She says, “Yes, but at least they work in America. I could staff a restaurant there. Here, the people are very lazy.”
But I’m so tired. Work, school, long days, late nights, standing behind the counter wishing the time would whittle away faster, whispering to myself that it’s going to be okay only to wake up to another day of the same.
I say, “But you need a balance, of course. I think here and there are two extremes.”
“Hmm.”
She gets up with her plate, and I say, “I’m going to go. Goodnight.”
She smiles wholeheartedly. “Until tomorrow.”
I walk along the cobblestone path, tall buildings reaching up around me, tall, stately, looking down upon me, passively declaring, We are so old. We could tell you so much about what we’ve seen. This morning on the bus, as I gazed out the window, I imagined myself climbing up the staircase of the tallest building I could see and jumping. Wind rushing through my clothes. Eyes closed. Finally, it’s over. And the building says, There he goes. How many does that make? Six? And the people below gasp and scatter. Wouldn’t want to hit anyone now, would I? Going for suicide here, not homicide. At some point, with all the adrenaline going, I’d probably be clearheaded enough to formulate a notion of regret. Then, nothing.
God, why do you always have to
Macabre scene of my broken body spattered in a pool of red. Police sirens. People screaming and crying. Sorry I ruined your
Stop.
I turn my key door, go inside, brush my teeth, pull on my pajamas, get under the covers, and lie awake. Window’s open, warm summer air drifts in. Tomorrow, there are no plans, but I need to do something. I need to do something to stop myself from feeling this nothingness. Staring out the window, separating from myself . . .
They scrape the body off the sidewalk and shovel the remains into a body bag. It takes hours to power-wash the blood from the pavement.
I’m so tired. I close my eyes and drift away.
I wake up in the middle of the night, pull on my clothes, and walk out to the street, guided by the emptiness in my chest. Walking a few empty, cobblestone blocks, I sit on a bench and look up at the sky. A few bright stars peek through the yellow light-pollution, translating the wonder of the cosmos into urban grime. A puff of diffusing smoke drifts into my vision. I adjust my gaze to see a young woman several floors up resting her arms on the rails of her balcony, cigarette smoke curling carelessly. She wears a soft, white blouse, and her dark hair is pulled back in a bun that ends in a curly poof. She looks down at me, expressionless, a mirror to my face. We stare at each other wordlessly, two souls flailing against the impending emptiness.
I wake up as the sun creeps over the skyline. Steaming eggs and ham for breakfast, Sandra smiling in a pink robe. I make small talk until she leaves, and then I sit and stare at the wall until I leave. Sometimes, in the second it takes for my smile to evaporate, I wish I was that happy, smiling, encouraging person I try to portray. But, it doesn’t matter. Sandra sees right through me anyway.
When I leave, I find myself walking along the familiar path, stopping by the bench, looking up at the balcony, allowing myself to feel the emptiness that has materialized into a force all its own these last few years, drawing my eyes away from the sun, lingering behind. As I step away, I feel myself tearing, I hear my bones and flesh and spirit ripping apart. Walk a few steps, and the emptiness has grown. Turn around, and I am standing by the bench, gazing at myself with a blank look in my eyes and an expression others call impasible but I know is ineffable. I turn my head and face the balcony. And I walk away.
That night, Sandra’s husband makes enchiladas with that special peanut-based salsa I love. I eat alone, watching the buildings darken in the square. Soon, this experience is going to end, and I will return to my real life, whatever that means, and then one more year, and then-
“¿Estás contento?”
Sandra grazes the table and smiles, pausing from her industrious bustle to show her care.
I muster an unconvincing smile that doesn’t touch my eyes. “Sí, por supuesto.”
She nods and takes my empty plate.
Of course. Of course I am happy. I have everything. A loving family, strong support, opportunity, a bright future. I have every reason to be happy.
So why . . .
As my feet scrape the cobblestone, I think, so why . . . And contemplate simply collapsing to the cold, wet stones, face in the dog shit, and wasting away. So why . . .
So why am I not?
I’m lagging. I feel it. With one step, I take twelve steps. I have my hand in front of my face, and it passes in a shuttered blur. Behind me, I lie prostrate on the cold, wet stones, face in the dog shit, and wasting away. I’m going to die there. Typical.
Inside, I wash up and sit on the bed. But, I can’t forget the woman on the balcony. The emptiness in her calls the emptiness in me. So, I leave, walk down the street, and as I pass my prone form, it stands up and merges back with me. I reach the bench where I have been sitting all day, waiting for me to return. I touch my hand and sit back into myself.
The young woman steps out onto the balcony. She wears a red dress with a slit that reveals her slender thigh, and her hair falls in tight curls to her shoulders. She looks down, expressionless, and beacons without word or gesture.
The doors open with a simple twist, and I climb the stairs to her apartment breathlessly. I pause, outside of her door, anticipation building like a dreamy cloud of sixth sense foreknowledge. I open the door, and the woman greets me. From the balcony, she strides toward her body at the door and steps into it. Then, she takes my hand in hers and leads me to the middle of the room where we dance a slow tango, our bodies moving together, melding together so that I can feel the void inside of her. I look into her dark eyes, and see it - the deep, vast expanse of an entire universe exploding inward with twinkling, electric stars, cold and dull, but burning and vibrant all the same. I feel the emptiness, the pain of being stranded in an existential wasteland. But now we have each other.
The song ends, and she pulls away, smiling. I’m smiling too. Hand in hand, we walk out to the balcony, climb onto the railing, and jump.
Wake up to birds chirping - haven’t heard that in a while - and I pass a dozen of my selves, all staring as I walk down the hall. No sign of Sandra. Breakfast is already on the table, but the food doesn’t touch the hunger. As I leave, my selves trail me, thirteen sets of footsteps clamoring down the stairs. It’s a free day, so I go take a stroll past the beach to the rocky cliffs and gaze at the wide, blue sea blurring with the sky. Toes at the edge of the cliff, pebbles breaking off, sailing hundreds of feet in the air until they are lost in the white foam crashing upon the rocks. Wind wooshes past in a whistling breeze, chilling my bones and pushing me toward oblivion. My heart pumps in my throat, and my blood courses, and I let go . . .
And fall . . .
And fall . . .
Crunch.
My bones smash upon the rocks. Blood smears as the foamy current accepts my offering. With another splash, the crimson is gone.
And I step up to the edge, and I let go.
And I step up to the edge, and I let go.
And I step up to the edge, and I let go.
And I step up to the edge, and I let go.
And I step up to the edge, and I let go.
Etc.
The city is full of sounds. Footsteps, cars, chatter, music, they filter in through the doors of the restaurant. Sandra talks to me about how one day she wants to move somewhere where their restaurant can thrive. “Yes, business is good now,” she says, shaking her head. “But in the winter? Nothing.”
It’s always winter over here, I think, and the joke makes me smile but she thinks I’m smiling at her. Maybe I am. I can never thank her enough for her generosity, for taking me in and welcoming me as a son. Even if it’s only temporary. I’m trying hard but failing to avoid forming attachments here because I know that all the memories made here will be left behind. She’s looking at me. Oh, God, here it comes.
“¿Estás contento?”
My heart sinks, and tears start to from, and my mind screams, but I smile and say. “Yes, I’m very happy. Sandra, I just wanted to thank you . . .”
That night, I find myself wandering through the streets, jaundiced under the lights, walking a path my unconscious has plotted toward the woman’s apartment. The balcony is empty, so I go inside to find her door open for me. Soft music plays, and candles flicker, casting odd shadows and subtle spice. She sits on the sofa in a black gown that accentuates her curves, eyes dark against the shadows, but piercing and unfathomably hollow. I’m pulled toward her, captivated, and I’m not sure I’m seeing her anymore because her form flickers with the candlelight, and her eyes seem to expand like portals into the starry expanse, and shadows overtake when I wrap my arms around her, and when our lips touch, and as our bodies melt into each other, the darkness expands, enveloping us, and we float in unseeable dark, untouchable cold, careening nothingness, and we look around to find the source of the crushing emptiness, only to find a gaping hole in our chest, and we close our eyes and drift . . .
We we were younger, someone planted a tiny black seed in our chest, and that little black seed fed on sadness and produced bitterness, and that little black seed grew and grew, and as it grew, that little black seed ate away at our chest, first consuming our heart, so we could no longer love, and then consuming our lungs, so we could no longer breathe, and that little black seed grew like a tumor, pumping blackness through our veins and eroding our nerves, so we could no longer feel, but that little black seed got so big that it fell out of our back and onto the ground, dragged along by twisted veins that spurted oily bitterness, and we’ve been trying to cut ties and patch ourselves up, but we know if we succeed, we will die.
Candlelight filters in red from the edges of my sight. We are holding each other now, tears blurring our sight and snot stuffing our noses. She pulls away, stands, and pulls up her dress, revealing tawny, slender thighs, over her beautiful curls. Through the hollow circle in her chest, I see a candle flicker. Her eyes watch both of mine, so I stand and peel off my shirt so she can see my emptiness too.
The next night, Sandra eats with me. I ask her how her day was, and she grins and says, “Well, my husband and I are selling the restaurant.”
“Wow.” My mouth is full of corn chips and spice. “What are you going to do?”
“We’re going to move down south where it’s warmer. We’ll get more traffic.”
“That was really fast,” I say, but she shakes her head, and waves a chip in her hand as she talks.
“Mm mm, we’ve been thinking about it for years. It’s about time we followed through.” Crunch.
“You’re right.”
“Sometimes you just have to take that leap.”
I nod. “Yeah.”
She’s playing an ambient song over the speakers. It’s one I showed her a few days ago. She loves it, but it doesn’t really fit with the atmosphere of the restaurant. Soon, she’ll have to switch the music back to Latin jazz.
“When are you leaving?” I ask.
“October.”
October. I’m leaving long before then, but my summer home will disappear too. The most important places only exist in memory. Everyone leaves, everything ends, but as long as you can remember it . . . I guess it doesn’t completely disappear.
She’s watching me, waiting for my return back to reality. Then she asks, “¿Estás contento?”
And I finally realize she’s not asking if I’m happy. She’s asking if I’m okay.
I hurry to the woman’s apartment. She’s waiting for me at the door with a black rose, a twinkle in her eyes edging out the hollowness. Her white dress repels the shadows behind her and contrasts her skin. White flowers are braided into her hair. We stand together in the living room, both of her hands in mine, nervous. My heart thuds, far away as I stare into her beautiful, sparkling eyes. She smiles. To the left of where we stand, the breeze blows the curtains in from the open screen door, and dozens of versions of ourselves line up, hand in hand, out to the balcony. One by one, we climb over the rail, find our balance on the other side, and jump. Sometimes, we look into each other’s eyes before jumping. Sometimes we kiss. Sometimes we embrace and careen as one. But we always fall. Sacred pact and consummation. Crunch. Soon, we are the only ones left. The woman climbs onto the rail, but I hesitate, gripping her hand. Her head snaps back at mine, expression confused. Before me lies freedom, release, the kaleidoscopic abyss. Behind me: grey emptiness.
I tug her hand, almost whispering, “It doesn’t have to be this way.”
Tears brim and spill, carving a path down her cheeks. She says, “But this is all I have ever wanted.”
“I know.” A heaviness sets into my chest, and try to fight it, but it grows until tears fall from my eyes too.
I say, “I know. But . . . I can’t. Just . . . just come back down.”
I try to pull her toward me, but she snatches her hand away, furiously glaring, crushed.
“Please,” I say, but she turns away, her loose curls caught by the wind. I reach out again, but my hand falters midway to her arm. Then, I turn and walk away.
It’s two days before I leave, and I’m sitting outside the restaurant with Sandra and her husband as they share a cigarette. They’re talking about the economy, politics, how the youth wander hopelessly without opportunity.
Sandra says, “Did you hear about that girl down the street?”
“No,” her husband says with a gruff voice and a slight cough.
“She committed suicide last night. Jumped from her balcony.”
He grunts, I avoid eye contact.
“They were cleaning it up this morning,” she says, tapping ash into a styled tray on the table. “It’s sadness that does that. Depression.”
She looks at me as she says it. I look away, but it doesn’t matter. She sees right through me anyway.
