I

She takes the bus to the bay to tell me in person. We meet in the morning on the boardwalk. We wait outside, looking down the pier, across the lake to the long shore of evergreen, until the bar opens.  

She raises her hand for another vodka soda.
“Is that a good idea?”
“Like you care.” 
“I do care.”
“And how’s that?”
“It’s not that simple.”
“It seems pretty simple to me.”  
I shake my head.  
She titters. “You can’t expect me to decide.”
“I don’t expect anything.”
“Great. What am I supposed to do then?”
“That’s not for me to say.” 
“You fuck.” 

“Ai. Please.” I raise my hand and motion her to keep quiet. He’s holding her drink at the end of the bar, waiting for us to stop talking. She turns and we watch him walk out from the bar and to our table. He places her drink down. 

“Thanks,” she says, and smiles.
I watch him walk back behind the bar. Then I turn to her and lean in. “Please. Don’t worry.”
She turns away. “You’re awful.”
“I’m sorry.”
“That doesn’t mean anything.”
“Well, I’m doing my best to make you happy.”
“Your best?”
I sip the last of my whiskey.
“Alright. Then we should probably just end it. Would you have a problem with that?”
“I don’t know.”
“You must have an opinion.”
“No.”

She puts her drink down hard, and I catch him glancing up from his phone. He looks back down.

I look at my glass.
“Don’t you love me?”
“Of course I love you.”
“So why not write for a paper, or a magazine?”
“I can’t.”
She rolls her eyes.
“You knew what you were getting into. I told you many times.”
“Oh, right. I’m sorry. I forgot.” She smiles. “You were always romantic that way.”
I turn my glass.
She touches my hand after a long silence. “You know, this isn’t about us anymore.”
I look outside. “Yeah.”

The gulls are out already, circling high above the docks, walking the piers, and sitting atop the posts, waiting for the boats to arrive with the people. They’re not much to look at, really, or listen to, either, when they beat the air with their wings, and puff their chests, squawking.

“Do you really think we’re good enough?” I gesture around the room. “Do you think that this is good enough?”
“Christ, Jake. We don’t live in Afghanistan.”
“We’re close enough.”
“What does that mean?”
“It’s not much different here.”
She covers her eyes and groans. 
“It’s true, if you think about it.”
She shakes her head. “You know, if we were all like you, sitting there, thinking, we’d starve.”

We turn to the ringing of his phone, and I take the chance to stand and start toward the washroom. He answers, nodding and smiling. Then he watches me walk past the bar into the long hall with the ads on the walls and door at the end. I lock it behind me. I run the tap and lean over the sink, wash some water over my face and look into the mirror.

I was a fool to believe that she believed in my writing. She’s like anyone, really, and she can only love you for what she can get, but she says and does as much as she can to convince you otherwise. Well, it’s certainly nice to think otherwise, but it doesn’t do much to prepare you for this, which I should’ve seen coming, because I haven’t been honest loving her, either. I’ve always thought her beautiful, strong, and good in bed, and that’s all very nice, but it’s hardly grounds for love. For that I’d need to understand her, but I could never understand her, and she could never understand me, just as she’s never understood why I’d want to write and avoid this, the inevitable. 

I don’t want to end up like the rest, with a home you rarely leave but to work or eat or run errands. I want the time to write clearly. I know if I took this time, if I worked hard, and if I stayed honest, I could write well enough to show them the way I see it. But for what? Am I looking for truth? Or is it respect I’m looking for? Or pity? Or perhaps it’s all the same, and perhaps in writing I’m just as bad as the rest. Or perhaps that’s just the same excuse again: the reason why it’s seemed wrong to write about anything; the reason why I’ve tried to write about nothing but everything; the reason why, after four years of sitting in front of a screen for several hours a day, my writing’s gone nowhere.

Well, I suppose you can never know, and it doesn’t matter now, anyway, because I’m betrayed, by her or her pills or my luck, by this thing. This thing that will grow and eat then grow more and eat more. This thing that will buy a car and have its own things that will grow and eat and buy their own cars. This thing that will surround itself with many things that teem and shine and whisper that it’s all alright and that we shouldn’t read too much into things. This life. This killer. This thing that will kill my writing. Nonsense. She really is a fine girl, and any reason to quit writing to follow this through is as good as any reason to keep writing, so I take a breath and stand, and I stand for as long as it seems reasonable to stand. 

I find her at the bar, with him, smiling.
He reaches over the bar and we shake hands. “Ai was just telling me about you.”
“Oh?” 
“I’ve never met a writer.”
“Well, you can say that you have, now.”
He stares. 
She puts her hand on my shoulder. “Jake. Will has a beautiful boy.”
He smiles. “He’s a spoiled shit, if you ask me. But it’s my own fault. He wants everything he lays his eyes on, and I don’t have the heart to say no.”
“That’s sweet. Isn’t it, Jake?”
I look at her smiling very brightly. “Yeah.”
She leans on the bar. “Show Jake the picture you showed me.”
He shakes his head. “I doubt he’ll like that sort of thing.”
“Please. Show him.” She looks at me. “You’ll love it. Trust me.”

He hands me his phone over the bar, and there, on the screen, no more than two years old, is a blond-haired blue-eyed ruddy-faced likeness of his father, sprawled on a red-white checkered cloth in a park somewhere, smiling that same marvellous smile.

“Isn’t he precious?” she says.
I hand his phone back over the bar. “Very.”

She raises her empty glass; he gives us a look. He eventually sets three clean glasses on the bar. He pours from a good bottle of Glens, moving from glass to glass, but then he pauses at the last glass and fills it with soda. He adds a lemon and hands it to her. Then he places a whiskey in front of me, takes the other for himself.

“Congratulations,” he says, and we touch glasses.
I sip my whiskey. “Thanks.”
“You know, they’re not much fun early on, but you should see Jaeger now. You should see him on the ice. He’s six, and I swear, he’s a force.”
She shakes her head. “Jake doesn’t like hockey.”
“Come on.”
“I don’t have the time.”
“You make the time.”
I don’t say anything back.
“So what are you writing, anyway?”
“It’s hard to say.”
He stares.
“Sorry, it’s not something I can explain.”
She sips her soda. “It’s not that exciting, either.”
He grins. “You’re not planning to write about me, are you?”
“I won’t. I promise.”

We turn to the front as they start to come in now, starting with three young men coming in through the door. He gestures them to take a seat anywhere, and they start toward the far corner of the bar and sit in the booth beside the pool table. He walks out from behind the bar and starts toward them.

“Let’s go,” I say.
“No. I like it here.”
“I can see that.”
“What does that mean?”
“You know exactly.”
“No. Please. Tell me.”
I shake my head.
“You know, he really is nice.”
“Yeah.” 
She sighs. “Why do you always see the worst?”
I look down.
She shakes her head.
“What do you want me to say?”
“I don’t want you to say anything. I want you to do something.” 
“Like work at the marina?”
“No.” She rolls her eyes. “You’re too far above that.” 

I turn to them all laughing, their teeth bright against their sunburnt faces. He talks to them with his chest out, a rag slung over his shoulder, gesturing with his hands while they lean back in their seats, and they burst out again. I suppose you would need a sense of humour to be like him, like them, just so you could bear it all. 

“Why did you have to tell him, anyway?” 
She looks at me for a long while. “Because I’m proud, Jake. Because this is something to be proud of. Because despite how awful you are I love you and remain proud. I don’t know why you can’t understand that. No. Wait. I do know. It’s because you think you’re better than everyone else, but you won’t admit it, because you have no balls; because I have more balls than you do.”
“I’ve always been good to you.”
She laughs.
“I’ve never asked you for anything.”
“Well, I didn’t ask for this, either; but I want to take a stand now, together.”
I shake my head. “You can do whatever you like. I’ll be there.” 
“That makes no sense.” She looks down, whimpering now.
I put my hand on her shoulder. 

He starts back to the bar with the rest still laughing behind him, and passing our table he picks up my empty glass and wipes the table clean. He’s smiling again, slinging his rag back over his shoulder. Then he walks back behind the bar and he sees me rubbing her back and he stops smiling.

She fingers her hair over her ears.
I sip my whiskey.
He punches orders on his screen.
I search for something to say. “They also drinking early?”
He nods. “They’re here to watch the fights.”
She shoves her soda away.
I scratch my head, leaning on the bar.
He glances at me. “You guys good?”
“Yeah.”
She turns to me, her mascara running.
I look down.

The music starts, and leaning on the wall in front of the jukebox, there’s one of them rolling his head to a drone, mouthing along with words, or utterances rather, nasally and incomprehensible.

“I want a real one,” she says.      
He looks at me.
I shrug.
“He really loves me.”
He strains a smile. 
She taps her glass.
He shakes his head, downing his whiskey.
She groans.
“Ai.”
She takes mine.
I stand.

Her leg’s shaking under the bar. I brought this on myself. I liked them, I loved them, these rising fits of hers, these fits that rise with the music. She used to drag me out where it was loud, where we could drink, where we wouldn’t have to talk and she’d brood, and I’d sit and wait and endure, until we got home and into bed.

She tilts my whiskey back. “It’s masturbation. If you read his work, you’d agree.”
“Come on. We can talk at the cottage.”
“We can talk right here.” 
I shake my head.
“I mean, I know it’s good to work hard, but it’s got to come to something, and I think it’s fair to say he’s wasting his time, wasting away, just sitting and writing.”
He nods.
“He used to be fit, like you. It’s hard to believe, I know, but it’s true. He was strong when we met, I swear.” She wipes her eyes. “But look at him now. Look at this boy; this nothing.”
I open my wallet. “What do we owe you?”
He waves.  “It’s alright.”
She titters. “That’s nice of you, Will, but he couldn’t pay you anyway, not with his own money.” 
I sit down. 

He keeps his head down while running the draft to keep from looking at us just sitting there quietly. Then with their beer on a tray he heads back toward them all, and being left alone with me she stands and starts toward the bathroom in long strides, her steps falling hard on the wooden planks.

I tried to warn her. I knew we would never work out, but I’ve never had the heart or balls to end it, and I didn’t expect we’d come this far. We’re so different, yet for six years we’ve held each other close and tried, so marvellously, to love our differences away. And in bed we did love them away. There it didn’t matter that I didn’t like to dance or she didn’t like to read; it didn’t matter that I didn’t like her friends or that she worried I had none. All that mattered was that one sincere embrace; that moment of joy when you forget it all, including the consequences, and if there’s any reward in considering them all with every step you take it’s being able to forget them for a while, at least, until, you wake up. 

They touch glasses and laugh again. They take a moment to contain themselves before they lean forward and sip their beers from under low-set caps. I suppose they’re lucky. I suppose to them it makes no difference whether they’re asleep or awake, at the bar or in bed, because they don’t see the consequences and they’ve got nothing to forget, so to them life’s just one long blind fuck, and they’ve got all the more to celebrate. But you can’t blame them, and that’s the challenge; that’s the discipline. 

He returns to the stool beside me and pats my back. “Hormones.”
I nod.
He leans far over the bar, reaching for two shot glasses and a bottle of Jack. He settles back down on his stool and fills each of the glasses. “There’s a bright side,” he says, handing me a shot. 
We touch glasses then tilt them back. 
“She’ll make up for this in bed. Trust me.”
I look down, wincing.
“I’m serious. When my wife was expecting, I put up with the same thing. But it’s all worth it. They’re just as nuts in bed. The things she asked me to do – things I’d only seen online, I swear.”

His phone rings again. He stares. He turns it face down, silences it.

I look toward the washroom.
“You from around here?”
I shake my head. “Toronto.”
He eagerly nods. “My wife went to school there.”
“Okay.”
“I miss it – fuck.”
“It’s not far.”
“Yeah – but I’m here all summer, and I teach in Dubai otherwise.”
I glance at him.
He smiles. “Lots of fun in Toronto.”
“Yeah.”
He pats my back again, squeezes.

Then he just sits there, finally, quiet in the way I wish they’d all be. And then the song ends and I find they are, so it’s nice. But it can’t last because it never lasts, and it doesn’t last because they shout. He stands, walks back behind the bar and points the remote, turning up the volume on the tv in the back.  

There’s cheering, someone is being announced.
“You into MMA?”
I shake my head.
“It’s never too early.”
I glance at the screen.
“Look at these fucking beasts.”
I nod. Then I look toward the washroom again.
“Hey.”
I turn to him.
"Just give her some time. She’ll be alright.”
“Thanks.”

Now he turns up the volume on the tv behind the bar. Maybe because he’s sick of me now, like I’m sick of him, or maybe he finally gets it. Or maybe he just wants to hear them all, cheering the two in the clinch. I watch them, pushing up against the cage, already sweating and bleeding and strained.

There’s some shouting, and I look at the others and also find them alive, their eyes wide, their hands darting through the air. They’re talking like it matters now; like there’s something real to lose or gain; like they’re not here, in this bar, but all in that cage. 

I turn my shot glass a few times. I point to the bottle on the bar and he nods. He fills my shot glass and I tilt it back. Then we turn as we hear her walking. She’s washed the mascara from her eyes, she’s wearing a calm look now, and you wouldn’t guess that something was wrong if she wasn’t still so pale. He smiles at her, but she pulls her purse over her shoulder and walks by without looking. She walks on passed the bar and toward the front with the rest also watching. Then she shoulders her way out the door and I stand. 

I burst outside and find it hotter now. I squint and fan my eyes as I spot her walking down the boardwalk, and I start on after her, walking along the piers and past the convenience store and liquor shop and gas station. I’ve had this chance before. I’ve chased her many times like I’m chasing her here, but I’ve also thought to let her go, to let her forget me so she can move on and find someone to make her happy; someone who works hard without a doubt that their way’s the only way, that it’s all as simple as striking a fire and putting up walls and bringing home bread; someone to take what they deserve, not because they should but because they can; someone to make it easy; someone like him. If it were only that simple. Then it would be as easy for me as I think it is for him, and I would just turn away from her and him and all the rest without regret. But it’s never that simple, and it’s never so easy, least of all now. 

“Ai!”

She walks to the end of the marina. Then she sits on the edge of the boardwalk, facing the lake but hugging her knees and looking down. I sit beside her and look out. The sun’s shining nicely on the water, the heat’s brought out a nice, musky fragrance, and there’s a rising drone of cicadas.

She looks up. “It’s pretty.”
I turn to her. “Yeah.”
She keeps staring.
“Are you staying over?”
She doesn’t answer.
“Please. Don’t worry.”
She closes her eyes.
I touch her hand. “Come on.”
She shakes her head. “I don’t feel well.”
“You can stay in my room. I’ll sleep downstairs.”
She pulls her hand away. “I need my bed; I need a shower.”

The cicadas stop, and I hear the water lapping up against the piers; I hear her breathing.

“We need to think.”
“I’m sick of thinking.”
“Ai.”
“And I’m sick of talking.”
I shake my head.
She holds her knees tightly now.
“We’ll get through this, you’ll see.”
She stares out. 

Now there are a few boats docked along the piers, and many more surely coming, along with more of the people and more of the gulls. They’re on the water now and coming by the boatload, and we can hear their motors chopping through the water, distant first, but growing loud. 

She looks through her purse.
“Would it make you happy?”
“That doesn’t matter.”
“But would it?”
“I don’t know.”
I nod.
She takes her phone out. 
“I do love you.”
She stares at her screen, pressing keys.

I watch the boats as they round the bend and head toward the piers. They cut their motors and wave as they drift passed. She waves back. Then we sit there quietly for a long while, and far off I hear the gulls squawking, the people laughing. There’s a rustle in the trees.

•

She won’t return my calls. She won’t reply to my e-mails. She won’t answer her door now and it’s starting to rain. I look up and down her street every while and watch for people and buses and bikes. They rush over wet sidewalks and roads and pass quickly under bright rows of lamps. 

He stands at the steps. 
“You live upstairs?” 
He stares.
“I’m waiting for Ai.”
He nods.
“I’m Jacob.”
He pulls his hood down. “I’m her roommate.”
“I didn’t know she had one.”
“Well,” he says, “I’m Jonas.”
I step out of his way.
“You coming in?”
“Is that alright?”
He opens the door. “Yeah.”

We start down the hall. She’s given him the study. My books are gone, his clothes are everywhere and just outside there are Polaroids pinned on the wall. He’s in some with her; he’s sweating and smiling and having a blast. I follow him into the kitchen. 

He hands me a Pabst. 
“So how do you know Ai?”
He smiles.
“What is it?”
“You don’t have to worry.”
I open my beer.
“I needed the place. She needed the money.”
“Okay.”
“We work together.”
“At the schools?”
He shakes his head. “At the bar.”

I sip and glance around. I remember it clean, but when I was here she was always upset, and when she was upset she always cleaned. Now there are plates in the sink, empty bottles in the corner, there’s an ashtray on the table with a couple of butts, there's a spread of magazines.

“So,” he says, sitting.
I sit down as well.
“Does she know you’re here?”
I shake my head.
“You just showed up?”
I nod.
He runs a hand through his hair.
“I’m sure she’ll be fine.”
He looks away.
“You don’t think so?”
“It’s a bit dramatic.”
I look down. “Maybe it is.”

He reaches into his pockets and pulls out his keys, his wallet and change; he pulls out a lighter and a soft pack of cigarettes. Then he strikes the pack against his hand. He holds it out and I shake my head. 

He lights a cigarette. “What else?”
I shuffle in my seat.   
“I saw The Libertines last night.”
I nod.
“You don’t like them?”
“I don’t know them.”
“You’re kidding.”
I shake my head.
He stares. 
I lean back. 
“I heard you read a lot.”
“Not anymore.”
He ashes his cigarette. “I see.”

I see all the stamps on his hand, from shows or parties, I guess. And I guess he doesn’t want to wash them, or he just hasn’t washed in days. 

I drink. 
“You alright?”
I nod.
He stands. “You want some music?” 
“No, thanks.”
He gives me a look.
“Is Ai coming home soon?”
“I don’t know; we work late.”
“Is she far?”
He shakes his head. “At Lolita’s, just down the street.”
I sit there, quietly.
“Just chill. It’s pouring.”
“Yeah.”
He starts down the hall. “I’ll be right back.”

I wait for a while, hearing him look through his room. Then thinking of the time he’ll have to keep looking, I get up to look out the window. It’s dark outside, but over the roofs I see the tall rows of buildings; I see all the lights. I sit back down and take a long sip of beer.

I remember growing sick of this all, getting tired of the people and through with the city and done with the nights. And I remember sitting here, drinking, very suddenly knowing that I had to get out. I knew it when I looked in myself. I knew it when I held her hand and saw in her eyes that she might come as well.

I had to break free but I couldn’t do it alone. I couldn’t bear to be alone so I wanted her there, away from the rest, never far from me; everything was fucked but I said it would be better if we ran, if we held each other close and got far enough away. But she saw right through me. She shook her head and covered her eyes so I said it again, over and over until she finally came. And we stayed there for a summer. We woke together, ate together, laid around until we fell asleep together. And we were never closer; she was never further away. 

And there was the rub. We looked for the best in each other. We found the worst in each other. We saw each other bare and found we’d never get away because you never get away. We saw our place in it all and for that we hated each other. We fought at every chance and tried to push each other away. But then I guess we grew tired. We grew tired and lazy and scared of being alone and that was our bond. It’s what kept us together and it’s what we held on to because it’s all we had, until now.

He sets her laptop down.
“So did she tell you?”
“Did she tell me?”
“Yeah.”
“Tell me what, exactly?”
I stare.
He starts some music.  
“You know.”
He shakes his head.
“Forget it.”
He titters. “Come on.”
“You’d know if she told you.”
“But she tells me a lot.”
“I’m sure.”

His music is empty, just distorted vocals and an easy melody, and I guess that’s fitting. It goes with his hair and his t-shirt and his nicely tattered jeans, which he probably spent more on than anything else here. 

“You break-up or something?”
“I’m not sure.”
“You’re not sure?”
I shake my head.
“Just buy her a ring already.”
I look at him. 
He smiles.
I finish my beer, tilting back. “I can’t afford it.”
“I think she said your dad could help.”
“He’s not my dad.”
He puts his cigarette out. “Right.”
I place my can in the corner, among all the rest.
“There’s more in the fridge.”
I open it. “Thanks.”

There’s plenty of beer; there isn’t much else. Some left-over takeout and many condiments, a bag of lemon wedges, a bottle of soda without a cap.

I sit back down. 
“I moved here from Whitby.”
“Yeah?”
He nods. “A couple months back.” 
I keep drinking.
He lights another cigarette.
I look down. 
“You love her, don’t you?”
“Does she bring anyone home?”
He doesn’t answer.
I look at him.
“Like friends?”
“Like more than that.”
“Jake.” He shakes his head. “You need to relax.”

She’d say the same thing. And it’s funny, because she’d only say it when I’d been writing too much, or talking too much, or doing anything too much, in her opinion. But never, of course, when it meant fighting with her, or crying for her, or anything like that. 

“Sorry,” I say. 
He nods. 
I sip my drink. 
“We should smoke a joint.”
I shake my head. 
“I can’t sleep without it, and I can’t smoke alone.”
“I’m okay, really – but thanks.”
“Come on, man, let’s celebrate.”
“What are we celebrating?
“Well everything, of course.”
I look away. “Right.”

He sets his cigarette down; he opens the pantry and reaches high, searching with his hand. He sits back down with a metal tin, empties it of papers, scissors, some broken cigarettes and weed. 

“You staying over?”
I shrug. “We’ll see.”
He nods.
I look at the weed. 
He’s breaking it, putting the stems aside.
“Hey.” He turns her laptop toward me. “Look at this.” 

He stops the music and pulls up a video. It’s showing a man in the dark, and he’s playing a guitar; there’s also a woman beside him, and she’s in a hanging chair. She rocks to his playing and he sings to her. And she spins round and round and kicks her feet up sometimes. 

I look at him.
He points at the screen. “Just watch.”

It’s hard to make out but it sounds like he’s singing about love and what’s precious and how she’s got him out of his mind and how he wouldn’t have it otherwise. She sings back to him sometimes and she’s hard to make out, too, but then he says he loves her and she leans in, and she sings that he’s such a liar, that’s he’s such a liar, and that he’s such a liar. Then she gets up and says she’s going to get a drink and then it ends.

He looks at me.
I drink my beer.
|“That’s Pete Doherty.”
I nod.
“And Kate Moss.”
“Right.”
He starts the music again. “You really don’t know them, do you?”
I shake my head.
He laughs. “You’re really something.”
“Yeah.”
He starts to roll.

I’ve been through this before. I like to drink but she likes to smoke and she’d press it on me, saying it would be help me relax. And I know it works for other people, but it’s never done much for me; in fact if I smoke it hurts even more because all I do is pity myself. At least if I drink the pain is dulled a bit.

He licks the glue, slowly.
I look at my beer, reading the print.
“Alright.” He twists the end closed. “You want the honours?”
I shake my head. “You go ahead.”
“Cheers.” He lights it and leans back.

He takes a pull and he’s enjoying it, clearly. He blows at the ceiling and the smoke starts to cloud, and as he keeps blowing it keeps getting thicker. It’s probably why the panels have yellowed, along with his teeth. 

He holds it out.
I wave it away.
“Have a bit.” He holds it closer.
I stare.
“Please.” 
I take a pull and pass it back. 
“One more.”
I shake my head. 
“That’s it – then you’re good.”
I take another and cover my mouth, coughing a bit.

He smokes some more, pulling harder now, looking content to have his joint back. “Come on,” he says. Then he picks up the ashtray and stands. I follow him down the hall and into her room, which is also a mess. He sits on the pull-out and I sit on a chair. 

Her underwear is on the floor.
He turns on her tv. “Laughing Buddha.”
I look at him.
“That’s what we’re smoking.”
I nod. “Thanks.”
He opens his mouth, showing some smoke then sucking it back. 
I sip my beer. 
Then he holds it out again. “Last one – for real.”
I shake my head. “I can’t.”
He stares. 
I take one more and hold it in. 
“Yes,” he says.
I let it out and pass it back. And then I feel it coming, and I remember the feeling, the sadness and regret.

He flips through the channels and he’s changing them fast. He stops every while when he finds something strange, an overweight man running an obstacle course,  some women screaming, jumping and crying, some news report footage of a high speed car chase. 

He sighs. “I’ve seen all this.”
I nod, but I guess he doesn’t see me. 
“Fuck,” he says.  
I drink.  
He puts the remote down.
I finish my beer and stand. “I should go.”
“Oh come on – not yet.”
“I’m really not feeling well.”
“I’ll get you another. Just stay a while longer.” 
I look at him. 
He stands. “Please.”
I eventually say “Okay.” 
Then he takes my empty and I sit back down.

He shouldn’t be here; she shouldn’t be here with him. When I see her I’ll tell her but she probably won’t listen, not the way she used to listen, the way she’d listen in bed when we’d lay here for hours, when she’d stare and nod and smile while I went on for hours.

She’d press up against me and say that she loved it. She loved how I’d talk about anything, about everything, how I’d bring it all together but then I’d take it all apart. And it’s the strength that she loved, I suppose, but she never supposed that I’d turn it against her. She never saw it coming that I’d make her see the lie, the lie her father tells her, her mother tells her, the lie their fathers and mothers told them. It’s the lie that they can beat it, that they’ve left it behind and found something better.

He’s back with a beer. “We should hang out again soon.”
I don’t say anything. 
“I think she misses you.”
“Yeah?”
He sits. “Yeah.”
I open it. 
“We’ll go to a show or something.” 
“What makes you say that?”
He pauses. “People like music?”
“No – you said she misses me.”
“Oh you meant that.” He takes a pull. “Well, she talks about you sometimes – about how you read, how you write, how you guys used to party – and whenever she does she has this look on her face.”
I wait. “Is that it?”
He shakes his head. “She said it’s hard to be away.” 
“She did?”
He picks up the remote. “Something like that.” 

I drink my beer. I’ll have to lie better. I’ll have to grab her and hold her and say this time is different and this time is real. I’ll say this time she’s right and it’s right to take a stand. It’s right because it’s part of something bigger than ourselves and it’s right because it feels that way.

But she’ll never believe me. She’ll only buy it if I believe it myself; if I say it and mean it and live it. I’ll have to get a job somewhere, and with some luck I’ll maybe write somewhere. I’ll do what I’m best at but I’ll do it for her this time, I’ll do it for them this time, I’ll close my eyes and tell them what they want to hear. I’ll tell them to be happy because they deserve it. They don’t deserve anything, really, but they’ll never know if I don’t tell them. They’ll just keep enjoying life, and I’ll cheer them on while the rest goes to shit.  

He laughs, pointing at the screen. 

It’ll be hard, sure, but if I do it for her, the more it hurts, the more I’ll know I love her, I guess. And it’ll be nice and simple if it’s all about her. I won’t have to worry about myself or the rest. I’ll just do it all, knowing she’s it while trying not to think. And when I do I’ll try to remember. I’ll go back to what’s real and think of her eyes and her hair and her skin; the thick air, the smell of our cum, the way she moves in bed and the way I lose myself in it.

I know that doesn’t sound right, but it doesn’t have to, really. Now it really doesn’t matter if it’s bullshit or not. It just has to feel real; that’s good enough for me. I close my eyes, clenching my teeth. There are many things that feel very real. I’m lucky, I guess.

“Hey, man.”
I look at him.
He smiles. “I lost you there. You alright?”
I sit up, nodding. “Yeah.”
He puts his joint out; he picks out his cigarette and relights it. “You seen this?”
It’s some cartoon. There’s a talking baby, a talking dog. I shake my head.
He sighs. “I should have guessed.” 
I nod.
“You want me to change it?”
I shrug. “I don’t really care.”

The show fades to black and a commercial begins. Some music starts playing and there’s oceans and trees, there’s fields and horses and beautiful women, a sky full of stars then diamonds to end. It could be for anything, really, but it’s for jewelry, I think.

“You know – I watch this shit so much, I dream it sometimes.” 
I shake my head, thinking of the literary possibilities. 
“I’m serious.” 
I sip my drink. “I know.”
“I’m sure your dreams are much better.”
I look at him again.
He keeps smiling. 
“I don’t like to talk about them.” 
He rolls his eyes. “Of course.”
I scratch my head, glancing away. 
He turns back to the screen. 

I just want to be alone. I wish I could tell him and be on my way. He points the remote and switches to news; it’s something he thinks I’ll like better, I guess. I look down. Maybe he’s not so bad. Maybe he wouldn’t seem that way if I stopped trying so hard to be such an ass.

“There’s this one.”
He turns to me.
“There’s this dream I have – well, it’s more like a feeling.” It takes a while to find the words. “It feels like I’ll never catch up. It’s like I have to do something, or make up for something, while knowing it’ll never end.” 
He turns the volume down.  
“I feel it in my chest sometimes. And when it’s bad I feel it everywhere, like I’m drowning in it, I’m saturated by it, something empty and black.”  
He stares.
I sip my beer. 
He covers his mouth; he coughs and he laughs. “Sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry,” he says, still holding his mouth. But I should’ve known. I had it coming. He keeps coughing and laughing. He grabs my beer and takes a sip. 
He nods with a grin. “That’s interesting, man.” He wipes his mouth, hands my beer back.  
I put it down. “Yeah.”
He turns back to the screen. 
I stand. “I have to go to the bathroom.”

I close the door behind me. I sit and stare at the floor, at the black and white tiles. I suppose this is fitting. I’m in the place after all where we’re all pretty honest, where there’s no real denying that we’re all full of shit. Well that’s pretty clever; it could be my best, really. I should write it down and sell it for something, or better yet I’ll take a picture. I’ll pin it up with the others out there.

I look up; I look back down. I try to think of good things but nothing comes to mind. I think of how she’s stuck here with him, drinking too much and breathing his smoke and watching that trash. And then there’s the thought that she’s now at a bar where she has to look nice to make some good tips. She’ll make just enough to pay her stay here then she’ll wake the next day to do it all again. I turn around quickly and lean forward and heave. It takes me a while to pull myself together, but I manage eventually; then I sit down again. 

She’s worth it; it’s worth it. I have to believe that. I tell myself again and again for a very long while then I finally stand. I feel a bit better so I start my way back, and I find him there, now in the quiet; he’s looking down with his head in his hands. I don’t want to know and don’t really care so I turn around to leave. I grab my pack and open the door and walk into the rain. 

It’s coming down harder now so I hurry down the street; I turn onto the other road with the rows of large trees. I remember it well because we’d walk it together. It’s green and quiet and the houses are nicer, but there’s not much to rent. I walk pass them all, most of them dark, and head to the strip.

There are people everywhere, despite all the rain. They’re going into places and coming out of places. They’re walking the strip and waiting in line and a few are just standing there. I weave my way through them as they look at me from under their umbrellas. I must look rather desperate, soaked and upset and just generally fucked up. There’s a line at the bar so I stand at the end.

“I need a fucking drink already.”
I cross my arms, shivering.
They glance at me, the pair of girls ahead.

They’re wearing denim and leather and they’re covered in jewellery. And there are words and symbols and marks all over them, but they make little sense, not coming together to mean anything. I'd probably dislike it more if they did, so maybe it’s better that way.

The line doesn’t move. I put my hands in my pockets. The rain settles down, but I start to feel sick again. I lean against the wall. I close my eyes, and I feel the music, the familiar rumble. I know it well, the faces that come with it, the clenched jaws, the dark eyes.

“Fix yourself.”
“What?”
“He’s coming.”
They look at the bouncer; he’s walking the line, looking over us all.
She pushes up her bra. 
They lock arms and smile.
He points at me. “He with you?”
They shake their heads.
“Alright – let’s go.” He waves them forward.
They squeal.
“Excuse me,” I say. 
But he’s on his way back already.

I find myself following him, walking behind his lumbering frame, cologne in his wake. I question what I’m doing, exactly. Then I find myself suddenly in front of him, or below him rather, looking up, likely looking pathetic.

“Excuse me.”
He looks down the street; there’s nothing there.
“I need to see Ai. I won’t be long.”
He shakes his head, still looking away.
“Please. It’s important.”
He doesn’t move.
But I don’t either.
“Sir,” he points down the street. “The line starts there.”
I close my eyes and say “Fuck.”
Someone chuckles.
I open my eyes; he’s staring straight.

I try to shove passed him; I'm now on the ground. There's gasps and some laughs as I push myself up, a hand on the curb, heaving again. I knew this would happen but I did it anyway.

I start walking again and it starts raining hard again so I find a place where I can wait inside, where it's quiet and comfortable and I can be alone. I ask the woman at the desk if I can use a computer and she points to a sign with the rates. I hand her my card and ask for some water and we sort that out then she points to the back.

I sit there, scrolling. I check my e-mails, for something from her. I look at some photos, I watch some videos, of nothing, really. I think about writing but then thankfully forget about that. I keep clicking and scrolling and fade into it all, the endless, useless information. And it's nice for a while but then I keep finding something. To start it's in ads, in comments, and then I see it in faces. And then I see it in other places, and then it's everywhere, and by then I know what it is. I stand for a moment but then I sit down again. I turn off the screen and put my head down, on the desk, and I try to forget.

She once said she needed to see the ocean so we drove east and just as they say the further we got the nicer everyone was until we told them where we were from after that they all seemed cruel all the same. So from then on we avoided that question when we could and lied otherwise and focused all the more on what was ahead and when we made it there to a rocky beach we jumped in but didn’t last long because the breakers were too powerful and cold though it was nice to fall asleep after as we dried off on the warm stones. When we woke we set up camp and enjoyed some bread and cheese and just enough wine and when it got dark we walked along the beach and the moon was so bright it cast our shadows.

She taps me. She says to pay more so I give her my card then I put my head down again.

Then I see the worn look I saw on a homeless man’s face in LA when he managed to stop me with just a question that worked because I didn’t have an answer to it which was simply why not stop for him. He asked if I could help him and I told him that I couldn’t and then he asked why not and I didn’t have an answer to that either other than I didn’t have any money on me which he responded to by asking if I had any money in the bank. I told him I did and then he asked so what then and I told him that I didn’t know and he was humbly and tragically satisfied at that and shook my hand.

I wake up, after hours maybe, and I turn on the screen to find it says three.

The streets are still wet; they shine under the lights. There are people left, some walking and stumbling and some getting in cabs, and every while there's yelling from somewhere, an empty laugh, but it's mostly nice. I take my time walking and look far ahead, toward the bright towers again. I sort of just follow them, and I think on who they’re bright for, at this hour, and then I wonder what it would be like if they all went dark, these pillars of black.

I near the bar, but keep my distance. There’s no line anymore but the bouncer’s still bouncing, and I guess I could wait right outside but he may have a problem with that. I figure I’ll wait where I am, across the street, sitting on some steps. I notice a cab after a while. I hail it and slide in, the leather creaking.

"155 Cumberland, please."
He nods, glancing in his mirror.
I settle in.
“I will take Bloor?”
“If you think that’s best.”
He doesn’t say anything.
I rest my head against the window.
He turns on the radio.
“Sorry – but can you keep that off?”
He nods, turning the knob.
“Thanks.”

There’s a faint smell of food, or a home, rather. I look at the picture on the back of his seat, and I think on how much better I have it.

I groan.
“You sick?”
I sit up.
He looks through the mirror again.
“I’m fine.”
“You tell me, okay?”
“It’s not like that.”
He keeps looking.
“Don’t worry.”
“Okay – but you tell me.”
“I will.” I close my eyes.

He eventually turns on his signal, and I take out my wallet. It gets brighter and cleaner, the nearer we get, and I watch him looking around now, wondering if he aspires to this yet. He pulls up to the building, stops the meter, and we sort out the rest.

I pass my keys over the reader; the glass door slides open. I continue through the lobby, passing the marbled walls, the vague decor, and the concierge nods, conspiratorially, and I nod back.

I look down as the elevator goes up, mirrors all around. Then I head down the hall, quietly open the door, and I manage through the dark.

My room is cool and quiet. I lie on my bed, look at my hands then put them down. I want to keep from thinking and be content for once. The best time, the most content time is right before I fall asleep, when my eyes are heavy but not yet closed and I am not yet dreaming. The trouble is that just before this time I am most inclined to thinking. But maybe being content is something I can get better at with trying. Maybe if I resist writing it will become easier to keep from thinking, and it will all be marvellous.

I’m sick of thinking, thinking and writing. I remember the time when I wasn’t writing, when I had the time to do things, or when I could enjoy doing nothing at all. And then I remember the time when Ai and I left a bar to take a long walk, and it started raining, and we ran and we laughed; and we went into the subway and the floors were filthy but gleaming and beautiful, and someone was playing Chopin, and you could hear all the longing; and we went home and made tea and brought it to bed and talked sweetly to each other, until she fell asleep, and I watched her until I fell asleep.

•

She enters without knocking. I try not to move as I feel her standing there, as she sits on the bed and puts her hand on me.

“Jacob,” she says.
I breathe.
“Wake up, honey.”
I pull the covers closer.
“We’re having some brunch.”
I don’t answer.
She pats me gently.
I open my eyes; she finally left.

I recall when she met him. We moved in with him here not very long after and soon after that they asked me to leave. But with keys to a cottage and enough to get by I didn’t really care. It’s what we all wanted so I figured it best.

I walk into their brunch and they pause to look at me.
“Well,” he says.
“Have a seat, honey.”
I take my place.
“And help yourself.”
He raises a bottle of white.
I nod.
He pours me a glass.

I take some salad and eggs and smoked salmon. He takes some more, too. Then he offers her salad before the bowl is finished but she shakes her head and politely says “Thanks.”

“You’re pale,” she says.
He looks at me.
“Okay.”
His face says nothing, in particular.
I take a sip.
“Have you been fishing?”
I shake my head.

Our forks and knives clink on our plates. It’s all very nice but I know not to say that, not wanting to start her on all things organic.

“So how’s Ai?” she says.
“She’s good.”
“How old is she now?”
I pause. “About twenty-five.”
“I bet she’s started wondering.”
He looks at me again.
“She’s not getting any younger, Jake. And we really like her.”
I nod.
He raises his wine. “It’s great to have you, Jake.”
We all touch glasses.
She smiles and says “Yes.”

They’ve hung a new painting on the wall across from me. There’s not much to it, just wide strokes of red brushed hard and fast against whites and grays. I stare at it, chewing, and I wonder how he paid for it. And then I wonder about this place and the travel, the allowance and the gifts. I know he’s paid well but I’m still unsure for what exactly. He has plenty of time to enjoy to what he has, and he never looks spent.

They carry on talking but I don’t really listen. There’s little point to their conversations. They talk about nothing and nothing changes. I don’t like to hear it and don’t like to take part and that’s why I prefer it when Ai is here with me. She does all the talking and it’s better that way, for me and for her and also for them. They always show interest in whatever she says and I can sit here in peace while she holds their attention.

I look up from my food, looking at them again. She’s moving her hands. She’s moving them more as they dig even deeper. I wish she’d just use them how they’re meant to be used and for once simply wipe that smug look off his face. But then I suppose life would change rather quickly, though it’s started already.

“What do you think, honey?”
I keep chewing.
They wait.
“Sorry – what?”
“About the commission,” she says.
“I don’t know.”
He turns his glass.
She eventually stands. “Alright, well, we can catch-up later.”
I nod, drinking.
“I have my spin.”

And at that he kisses her and walks her out and shuts the door gently. Then he returns to the table and sits back down; and we keep to ourselves and pick at our food and drink our drinks. We’re usually quiet, perhaps because there’s some vague, unspoken agreement between us, a kind made between men who are entirely satisfied, afraid, or just tired.

He puts his cutlery down; he wipes his mouth and looks at me, leaning back.
I glance at him.
“Your mother’s worried.”
I finish my wine.
“You don’t seem well.”
I stare.
He stares back.
I don’t know what to say.
“We may get you some help.”
It takes me a moment. “What is this?”
He crosses his legs; he doesn’t blink.

I’ve never seen this look before; but then I’ve rarely cared to look before. I guess it’s a look he saves for his work. I can’t figure why he’s pulled it out here. I shuffle in my seat.

“Well, maybe we can fix this here.”
I look down.
“So what’s the problem?”
I turn my glass.
“Jake.”
I look at him.
He doesn’t move.
“What do you want me to say, exactly?”
“This isn’t about me.”
I look away, scratching my head.

But I knew this would happen, sooner or later. I think of the time that I’ve spent doing nothing. I mostly remember the laying and drinking, and the mostly blank screen. I wish she was with me; I wish we were there. I wish we were left to suffer in peace.

“Is it that girl?”
I don’t answer.
“That won’t do this time.”
I stand.
“Jake.”
I head for my room to gather my things.
“There will be no more money.”
I turn around.
He raises his hand, suggesting I sit.

I return to the table and breathe. I go back a few days to remember why I’m here. I eventually get to that look on her face, the pain in her eyes along with the fear. I figure at least that it can’t get much worse. I look at him now and wonder what’s next.

“The firm needs a writer.”
I nod.
“I think the work will help you.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
“Is that it?”
He looks at me hard.
I look down.
“You’ll need to get your own place, in the city.”
“Alright.”
“Jake – this is serious.”

I look around, at this bright empty place. Then I look back at him before turning away again. There’s nothing to see through the window, at least not from here. You have to get close; you have to look down.

“Jake,” he says.
I rub my eyes.
“Are you alright?”
I nod.
He gives me a look.
I reach for the wine.
“Listen – this can be very simple.”
I pour the last of it.

I hope he’s right. It certainly seems he’s been right about things, the things that have got him as far as he is. I look at him now, feeling a bit sick, and I drink.

“Just tell me what to do.”
He scratches his face.
“Please.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It doesn’t make a difference. You’ll get what you want. It’s simple like you say.”
He seems to think hard.
I drink.
He leans forward.
I wait.
“Take the job. I’ll have someone call you. They’ll set you up.”
“Okay.” I drink again.
He shakes his head.

We were fine without him, but she always said different. We were on our own, she said, and I didn’t seem to care, which she was right about, so she had to look elsewhere for our future, as she put it. She also said that I’ll know what she meant, that it will be clear, when I have children.

“Listen – you can’t fuck this up.”
“I know.”
“I’m not sure that you do.”
I finish my wine.
“You will show respect there.”
“I will.”
“It’s for your own good.”
“I know.”
He shakes his head again, opening his paper. “We’ll see.”
I sit there.
He glances at me. “We can talk more later.”
I stand, grab my pack and head out.

I cross the street to the park and find a bench and shut my eyes but it’s still too close, it’s still too loud. It’s the walking and speaking and honking and all; I open my eyes and start to move through it. I head down the street again, the buildings high and all around, passing people and cars and stores and the rest. I turn down the road with the church at the end and open the door and sit in the back.

I don’t want to be here, but the rest don’t, either, so it’s quiet at least. It’s empty and large, with tall ceilings, vaulted ceilings, painted ceilings, all that. It doesn’t mean anything; it’s cool and dim. I take a seat and put my hood on and it gets even quieter as I start nodding off, as I think of her, of them, of the rest, as I try to think of nothing.

I see his hands. He once pointed to the stone forms appearing every while along the water and the road. He explained with a clarity in his eyes that they were shaped by the end of a glacial period and are a feature of the bay along with its unique flora which over thousands of years have learned to survive in a soil that spares only the hardiest. Then he spoke about the first that were here and then those that came after and then finally and theatrically just as we were approaching his lot he explained it had come to his family for their loyalty to the crown.

I go in and out, there’s someone sitting some rows ahead, and then there isn’t.

Then it’s black and it’s when we were visiting Paris and she was wearing black because she wanted to see the Père Lachaise cemetery but we got somewhat lost or rather distracted by all sorts of things like a beautiful young girl that seemed to be following us. We turned around to talk to her but she ran away and then we found a store that sold strange things like found love letters and taxidermy but what distracted us most was a marvellous carousel that for some reason was empty. She got on and called at me to get on but she didn’t sit down but kept walking in the same direction it was spinning and I followed her and her blouse which was too large kept flowing behind her furiously and she was beautiful ahead and in the many mirrors turning.

It turns and we’re at the table again and they’re looking at me. Their skin looks polished somehow and they have no eyes or mouths or hair but I know it’s them I can feel them smiling and I can smell their breath and suddenly we’re on the roof and their breath is filling the air and I start to ascend and I get above them enough that it’s clear for a moment until I turn and find that they’re with me again. I reach for them and they start to come apart and I wave what’s left of them away until it’s dark and warm and I can finally breathe. Then it’s very nice and it gets nicer yet as everything starts to slow down, first it’s my breathing, then my heartbeat, and it’s all eventually peaceful, so perfectly still.

I come out after a while and can’t fall back in. I cross my arms and hang my head low but I’m too awake, and I can’t help but face it. I imagine working with him, the indignity of it, but I also imagine that she might be happy, and that I might eventually resent her for it. I figure I should leave. I can’t face it sitting here, it’s too painful that way, and too absurd, so I start moving again.

I head down the street again, looking at the people again, shaking my head again. I see their pain, how deep it runs, and I think on the depth of my self-pity. There’s someone laying there, on the ground with their dog. There’s a man with these eyes, their darting and wide and I can clearly see bags. There’s a very old woman, she’s dressed very well, but she’s done some terrible things to her face. She looks at me.

I keep walking. I keep walking until I reach the water and then I sit down again. The ferries are running, to the island and back, and there are also some sailboats, for those that can buy them, and then further out what looks like a tall ship.

"Hello.”
I open my eyes.
"May I sit?”
I look at him; he’s old.
He points to my pack.
"Yes." I place it on the ground. "Sorry."
He nods and sits, carefully.

I think of leaving but then wait a while and he keeps to himself so I stay. I wait some more and expect him to say something, or do something, or for something to happen but he just sits there, staring, and I sit and stare as well. There's a plane every while and along with the rest that's all to the view, that's all there is.

I wonder if it does something for him, if it gives him some peace or if he's rather like me and he just ended up stopping here, on the way to the next place, wherever that is. I think of asking him but then thankfully forget about that.

A good while passes and he still doesn't say anything; I stand up and leave. I walk along the water. There's a path for a while and it's alright, there are more benches, some grass, there are a few trees. Further down there's warehouses, and factories, they're mostly abandoned. Then a ramp for the highway that continues overhead, and it gets loud, there's this terrible hum, and then worse yet this rumbling. I start back toward the city, looking at the towers and sky and the cranes.

I keep my head down, mostly, as I keep getting closer and there’s more and more people, as I walk by the stores, the restaurants, the offices, whatever else. I try to ignore it all. I feel tired again. I think of going back but then think of them so I keep walking, passed their place, not knowing where, not caring.

I walk into a bar and order a beer. The bartender serves it and smiles and tells me her name, which I immediately forget. I stare at the tv, at the weather and headlines and repeating news clips, but I don't really watch. I have to look somewhere and I'd rather it be something, not someone, which I guess is why they are screens everywhere. Well there's something clever again. I tilt my beer back. Maybe I deserve a stronger drink.

"Excuse me.”
“Hi!"
"A Jameson – neat, please."
"Alright!"

There’s another at the bar now. He’s wearing a suit and eating wings and there’s sauce on his fingers. I look around. Many others have come, many are eating fries. There’s not much light but I guess that’s good for eating, and drinking; she serves my whiskey and I sip it, closing my eyes as it runs over my tongue, down my throat; it’s strong and sweet and warm in my chest.

I try to enjoy it but it slowly gets louder. There’s talking and laughing and the occasional clink. It’s blending together with terrible music, just beating and singing, and they turn it up. I sip again.

“You want to see a menu, babe?”
I shake my ahead.
“The steak frites come with a drink today.”
“I’m alright.”
“Just let me know if you change your mind.”
“Okay. I will.”
She smiles and walks away.

I watch the screen closely now. Many have discovered that their homes are worthless. A young man, a boy really, was shot by the police again. Some ruins were destroyed; they weren’t ruined enough, I guess. I look around. Well, it seems we’re all pretty well here, so I guess I should be grateful. I should celebrate, in fact. I keep sipping.

I think about working with him again. I wonder what I’ll write bout. I can’t imagine it, exactly, though I know the purpose well, of course. And I know it’s worth far more than whatever I’ve been doing, but that it’s the same thing, really, and that I can certainly do it, or worse yet do it well. I finish my drink.

She passes.
I wipe my mouth. “Excuse me.”
She smiles wide.
“The steak frites, please – and another Jameson.”
“Alright!”

She puts the order through. She pours me another, and I keep sipping. I should really slow down, at least until I’ve eaten again. I push my glass forward. Then I strain for something to do with my hands. I rub my neck.

She glances at me. Then she grabs a glass, scoops some ice and fills it with water.
“Thank you.”
She hands it to me. “Anytime, babe!”
She’s trained well; it’s sad.

I drink some water, look at my whiskey. Then I look to my side as more of them seat themselves. She greets them nicely. They’re also wearing suits. They order beers and laugh, patting each other’s backs, and I try to stare straight, at the bottles along the wall, trying at once to ignore myself in the mirror.

I eventually get my food, the same fries that everyone’s eating, a slightly charred piece of flesh. I stare at it, hesitating; then I cut into it, eagerly, and I take a large bite. It’s okay. I chew another bite and wash it down with whiskey. I try to do that in peace but it keeps getting louder, and there are more coming in, so I eat fast and finish my steak and try to finish my fries then swig the rest of my whiskey.

I gesture for the bill.
She nods, taking my plate. “How about some dessert, babe? The lava cake is amazing.”
|Good until the end. “No, thanks.”
She walks away and says “Next time!”
I stand, a bit unsteady.

The food hasn’t helped, not like I thought it would. I figure what I need is another place to sit, to be left alone, and to close my eyes again. I wait for her, anxiously. There are people everywhere, now closing in, and soon enough someone touches my shoulder. I roll my eyes, turning around, but it’s only her, my bill in her hand.

She smiles. “Thanks, babe.”
“You’re welcome.”
She’s still touching me.
I turn around with the bill.
She wrote “Thank you!” on it, drew some stars, a heart, and she signed her name: Brittney. How did I forget? I leave her a good tip. I don’t feel anything.

It’s hotter now and there are more on the streets, flowing each way. I already feel a thirst coming on, I have trouble swallowing, and I think to go back for more water but I decide against it. I join the rest, heading in whatever direction. I keep on for a while but find nothing and I sweat and breathe as the air seems to thicken. I take the stairs into the subway.

I continue with them all, trying to get space at the end of the platform. I let a train pass because it’s too crowded. I get on the next one and wait for the seat in the corner, where it’s usually darker and I’ll be left to myself. We avoid looking at each other, staring at books or papers or phones or at nothing. I eventually get my seat. I put my hood up and cross my arms and slouch forward again. I burp and swallow; it burns.

We’d forget where we started and began. I’d move into her and she into me and when it was summer we’d have the window open, it was too hot otherwise, and sometimes we’d worry if someone could hear but then we’d let go because it didn’t fucking matter. We’d lay around after and it was nice when it rained like when a car would pass with this beautiful whooshing or some drops of rain would make it inside on a breeze, feeling cool on our skin. We woke once to a scream in the night, some lover betrayed or rejected. Her closed eyes, her open mouth. I’d squeeze and she’d scratch and we knew we were broken.

I open my eyes every while. They’re coming and going, all kinds, from all over. When I can’t see them I hear them, I smell them and feel them, but it starts to feel distant, the train rumbles on and it starts to feel nice.

Now we’re all smiling at each other with many flickering eyes and I don’t know how we managed to get so much booze but maybe it isn’t actually that much it just feels that way because we’re so young and strangely I don’t mind being around some I know well and others that I don’t I guess we all went happily into this valley to start this fire and to drink and forget together. And I guess we’re celebrating something as they start to sing and embrace one another and me and I look around for her but she’s not with us anymore and they keep looking at me to start singing too so I try but nothing comes out and I keep trying while they cheer me on until it hurts and something comes out, a bloody cloth.

I snort, awaking. There’s someone beside me now, looking at their phone. I put my head down again.

I eventually feel shaking and we’re on a flight and then walking around apartment buildings because she couldn’t guess which had been hers but then she figured it didn’t really matter because they were all the same and so I’d get the point as long as I knew that this is where we came from and that we’re lucky now. I didn’t feel lucky but I nodded of course because I knew we could leave then but it didn’t get much better after that as countless visits followed to many I didn’t know and would likely never see again. They sometimes served tea and biscuits and sandwiches and said how happy they were at our luck but I was unsure most times if they meant it especially when looking at me after catching me looking at the things in their homes.

I wake up. I rub my eyes and sit up straight. I get off at the next stop and get on the train going the other way and then get back out downtown. I don’t know what time it is, exactly, but it's starting to get dark, and I figure I can sleep again if I try, if I help myself along with another drink.

I wander around and eventually find it, the building with the faded Best Western sign. I think on the meaning of that. I know the place, like most people, but not because I’ve stayed there but because it’s hard to forget them all, usually waiting outside across the street. They’re not out yet; it’s still too early but it won’t be long.

He’s sweating.
“I’d like a room.”
He stays fixed on his screen. “Hold on.”
The air’s very stale.
He looks at me, eventually. “Sorry – what’s up?”
“I’d like a room.”
“For how many nights?”
“Just one”.
“And for how many guests?”
“Just me.”
He glances up. “Alright – I’ll check what we have.”

His shirt’s wrinkled. His red hair’s oily and matted. There are a few long strands on his face.

“Okay – how about a queen with a south view for one forty nine.”
“Sure.”
“It’s non-smoking; and there’s also a hundred dollar cleaning and damage deposit.”
“Okay.” I give him my card.
He keeps clicking.
"Is there a stocked fridge?”
"There should be." He waits for something to print, looking away. Then he puts it in front of me and says "Just sign here."
And so I just sign it.
He hands me my key. "Room 607."
I nod again.

I find two small bottles of whiskey in the fridge. I empty them into a glass and consider getting some ice but then decide it’s not worth the effort.

I lie down and rest my drink on my chest, sipping every while, trying hard not to think of her or them or anyone again. But then I figure I won’t bother resisting this time, I’ll let go and give in this time, and the first that comes is the one downstairs at the desk, still staring at his screen. I find that strange but remind myself that it might as well be him; it doesn’t matter.

I sip again. Well I have my luck and they have theirs and I really shouldn’t go beyond that anymore or perhaps the way now is to go beyond that altogether. Perhaps the truth is that her and I and our bond and what we’ve created are beautiful and good enough to be worth every terrible cost whether it be ours to pay or otherwise. It certainly feels that way sometimes, if I try hard enough.

I feel it coming faster now so I take another sip. Then I feel it even more so I finish my drink and empty the bottles of vodka this time before I settle back in to embrace it again.

•

The phone’s ringing. I reach for it and knock over my drink.

“Hello?”
“Who is this?” she says.
I sit up. “It’s me.”
There’s music playing, people shouting.
“Where are you?”
She laughs.
I find the lamp.
"Somebody called from this number."
"Ai – it's Jacob."
A pause. “Baby?”
“Yeah."
"Hold on. I can't hear you." She laughs again.

I can picture here there, wherever she is. It's filthy and crowded and she's not wearing much, barely a dress. She's trying to move and they're brushing against her, the others around.

"I need to see you," she says, smiling.
"I've been calling. I went by your place."
"I know, baby."
"Where are you?"
"What?"
"Where are you?"
"No," she says.
"Ai."
"Sorry. What?"
"Where are you?"
"We're at 208 Dunn. It’s beautiful, Jake. You need to see it. You need to be here with me.”

I look around the room, at the bed and the walls and the desk. They're mostly brown. There's not much else.

"Jake?"
"Yeah." I get up. "I'm coming."
"I miss you."
"I'll be about an hour."
She says something but I can't make it out.
"Ai?"        
"I'll see you soon," she says, and then she's gone.

I check myself in the bathroom, the light humming. I wet my hair. I run a hand through it. My shirt’s wrinkled and I consider tucking it in but then I realize I’m not wearing a belt. I didn’t bring any. I keep looking then soon enough start searching for an excuse, a reason to stay or to go somewhere else, so I turn away and grab my pack and leave while I can.

I wait for the bus and see them on the corner now, some women, a man and someone in between. They're hungry for something, for food or booze or whatever else, and they look at me, their eyes wide, until soon realizing I have nothing they want. They look at the cars now; a few slow down to look back.

The bus arrives; it's almost empty. There's a couple and a drunk on and that's it. I sit well away, and I avoid looking at him, but he wants to be sure we all hear him. He breathes and moans and sometimes tries to say something. I can't really tell, and I'm just about used to it, but then he says something like "all you do is shit," and not long after he yells "you shit on everything!" The driver looks back through his mirror; the boy puts his hand on his date.

I look outside. There are restaurants and bars, mostly, and a few are still open, their lights passing quickly. I think we’ve been to some of them; I can’t remember, exactly. We often got destroyed so what I remember is her, and that's really it. I remember the way her back looked in bed, muscular and smooth, and I remember the way she looked down, when I knew she was thinking she wanted to leave me. I close my eyes and try to forget. I can't help but picture her again, now holding her belly.

“Fuck,” he says.

It starts to look worse, the further we drive. It's where all the good places go, and it's funny how that is, though I guess it makes sense. It's where they can pretend that they're somehow different, that they're somehow better, that they're not all part of it because they're too poor or strange. I look at the couple but there’s no such pretense in them. They’re dressed sensibly, with t-shirts and jeans and worn out running shoes, and there’s nothing knowing about them. I’m not sure if that’s better, or worse; I guess it doesn’t matter.

They keep glancing at him.

He looks battered, with his rags and his scabs and his pock-marked face. I wonder how he got here, how he became what he is. It’s hard to imagine the pain of it all, the sum of the wrongs, the mass of our failures. But I know those looks well, from them and the rest. They come often and everywhere and I’m sure they’ve followed him, from wherever he came from, from before he starting noticing them. They’ve told him what he is, what he should be.

He opens his mouth, licking the air.

We drive through an underpass. It’s bright for a moment and there’s a deep rushing sound. I rest my head against the window. I close my eyes again. I listen to the engine going, the bumps in the road. I begin to breathe deeply and I hear that as well. We pass someone yelling and something roars by and after a while it all starts to blend together. It’s nice; my stop comes, eventually.

He howls as I leave.

I can hear myself walking. There's less of everything here. There are many closed places and very few cars and not many ads and where there are they're mostly for parties. There are buildings going up, though. It'll be some time until they're done, and the city catches up, but it certainly will. It always does.

I walk into a store; I’m not far now. It’s bright and colourful and there’s some kind of smell, a vague scent of clean, as I pass through the aisles on my way to the drinks.

I put a water down and he scans it. I look for some gum and he waits for me. It’s hard to choose with so many strange choices, like air and prism, fit and rev. I feel him staring so I just go with extra. Then I give him my card and he gives me the machine and we sort that out quietly.

I stand in the parking lot. I drink some water and chew some gum, trying to delay what comes next. My mind starts going but I pull it together and continue on my way, around the corner and down the street. We walked here many times and we’d stop when we passed it, the green Victorian with the many trees. She was dying to go to because they were all talking about it. Well soon enough I hear them myself.

They grow louder as I near, and then it’s not long after that I see them there, they're everywhere, all over the house, on the yard and porch and balcony, some leaning on the bannisters. They look glad to be seen as they’re talking and laughing, with their smokes and their drinks. A few of them look as I start up the steps. “Excuse me,” I say. “Excuse me,” I say again.

There are more inside; many are wearing black. I work my way through but don’t get very far. I end up in the living room. It’s very decorated, with red carpet and a wood coffered ceiling and many mirrors on the walls. And there’s an odd mix of furniture, some filigree couches, from India perhaps, an art deco table, held up by one of those gold, flowing bodies, and what looks like a fur chair. There are also many horns above the window. It’s very hot.

I head upstairs and try one of the rooms. There's a couple at the threshold and I look inside, between them, and they look at me strangely. It’s even more crowded here. There are many standing and some sitting on a bed, a sheer awning over them. Everything is white. There’s a fine, iridescent chandelier. I step away and the couple turns back, to whatever they're drinking, whatever they're talking about.

I look at the other rooms; there are too many people. I take some time and breathe, trying to muster up the will, but I just end up waiting in the hall for some time, while that same couple keeps glancing at me. I eventually go back downstairs and outside and stand on the porch, among a few others. Some are smoking cigarettes; I consider asking for one. I start to get looks but someone finally leaves, from their spot on a pew, so I sit down in their place, a little away. I stare at the street and a while seems to pass.

“What the fuck?” She laughs.
I look at her.
“What are you doing here?”
“I was inside. I couldn’t find you.”
She stares, a glint on her cheek.
I feel weak.
She touches it, smiling, a pearl on her dimple. “You like it?”
I eventually nod. “Can we talk?”
She takes my hand.

She parts through them all, much easier than I did, and she leads me back upstairs, smiling at people along the way. We squeeze into another room. There are many plants and pilastered walls hung with tapestries, the classical kind, with the lush settings and fleshy bodies in them. There’s also a bed suspended from the ceiling, with people sitting on it, swinging gently, and a girl laying down, taking pictures of herself among many silk pillows.

“Look who I found,” she says.
It’s her roommate; his eyes go wide.
I don’t say anything.
I turn to her. “Can we talk somewhere?”
He cackles.
She keeps smiling.
He reaches under the bed, hands her a drink.
I think of something to say.
“Not now, baby.” She looks away, sipping.

I start to feel sick. It's like before except it's not just ourselves that we're killing. I look around, clenching my teeth. He pulls a bottle from his pocket. He refills their drinks and offers me the rest. I try to take hers but she pulls away hard, spilling it slightly.

I elbowed someone.
They glare at me, a girl with a shaved head, and no brows, in a basketball jersey much too large for her.
“Sorry,” I say.
She stands there. Then she finally says “fuck off.”
And I don't say anything.
She turns back.
"What the fuck, babe?"
"I said I'm sorry."
"Just chill, alright?" She touches my hand. “It’s okay – trust me.”
I look down.

I breathe deep. I wait a while before I lean in and ask her if we can talk again, but she doesn't answer. She just sips her drink, waiting for something more meaningful, I guess.

The window curtain billows slowly.
“This is fucking beautiful,” he says.
She looks at him warmly.
He finds room on the bed and swings, waiting for my answer.
I nod.
He turns to her. “I’m so glad he came.”
She rubs my back.
I look at neither of them.
He cackles again.

I grab her arm and turn around then she yells something and pulls back hard again. I keep on and almost reach the door but then someone shoves me and I fall down, hitting the floor then the bed. It swings back as I pull myself together, hitting me again.

She’s standing over me, the girl in the jersey.
I hold the bed.
“Bro!” she yells down, spitting a bit.
I close my eyes.
I know they're all watching.
“You’re bleeding.”
I feel hands.
“Fuck,” she says.

I open my eyes; we’re in the bathroom now. There’s green marble everywhere, a lot of gold trim. I lean on the counter as she wets a hand towel. She stands close, dabs me gently.

“Chin up.”
There's porn on the ceiling. It’s covered in centerfolds, from old magazines.
"You're such a dick."
I nod.
“Don’t move.”
“Okay.”
She shakes her head.
I close my eyes and breathe.
“You’re enjoying this too much.”
She’s right but I don’t tell her.
She looks at me straight, touching my face.

Her eyes are wide and black and as I near her, slowly, it feels as if I’ll fall into them. She turns away, starts rinsing the towel.

“Thanks,” I eventually say.
She nods.
“Ai – ”
“Here it comes.”
“Please – just listen.”
“Okay, Jake.” She puts the towel down. “What is it? I’m ready.”
I move closer.
“What the fuck?”
“I love you – “
“No.“
“I’ll make this right.”
“Stop it. I mean it.”
“I found some work.”
She pushes away, laughing.

Her hands are up and she’s smiling; but then she crosses her arms and her face turns, and twists, and her eyes well up. There’s a knock on the door as she sits on the tub. I sit beside her. She rests her head on my shoulder. Then I put my arm around her, and we stay that way for a while.

There’s a knock on the door again.
“Let’s go,” I say.
She doesn’t say anything.
“We’ll make this work.”
She stands. “Fuck you.”
I touch her hand.
“No.”
“Ai.”
“It’s too late.”
“We’ll be alright.”
“It’s too late, I said.”
I look at her.
“Don’t make me say it. Please.”

And I know what she means, of course. I wait, letting it settle in, but I don’t feel surprise, or sadness, or relief even. She gives me time. Then she sits back down and touches my hand.

“You went alone?”
“Yeah.”
We pause for a while.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You made your choice, Jake.”
“But I didn’t choose anything.”
She looks at me. “Exactly.”

I strain for words but nothing comes, and I suddenly feel cold. I look down, rubbing my legs, and there’s a harder knock this time.

“I want to leave, Jake.”
“Okay – let’s go.”
“No – I mean, I want to get away.”
I pause. “We can go to the bay.”
She winces.
“Hello?” someone says.
“Just a minute,” she yells back.
I touch her hand but she pulls away again.
“I need something different, Jake.”
There’s another knock. “Ai?” someone asks.

She lets him in. There’s a line in the hall and a few of them look at me, fiercely, before she closes the door again. He’s sweating. He sticks his chest out and smiles wide, showing his teeth, still very yellow.

“You’re conspiring against me – both of you.”
She makes room between us.
He puts an arm around her, then me.
Then no one says anything.
She starts humming gently.
His head falls; we start swaying.
I try to put up with it.
His breathing gets heavier.
I stand.
“So much love,” he says, his eyes opening lazily.

She brushes hair from his face. Then he turns to her, they stare, and they break into laughter. There’s a shout and more knocking but they laugh through it, holding themselves and each other.

I look at her.
The pain is still there. I see it.
He falls into the tub.
She laughs even harder.
“We should go.”
"Wait,” he says, digging into his pockets.
She stares.
“Are you fucking kidding?" someone says.
I shake my head.
He’s kneeling now; he reaches into a sock and pulls out a baggie.

He pours it out, a small pile of shrooms, dirty and blue against the porcelain tub. I feel cold again.

“Let’s go.”
He divides the pile with his pinkie.
She takes her share.
And he does as well.
"It's gross," she says, chewing.
He open the faucet.
They cup water into their mouths.
She looks at me, wiping her face.
“No, thanks.”

They bang on the door this time, and they're both in the tub, just sitting and staring. I don’t budge, but they don’t either, so I pick up my pile and I chew and I swallow.

"Okay," I say.

She leads us downstairs, turning back for a moment to wave us on, down the hall and toward the kitchen. There are many around the island, waiting their turns to get at the bottles, picking them up to find something left. She’s already at the front somehow, speaking to others as she prepares a drink. She passes it back and works on another. I give it to him.

I avoid talking to him, or looking at him, for as long as I can.
“Hold this.”
I take his drink.
He removes his shirt.
I look at her again. Now she’s speaking to the girl in the jersey, who touches her piercing.
“Thanks,” he says, taking his drink. “It’s fucking hot.”
“Yeah.”
She finally returns, handing me a drink.
He points and laughs, I’m not sure at what.
I catch her looking at me.
She turns away.
“What?”
“Nothing,” she says. “Let’s go.”
And at that we follow her again.

We leave the kitchen and head into the dining room. There are many around the table and many more sitting on the edges, looking quite proud of themselves. He leans in and says something to her. She nods and smiles; then he pecks my cheek and heads back toward the kitchen.

We stand there, many pressing against us, her going into and out of many conversations. I look around every while, sipping my drink, keeping to myself as best I can. It slowly seems to grow louder. Then there’s a flutter in my stomach, the familiar lightness, and I breathe deep again.

“I’m sorry.”
I guess she didn’t hear.
I lean in, say it again.
She shakes her head, saying something.
“What?
“I found some work, too.”
“Okay.”
“I’m teaching in Dubai in September.”
It takes me a moment.
“Will’s setting me up; he’s helping Jonas, too.”
I wait.
She sips her drink.
“The guy from the marina?”
She nods.

I close my eyes and picture his face, smiling again. Then I open my eyes and look at her, looking at me.

“He said he’ll help you, too – if you’d like.”
I stare.
“I knew you would do this.”
“I’m not doing anything.”
“Okay – well, I’m going, Jake.” And at that she starts moving away, pushing through the crowd.
“Ai.”
She looks back, smiling. “Come with me, baby.”
I try to move but I can’t.
Then she reaches back, theatrically, just before she disappears.

I stand there, looking in her direction, moving back as others push ahead. I end up against the wall, and I turn around to find old framed photos of people, joylessly staring back, with no relation, it seems, to each other or this place. I start to feel light again, and dizzy, but there’s a chair there so I sit down.

Some time passes. I’m unsure how long, exactly. But I start to feel better and eventually ease into a strange peace, feeling a stillness in the space immediately around. Then after a while there’s also a coolness to my skin, and then that’s joined by a subtle pleasure, seeming to buzz just underneath. I feel somewhat guilty for it. I try to feel something else and picture them there, the three of them, a part of a charade much more obvious and absurd in the void of a desert.

I sip my drink, the watered-down whiskey going down very nice, and it seems to grow louder again. At first it’s the voices, the shouting and laughing, but then my focus shifts, and narrows, and it’s strangely just movement I’m listening to, only shuffling and footsteps and creaking. It seems to be patterned but I can’t follow it enough to be sure. And then it changes again, it’s only the music around me now, wave after wave of strums and drums and cries that I eventually can’t single out as they bend and layer together. I open my eyes and realize that I’ve been lost in it all, that another while has passed, so I stand and breathe in the awful warmth, thick with sweat and cigarettes and weed.

I look around; there are more bodies now. They’re packed together, mostly shoulders and necks and heads, the occasional drink or smoke raised over it all. I think I see her, near the center, but there’s no way in, really, though it’s not long until I’m pulled in somehow. I start to feel dizzy again so I push on, getting passed some of them, but then they all start to sing, and sway, and I can’t push any further. I can’t make out the words, either, and I have trouble breathing as they close in, pressing into me, so I raise my arms and stand on my toes and take it all in again. It’s alive, a throbbing mass; I look to my side and meet the eyes of another, it’s Jonas maybe, and his face smiles but then bulges suddenly. My heart starts racing and I close my eyes but the sight worsens, the heads cascading, rolling over each other and fast toward me.

I push hard, but every time I make space it’s quickly filled with all the momentum. They also start looking so I let go, and I feel a bit better but not good enough to remain part for long. We keep drifting forward, then back, and I eventually find myself waking up again, from something again and at just the right time, when I’m somehow near enough to the edge to push out, passed the few left in the way.

I stumble a bit; I continue to the kitchen. It’s emptier now but there are still some around. I look at my hand and don’t find my drink so I take the cup closest to me and fill it with whatever. Then I head out, looking down on the way, and I walk up the street and keep walking until I can’t hear any of it. I sit down on a ledge but then realize I still hear them, I’m not sure, entirely, so I walk further up and sit down again, on a bench in a park.

I sip and look at the trees, their branches black against the sky. They’re swaying, they seem to be growing; I put my drink down. I cross my arms and look around. There’s no one here, thankfully, but I close my eyes anyway. I still see the branches, they’re silhouettes of light now, shifting colourfully against the black. It’s the void in her eyes. It’s dark and everywhere but there seems to be a surface, just within reach, like a glint of light on water or glass. She’s in pain, and it feels as if I should touch it, but I can never quite reach it; I know it doesn’t matter but I keep trying anyway. I manage to bend it somehow, and I see my reflection as it stretches and drips and slowly thins away, disappearing eventually.

I think on what has been lost. I wonder if it’s something, if there was nothing there in the first place. I mean is there weight to an absence, if it’s something unrealized? Well it’s terrible to imagine even the slightest matter, given the crushing weight of it all, the possibilities together. It comes to me now and I recognize it well. It’s flowing everywhere, around me and through me. And it’s as if I’m seeing it at once from different perspectives, going inward while outward, being flat while deep: these dark plumes, a flowering deficit. It’s the lump in my throat now and then in my stomach but it’s much more than that of course like what I sense, just beyond her skin, when I touch her after hard nights like this.

My hand on her thigh and a taste in my mouth, something metallic. She presses against me and then it’s the rest again; it’s dark but I feel them, like we’re moving again. I open my eyes and see it here this time, in the trees and the ground and my hand, a pulsing or breathing. I stand, and everything seems fragile, like I need to move through it carefully. I hear a droning, but I’m not sure again. I start heading back but figure I’ll at least walk by, from the other side of the street, on the chance that I’ll see her.

And I do see her, and she sees me. She heads down the steps, passed the yard then starting across the street. She waits for a car to pass. It fills the air with light and everything seems to slow down, almost stopping entirely. She’s very bright and she’s followed by long, white trails; she’s waving at me. Then I wake up again and she’s holding me and I’m holding her back, delicately.

Her skin is pale, almost transparent. I look at her cheek, the pearl, and I imagine the needle, slowly piercing her flesh.
She kisses me. “Where were you?”
“I went for a walk.”
She closes her eyes. “It’s wonderful, isn’t it?”
I don’t see it anymore.
“Come on.” She grabs my hand and leads me back up the street, into the park again.

We lay on the grass, behind some trees. I worry that someone will see so I keep looking down the path but then I figure it doesn’t matter and I let go and just look up with her, once more at the branches. I look at her later, and she looks at me. She starts humming again.

II

I head toward the edge, as if to see the view, but what I want is a moment away from them. It hits me when I’m out of the reach of the misters. I grasp the railing then pull away quickly. I look out, at the towers and roads and haze, and I start sweating.

I sit back down.
“What did I tell you?”
I nod, sipping my beer. Then I sip it again, in disbelief that I’m here with him. 
“Will – thank you so much,” she says.
“It was nothing.”
Jonas raises his glass. “It was definitely something.”
We touch glasses; we drink.
We lean back; it sinks in.
“But seriously,” he says, “it really wasn’t much.” He puts an arm around Jonas, then her. “I’m getting some company out of it, right?”
I look at him.
He winks.

She’s looking through me, or passed me. I turn around, seeing more towers; then I face her again. She’s wearing her pearl. I’ve yet to get used to it. She catches me staring.

She looks out again. “It’s beautiful, in a way.”
They turn to her.
“It’s honest, I mean.”
Will nods, trying to look pensive. “It is, isn’t it?”
“But it’s too fucking hot,” Jonas says.
“You’ll get used to it.”
He finishes his beer. “I’ll need many of these.”
“Mo!” Will yells at the bar. “More beer, and some jack!”
“Can we do that here?”
He smiles.
I look at him.
“It’s all good, Jake. Trust me.”
“Okay.” 

We’re the only ones here; he brings our drinks quickly. He’s wearing all white and his cologne is strong. I almost taste it. He lays out the beers then the shots.

Will hands them out.
Jonas raises his first. “What do we say here, anyway?”
“Cheers!” Will answers.
We down them.
She chases hers with beer.
I wipe my mouth. “We don’t start tomorrow, do we?”
He leans back, smiling again.
I wait.
He shakes his head.
“Thank fucking god,” Jonas says.
“So when, exactly?”
“Not until they call.”
“And when will that be?”
“Could be a couple of days, or weeks.”
“But we get paid tomorrow?” she asks.
“Yes!”
We glance at each other.
He raises his hands. “Listen – there’s plenty of time for all that.” He leans over the table, grasps my shoulders and looks at me straight. “Let’s enjoy this, man!”
“Alright,” I say.
We sit there.
I eventually say “Excuse me,” and I head for the bathroom.

It’s cool and large and empty; it’s bright and polished, all the marble and brass. There’s an enormous bowl of mints. I lock the stall and sit.

I shift positions. I shake my head, thinking on how far I’ve travelled. I think on how I’ve really gone no where, I think on the stillness, then I think on how it’s worst than that yet. I close my eyes and feel it, the void I’ve created. I see her holding it and I see them smiling and I see it grasping her finger and I see them bathing together. I see her giving her breast and I see it looking at me, with gray eyes, and I think on who it could have been, what it could it have done, if it had the chance I failed to give it. I’ve wasted that chance away, along with my own, because I’m empty. I think it could’ve been better. I clench my fists and hold back yelling.

I open my eyes, breathing, and I bring myself down, finding a rhythm. But then I’m struck again, suddenly, by the same nauseating wave, the familiar recognition that it too wouldn’t have made a difference, that nothing would have, or will for that matter, and that I may as well get on with eating and drinking and fucking, here or wherever; though that’s proven rather hard. I stand and open the door and head for the sink. I run the tap and wet my face and cup water into my hands, drinking. Then I consider going back but soon return to the stall. I lock it and sit again.

Maybe there’s a way forward. No there is a way forward. There’s only a way forward because there’s no going back and there’s never resisting whatever comes next. That was my mistake, to think that I could know it all and rise above it and find some peace. It can’t be done or maybe the problem was me. Maybe I wasn’t strong enough to go far enough. I didn’t have the balls so instead I lingered and I couldn’t help fucking and neither had the balls to face the truth of that. Well I could go that way now. I could end it all and have my peace; but how would that horror leave her?

The door opens loudly.
“Jake!” Will says.
I stay quiet.
“Buddy!” He’s peeking over the door.
I look at him.
He’s beaming.
“I was feeling sick.”
“The heat does that.”
I stand.
“Let me in. I’ll fix you up.”
I open the door, trying to leave.
But he pushes me back, following after. He locks the stall behind him.
“Let me out.”
“Shut up for a second.”

He reaches into his pocket; he pulls out a baggie of what looks like coke. “What the fuck?” I ask, but he just says “Shut up” again. He carefully pours a bump on his hand; he snorts it fast. He taps out another. Then he offers it but I shake my head. “Come on,” he says, but I shake my head again. He does it himself. He licks his pinkie, pokes around in the baggie then rubs it on his gums, inside his mouth.

I step out. “What the fuck?”
He flushes the toilet. “Easy.”
“I know that’s trouble here.”
“If you’re not careful.”
I look at him.
“We’re alright. Trust me.”
I keep staring.
He runs the tap, wets his face and his hair. His eyes open wide.
I start for the door.
“It’s all good, Jake!”

She’s laughing again. It’s something Jonas is saying. He’s smoking a cigarette, leaving trails with his hand. They look at me as I near them.

“Hey,” he says.
“Hey,” I say back.
She’s smiling, awkwardly.
“Maybe we should go inside, or settle up.”
“It’s already done,” she says. “Will covered it.”
I nod, sipping my beer.
They sip theirs as well.
I look at her. “You want to head back?”
She shakes her head. “Dune bashing.”
“What?”
“Will’s taking us.”
“Where?”
She looks passed me again.
“Alright!”

He pats my back hard; he squeezes. He’s wearing sunglasses now. I see myself in them, looking at him. I turn away, waiting for something else to happen.

He exhales, loudly. “You all ready?”
“Yes,” she answers.

We sit in the lobby while Will paces, arranging a ride from his phone. The couch is strangely angular and long and with the several others around it’s hard to imagine enough people here to need them. The ceiling’s also high, it must be five stories, and there are white banners hanging throughout. Will raises his thumb, to reassure us, I guess. “It’s time!” he eventually says, waving us out.

We’re ushered out through a terrible heat and into the back of a white hummer where it’s perfectly cool again, the air blasting. Will settles into the front; he points to the driver and says “We’re in good hands!” The driver turns to us, smiling and nodding, before turning back and starting out.

It’s quiet, as we mostly look around, at first, and Jonas falls asleep, his head falling on my shoulder, and Will eventually turns around, looking eager to chat. But he just smiles for a moment and thankfully turns back around, I guess realizing that Jonas is out, that she’s occupied by the view and remembering I’m not a talker.

The towers get shorter, the roads emptier; the city’s soon behind us. It’s very bright so the already bland desert looks saturated, wholly featureless, yet she keeps staring. I close my eyes and picture her grieving instead. I picture her in black, as she usually is, and I picture her glassy eyes, like black pools themselves. She also sees it, that crushing sum of pain, I often made sure of that, the dick that I am, but the difference of course is that she somehow bears it, or faces it in fact, and I picture her again, heroically doing just that. I picture her with them, finally unburdened of me, perhaps even happy.

There’s darkness and almost quiet now, just wheels on the road and steady breathing. But then very slowly I feel something else building. I pay it little mind until it forms into something, I strain to make it out, but I eventually see smooth skin, movement, then I realize it’s her hands reaching up, others reaching with them. They move down, touching her shoulders, her chest, her neck and she laughs, and it echoes and the echo echoes itself and that itself is echoed until the sound is unified. And now she’s fucking and the strange sound is her yelling and there’s joy in it but there’s more in it; there’s sorrow and anger and more beyond that. I open my eyes, looking outside, and we drive on for another long while.

We eventually turn onto a sandy road and continue on that until it disappears entirely, turning into a flat stretch with dunes further ahead. The doors lock. The driver starts music; it’s jarring and throbbing. Then he looks at Will, who nods, before looking back and smiling again.

Jonas sits up, starts looking around.
We accelerate and are pressed back hard.
“Whoa!” he says.

We quickly reach the top of one of the dunes then drop much steeper than I expect. Jonas squeezes my leg and there’s a lightness in my gut as we start down and pick up even more speed as the wheels catch hold and we level out and continue accelerating. 

Jonas shrieks.

Then we turn hard and I’m pressed against the door and you can hear the sand lashing the car and we turn the other way and I hold on trying hard not to press into Jonas too much. Will looks back at us and smiles again then we start ascending the next dune and there’s the lightness once more but it’s more significant this time as we seem to catch some air before landing really hard, jolting forward.

We level out again.

Now we’re on course for a much shorter dune and it’s soon right ahead and I brace myself despite the size but we just blast right through it parting sand either way. I glance around and we’re all just holding on and I can’t tell if anyone’s enjoying themselves except for Jonas who keeps laughing and shrieking with this look on his face. Then I notice that we’re speeding toward a very big and steep one this time and we hold on as we climb up the face of it, going almost vertical before the driver shifts into reverse and rolls us back fast and around and starts heading in the other direction.

We start ascending again, gradually this time, and it’s a welcome break as we begin speeding along a crest and start gaining some height and can see the expanse of it all in front of us. I glance at them again as they’re looking around and I look around too and it’s nice for a second.

Then we drop off and start accelerating steadily and I make out what we’re careening toward, a group of nicely aligned hills ahead, perfectly shaped for this. And by now we know what’s coming so we brace ourselves better, holding on to the roof handles and the seats in front of us and straining our bodies to hold firm and tight. Will starts laughing hard once we’re almost there then he lets out a yell of some kind and it feels like we’re almost entirely weightless and everyone gets quiet, trying to figure out what’s next.

We land terribly hard and I see that Will isn’t laughing anymore and the rest are also stunned. Then we realize that the next one is coming up quick so we do our best to hold on again but we’re still not ready as we get even higher and slam down hard again and my head hits the seat ahead. And at that I begin to worry as I imagine must be the case for the rest but I press my feet on the floor as we approach the next one and somehow I manage to ready myself better and it’s a bit less shocking to come down again but it certainly isn’t pleasant.

And after that we keep going and the terrible song transitions into another just as terrible and we begin to ascend another hill then start descending toward another group of hills and realize that this is going to go on like this for a while so we just do our best to deal with the circumstance. I hold on and tighten up better and shift my weight and all the while I’m quiet as is everyone else and on reflecting on that in one of the few moments of rest I find it surprising that the driver hasn’t figured out that we’d all welcome this ending. In fact he keeps on, for a much longer time than I expect, and by the time he begins slowing down we all seem to have bearing the situation figured out but of course that isn’t much to celebrate.

We slow down; then stop. The driver turns around, smiling, and we turn to each other, waiting for someone to first show relief, or for something else to happen. Well soon enough we start worrying again as he turns back and starts accelerating again, toward the largest one yet, and I glance at the rest as they start worrying too, as we begin ascending it and brace ourselves for what’s next. But then we get to what appears to be the highest point and we stop and the driver turns and smiles again.

He shuts off the engine. The music stops and the doors unlock and we get out quickly. I pace back and forth a few times, loosening after all the tensing. She’s doing the same, stretching, while Will’s explaining something to Jonas, pointing in the distance. I look around, not seeing the driver. I spot him walking up, buttoning his pants.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Will asks me, his shirt off now, wrapped around his head. He suddenly strides and leaps off the edge. I approach it to see, along with the others. He’s bounding down the face of the dune, his feet sinking as they strike it. He eventually loses his balance, rolling and yelling.

Jonas starts after him. She rolls her pants up, well over her knees. Then she pauses before taking her top off, only wearing a sports bra. She jumps down, laughing.

I look at the driver.
He smiles, gesturing that I should follow.
I shake my head, just looking down again.

She reaches the bottom and joins them, laying in the sand, their hands behind their heads. It doesn’t seem right to keep looking so I turn back to the driver, who’s in his seat, reclined in sunglasses, with his window down and the right idea now. I take the passenger side; I open my window as well. 

The sun’s gentler, now approaching the horizon. It’s still very hot but much less oppressive and the dunes look different, their shadows casting shapes, curving and flowing, and the harshness of the light gone, a rose glow to it.

I close my eyes again, trying to imagine the perfection, the absolute peace, of a tragic exit. I’m tempted by more questioning, of what would be lost, what would be gained, and whether would it mean anything, but I hold back a titter and remind myself that it doesn’t matter, because I won’t be around to care anymore, and it truly will be perfect: silent.

My chest tenses up so I open my eyes and I stare out, focusing on the shimmer. I have to rub my eyes after a while. I look out again, without fixing on anything, only seeing periphery.

I hear them coming back; they’re laughing. I spot Will coming up, but then he drops down again. And then it’s Jonas that appears, trying to swat someone’s hand, before he falls forward as they pull him by the ankle. He squeals, grasping the sand as he’s dragged, and in the midst of it all she makes it up. She stands tall and flexes.

The driver leaves the car and I do as well, though I’m not sure why, exactly, as I can’t think of anything to do besides just standing there, watching them gather themselves. They catch their breaths. The driver opens a cooler in the back, hands us water and sandwiches. The sandwich isn’t bad, with hummus and tomatoes and something else. We lean against the car, eating and drinking, the sun beginning to set.

“This is fucking it,” Jonas says.
“Yeah,” she says back.

The car starts once we’re settled. We head over the edge, a little fast, but then we continue steadily this time, everyone quiet. The air blasts again, and it gets cool fast.

We reach the highway; we accelerate smoothly. I cross my arms and rest my head back. I try shutting my eyes but can’t help opening them again. I eventually spot the buildings, still far away, some of them blending into the haze, now an unreal violet. The lights are coming on, some seeming to flicker.

She brings her window down. She leaves it that way, despite the loud air, which doesn’t seem to bother Jonas, who’s asleep again. Then the driver also opens his window, and Will does too, so I bring mine down as well. The driver turns the air off. He plays some music, not too loud this time, something slow and traditional, and Will turns to us, smiles, then turns back. I shift in my seat, trying not to wake Jonas. I breathe in the air and it feels like nothing, neither cool nor warm now.

By the time we’re back the sky’s dark, the city’s bright, and once we’re well within it I see how the light is manifold, with almost everything illuminated, not just roads and towers but paths and palms and canals. And the sound of our driving is different, sounding much like it all feels, strangely resonant. I raise my hand slightly, feeling the air pass over it, through it.

The driver eventually turns into an underground lot, passed a door that closes behind us. The air’s suddenly cooler. There are plenty of places to park; it’s almost empty. We gather ourselves and when we close our doors the sound echoes far.

He claps loudly. “Alright!”
“Thanks again, Will,” she says.
“This is just the beginning!”

He holds the elevator while the rest of us enter. He presses a button. We start to ascend. Then he puts his arm around me, then her and Jonas, and he waves for the driver to come in as well. He doesn’t say anything, and neither do we. He brings us in, even closer, and I hear him breathing. The door thankfully opens.

There are attendants waiting for us, a woman and man. They greet us, nodding and smiling. Then they direct us through another large lobby that reaches high and narrows to a point, a circular light. There are also four silver spires, jutting tall and toward it.

The attendants press the button for another set of elevators. They hand us key cards, noting our rooms, and explain, still smiling, that our luggage is waiting. They also press the buttons inside then wave, together with the driver, as the door closes.

Our floor comes first.
She turns. “We’ll call you in the morning?”
“For sure,” Will says.
Jonas holds the door. “Are we not doing drinks later?”
She looks at me.
“I think we’re alright.”
“I’m down,” Will says.
Jonas stops the door again.
She looks at them; then at me again. “We’ll call you in a bit.”
“I’ll be waiting,” Jonas says, letting the door close finally.

We start down the hall. It’s very long, the carpet’s soft, and I glance at the many doors as we walk by, wondering if anyone’s behind them.

She enters our room.
I touch her back.
She keeps walking.

It’s large, arranged like any other hotel room, but with the focus on the view of course. I open one of the water bottles waiting on the counter. I sip and look out, seeing the brightness all together now. I glance at her, going through her things. Then I look out again.

“It’s strange here.”
“Yeah,” she says.
I wait. “Do you want to shower first?”
She nods, taking her clothes off, passing me.
I sit on the couch, finishing my water.
She runs the shower.
“I’m stepping out.”
I guess she doesn’t hear me.

I start down the hall again, taking my time. I think I hear a laugh from behind one of the doors. I pause to hear more, but there’s nothing, so I continue to the elevators. I don’t wait long for one. I press the top button.

I enter a small room, enclosed with a dome of glass, and I head for the door at the end. It leads outside to a brightly lit pool, shining still and flat and flowing over the edge gently. There’s strangely no wind.

I spot towels arranged on a rack. I look around. I look around again. Then I take a towel and take off my clothes and I step into the pool, which is warm, and I leave the towel on the deck. I wade out, making my way to the end. The lights are everywhere, stretching far and high and glistening, and there are also of sounds coming from below, sounding like they are glistening, too.

I close my eyes, trying to picture what’s next, but nothing comes this time. There’s only black and, after a while, some pulsing fields of colour. I open my eyes and everything looks the same, like it did a moment ago. I place my arms on the edge and push myself up, to get a look down, and I’m surprised by the drop, the way along the smooth face of the tower. I push back, feeling a lightness, and it lingers for a while, before turning into a draw. My hands tremble and I clench my fists, resisting. Then I resist the resisting.

I eventually wade back and dry off. I put my clothes on and head inside and the cool air hits me, a bit abrasive. I take the elevator to my floor and return to my room, finding it quiet and dark, and I think for a moment that she’s left, but then I see her in bed, still and turned to the window. I consider going to her but I hold myself back, not wanting to go back, wanting instead to go forward.

I grab my pack and quietly close the door behind me, my hand trembling again. I take the elevator downstairs. I stop by the desk, leaving my key card, and they offer to help with my pack but I tell them I’m fine. I get into one of the cars; the driver closes the door behind me.

I open my window.
“Where are you going, sir?”
“I don’t know.”
He turns around.
I’m tired. “Do you know another hotel like this?”
It takes him a moment. “There are many.”
I don’t make it any easier.
“Perhaps the Rayhaan?”
“Let’s do that.”
He turns back around. “Yes, sir.”
“It’s not too far, is it?”
“No – not that far, sir.”
“Okay.”

We accelerate. I look at the water, which is on my side this time, and I cross my arms, my eyes welling up now. I wipe them as we take the ramp onto the highway. I can feel the water but the air seems too loud this time so I push the button again, closing my window.

•

I turn, trying to get comfortable. I sit up after a while, jet lagged, I guess. There’s faint light breaking through the curtains. I turn on the lamp and look around and consider the strangeness of being here again. I get up and into the shower.

I close my eyes and face down, letting water stream through my hair, around my head, but I can’t get into it. I can’t seem to relax so I step back, opening my eyes. I brush my teeth and scrub myself clean and wonder what I’ll do with the day. Nothing comes to mind but, whatever it is, I should get on with it.

I watch the screen in the elevator. It’s showing a rendering of what I guess is this building. The perspective circles and rises and broadens until it’s wide enough for a line to be drawn, vertically, showing an impressive height. The view continues to pan out, everything but the outline vanishes, then shapes of other towers appear, one after the other, comparing their size. There’s a shot of the building at night now, sped up so the traffic streaks in trails of light.

The dining room’s open. There are many tables, all of them empty but all of them set, a newspaper at each. I look around, at the tapestries on the walls, very large and intricately patterned, then at the chandeliers above, quite modern, geometric. A pair make their way toward me, quickly, from the other end of the room, the first holding a menu and another behind him with a tray held high.

“Welcome, sir.” He places the menu down.
“Thank you.”
“Coffee? Fresh orange juice?”
I nod.
The other places the tray down. He serves juice, then coffee, while the other watches.
“Milk, cream or sugar?”
I shake my head.
“Thank you, sir. I will return for your order.” And at that they start away, toward where they came from, as quickly as they came.

I look at the menu. I settle on three poached eggs on toasted rye with olive tapenade and pomegranate and rocket. I sip my coffee then, as I’m putting it down, I turn to find them beside me again. I point to my choice and he says it’s excellent. He sets off again, followed by the other, and it’s all a bit comic, or tragic, really.

I open the newspaper and turn a few pages, but then I can’t help but stand. I look around, wondering why I’m still here. I should immediately leave. I should head to the airport and start my way back but then I consider what’s back there exactly. I sit back down, thinking on this absurd place, the terrible cost, but then I resist. I wonder instead what she’ll think, what she’ll tell them, when she realizes I’m gone, but I resist that as well. I struggle to swallow so I drink some juice and remind myself that I need to face it and suppose I should just do that here. There may be no where worse, and for that reason better.

I breathe, looking at the newspaper again. I let my eyes settle on something, anything; it doesn’t matter. I read about extra charges at the airport, for baggage requiring manual handling. Then I move on to a piece about the sentencing of two men to 517 years in jail each, the culmination of a human trafficking case, and another about a conference where a solar-powered mobile control room was among innovations demonstrated by the Dubai Police.

I try to continue, but then I don’t have to. They serve my order; they refill my coffee. I look at my food, arranged very nicely, and I open my napkin and place it on my lap. I sip my coffee and look at my food again. I arrange a bite, trying to get some of everything. It’s very good, but I’m not really hungry.

I pause for a moment. I turn the page of the newspaper, trying that again. I read about plans to build the world’s largest theme park, occupying over a million square feet of indoor space. I carry on and look at a two page spread advertising the Dubai Dessert Classic, showing a golfer in full swing with a stretch of green ahead of him, the city beyond that. I breathe again. I notice them approaching.

“Is everything to your liking, sir?”
“It’s all very good – thank you.”
He nods. “Is there anything else that would please you?”
I shake my head. “I’m fine – thank you again.”
He bows slightly, backing away.

I close my newspaper. I eat a bit more and I drink more juice. I just sit for a while. I take another bite then I wipe my mouth and stand.

They approach again.
“Everything was great – thank you.”
He clasps his hands, smiling. “Of course, sir. It is our pleasure.”

I see that it’s lighter outside, though still bluish-gray, walking by the large glass wall framing the hotel entrance. The doors are very large, glass themselves, and there’s gold thread inside, looking like veins or cracks. Someone is waiting at the elevator.

She presses the button.
“Thanks.”
“Did you enjoy your breakfast, sir?”
“Yes.”
She smiles; the elevator opens.
I walk in; then I hold the door. “Is there anything on the top floor?”
“The bar, sir – but it is not yet open.”
“Okay.”

She enters the elevator. “It is not a problem, sir. I will accompany you, if you would like to see the view.”

“I don’t want to trouble you.”
“Not at all.” She smiles again.

We’re quiet. The screen is showing windsurfers now. It eventually cuts to the video about the tower again. I avoid looking at her, looking straight at the brass door, my distorted reflection in it. The door opens.

The space is broad and circular, radiating out from an elevated bar at the center and with tables scattered widely and asymmetrically so I guess each has the clearest line of sight possible downward through large windows all around. I look to what must be the eastern side, where the haze is beginning to glow, a diffuse band of red splitting a grayish void.

I seem to have startled someone. They get up from a table, lifting a large pile of napkins. She says something to him, I can’t make out what, and he hurries away behind a wood-paneled barrier.

“I am sorry, sir – this is not a preparation area.”
“It’s alright.”
“You are very kind.” She opens her hand, gestures to the view.
A few of the towers are breaking through, clouds meander between them, but otherwise it’s very unclear.
“Please – you may sit, sir.”
I pull out a chair.
“May I serve you coffee, or tea?”
“No, thanks.”
“Perhaps some water?”
“Okay.” I sit down; I look out again.

The band of light widens, the haze slowly brightens. She serves me a glass of water, wrapped neatly with a napkin. “Thank you,” I say, taking a sip, and she just nods this time, I guess to avoid a break in the quiet. I turn back to the view. It eventually starts to blend together, after a while becoming a uniform orange.

“It is wondrous,” she says. She’s been standing behind me.
I look around the room; it’s filled with light now. “You can sit, too, if you’d like.”
“No, sir.” She keeps looking out. “I will go, but please take your time. I have asked that my colleague attend to you, should you desire anything.” She points.
He’s standing near the bar, the one I startled. He nods, and I see that there’s some kind of growth on his face.
I turn to her. “Thanks, again.”
She bows. “It is our pleasure.”

I squint. The towers emerge more clearly, now dark against the brightness. I suppose it’s impressive, that they were built where there was nothing. No – it’s impressive that they were built where there was mostly death, or that they were built of death, rather. They are built of that vital gore, thick and black, the invisible accumulation of violence harnessed to thrust these empty monuments high, higher than the last, for the pride of some dick.

I shake my head, focusing. Well, I guess it’s necessary; I mean, how else to keep this all going, this flowing, then to feed it with oil or blood or words or some more essential matter. I roll my eyes, finishing my water, and I figure that I need to keep moving. I eventually stand and wave to the other and make my way to the elevator.

There are cars lined up outside; one soon approaches. The driver comes out to open the door. “Thank you,” I say, and he smiles, also closing the door behind me. He blasts the air then turns to me, waiting, I realize, for a destination. I think of the water so I tell him to take me to “a beach; any beach, it doesn’t matter,” and he starts out quickly. We accelerate as we ascend a ramp, merging onto a highway.

There is much to look at, but what I notice above all is row of high barriers. I get a look over it, into an immense opening in the ground, very deep, probably a footing for a new tower. There are many people in it, working it seems, though we’re too far to see what they’re doing exactly. I guess they work now, and maybe even at night, because it’s too hot otherwise. I look away. It's all soon behind us and I make out the sea, flickering gold.

There’s water in the holder. I hold it up, in view of his mirror. “Is this for me?”
“Yes, my friend.”
I open it and drink.

We descend a ramp and are soon on a street again. We slow down, turning through a bend that straightens along a shaded row of buildings before opening to the beach eventually. We come to a stop and the driver comes out with me. I give him my card and we sort that out and he smiles and says “Thank you.”

The beach is quiet and empty, going far in each direction. I start walking and soon take my shoes off and feel the cool sand. I stop after a bit, looking around, thinking on whether I should go on, but I shake off that questioning. I look ahead, at the largest of the towers, looking different than the rest, like a sail on the water, and I continue toward that.

I keep my head down, mostly. I settle into a brisk pace, listening to the sound of the water, ebbing and flowing, but then I start sweating and feeling tired pushing through the sand so I find a more comfortable rhythm, settling into that. I pass through rows of beach chairs. Then I’m back in the open. I eventually stop and look around, and though it feels that some time has passed, I realize I haven’t made it far at all; I start on again.

I reach more beach chairs. I lay down this time, and close my eyes, but I still can’t relax. I sit up after a while, looking at the tower ahead, thinking on it’s shape, the way it seems propelled by wind. I turn away and sit for a while. I can’t help looking again.

Someone says something.
I look at him, my eyes adjusting. He’s dark against the haze.
“It is two-hundred dirham for the day.”
I wait.
“For the chair and umbrella.”
“Okay.” I give him my card.
“Thank you, sir.” He’s wearing white, tinted sunglasses; he waves to someone.
They arrive quickly. They hand me a towel and open my umbrella.
“Would you like some water, sir?”
“Sure.”
He hands it to me; it’s very cold.
“Thank you.”
He nods, returning my card.
I sit up and drink, feeling it fast getting hotter, even from under the umbrella, so I figure it best that I start heading back.

I finish my water; I keep my head down. I try to move quickly and immediately start sweating again. I slow down, as I did before, finding a more comfortable pace, but then I see that the haze is clearing as the sun is strengthening and figure that without any sunscreen and any more water I should really get inside as soon as I can.

I lengthen my strides. I pass the chairs and it keeps getting hotter so I speed up, looking ahead this time, toward the lot where I started, empty but for a single car, the one that brought me here. I wave and fearing it may leave I break into a jog and stumble but regain my footing and I continue on and wave again. I reach the lot. I wave once more, as I’m nearing the car, and the driver gets out. He opens the door and I quickly enter.

I help myself to another water. The air conditioning’s nice but it starts to feel cold, my shirt wet. I open my window, as we get back on the highway, and the warm air helps. The driver plays music, some dull classical, and I see the tower site again. I wonder if the many I saw there are still there, working in this heat, but it’s much less visible from this direction. It’s not long until we’re back at the hotel; I tip the driver well.

The screen in the elevator is showing a news report now, about some European royalty visiting; they’re welcomed by other important people and later spotted at the Dubai mall. I head down the hall and back into my room then I take off my clothes and head into the shower.

I dry off and look outside. The view’s clearer now, the dunes in the distance. I look in the fridge and find a chocolate bar. I eat it on the couch and consider ordering food but then I decide that I may as well head out again, carried on, it feels, by some momentum.

The mall doors slide open. It’s airy and cool inside, and the lobby is enormous and round, with several floors visible above and palms planted evenly throughout and coffee tables set up beside many of them. There are people here though they’re spread out sparsely, sitting at the tables or standing around or just walking through the expanse of it all.

I head down a hall, onto a moving walkway, the kind you find in airports, and it takes me to another lobby, smaller but no less impressive. There’s a large blue cube in the center, an aquarium of fish swimming together, and it seems to be floating, with no suspension. There are people gathered and watching; a child calls out, I think in German. I make my way out, finding room through the crowd, and I start down another moving walkway, going in another direction.

I eventually stop, letting it carry me. I focus on sounds, of people talking and moving but there’s also something else; it sounds like static. There are more people at the opening ahead, and I get near enough to realize that they’re looking up a waterfall, and that’s what I’m hearing.

I look up as well. There are many sculptures, all the same and evenly spaced, along the height of the waterfall, of men diving down with their arms stretched wide. There’s a movement to them, with the water running behind them, and there’s sunlight shining, from windows above us, reflecting against their metallic bodies. I keep staring. I think on the glory of it again and then I look up, at the brightness through the window, and I feel suddenly lifted but that doesn’t last because I quickly recall my impotence, my failure.

I start down another walkway, through another long hall, but I get off mid way this time, finding a bench beside a bathroom. I sit there for a long while, and eventually there is some kind of announcement, what I soon realize is a call to prayer. I look at the people around; a few are hurrying. I think of leaving but then I stay as the singing begins, plaintive, calling out to something, or nothing, and I suddenly feel the pain welling up, through my chest and my throat then filling my head. I lean forward, holding my face in my hands. The singing abruptly stops, echoing.

I wipe my eyes and stand. I don’t know where I am but I figure if I keep going, I’ll eventually reach an exit, and something after. I soon find the doors and I’m struck by the heat again, but a car appears fast and the driver comes out to greet me. “Thanks,” I say, settling into the back.

“What else is around here?”
He smiles. “There is much, friend.”
I wait.
He thinks. “Perhaps you will enjoy The Green Planet?”
“What?”
He pauses. “It is like a zoo.”
“Okay.” I strap in. “Take me there.”

The building is strange, a glass cylinder framed with angled white panels. I approach it as my ride drives away, but then I realize I don’t see any doors, and I hurry around the building, figuring he dropped me off in the back, hoping he did and this isn’t some joke and that I’ll soon be inside, safe from the heat again. I find the entrance.

It’s humid inside. It feels very alive; there are sounds of birds, children laughing. I hand my card to an attendant and he soon gives it back with a ticket and map. Then he says something, I’m not what sure what, to introduce a room he leads me to, dark and smelling like earth and the walls embedded with many clear chambers. He leaves me as I begin looking in each of them, finding a variety of insects, centipedes, something that’s very good at blending into its surroundings, looking like a stick, and a horde of ants covering something once living.

I find stairs. I make my way up, climbing a few stories, and I come out to a rope bridge that converges with others to a transparent platform in the center, overlooking canopy. I reach the platform and walk along the edge, looking around. There’s an impressive variety of trees, colorful plants, some birds darting around. And there are people below, making their way along paths. I breathe in the air and decide to move on and continue across another bridge and head downstairs.

I walk along the paths. I sit on a bench, look up at some palms. I close my eyes and breathe again, more slowly and deeply, and the sound around me fades, disappearing eventually.

I see some kind of surface, parts in light, others in shadow, a sloping field seen from above, a moving along it. A texture emerges, next slowly colour, a very deep green; then I know I’m seeing a spanning forest, hills and valleys, endlessly rolling, and strange fissures, no rivers, some splitting then joining. I’m very high, and I’m struck by the scale, as well as the quiet. I breathe once more and take it in, the peace of it all, and a horizon rushes forward, impossibly blue.

The ride back to the hotel is quick. The car turns and stops in front of the entrance. My door opens; there are smiles and hands. Then I give the driver my card, sorting that out, and there are more smiles and hands as I head into the building and across the empty lobby and into the elevator, an open door waiting.

The video about the tower is playing again, though it finishes and another begins, showing horses careening down a track this time, kicking up sand. I walk down the hall and enter my room and start brewing coffee then sit down and wait, listening to the percolating, until the machine beeps. I find a cup and pour myself coffee and stand and sip. I head to the windows and back. That turns into pacing. I sit down. Then I stand and pace again.

I sit and open my laptop and start browsing. I read about transcontinental wiring, set deep in the ocean to connect us like never before, and next about a financial recession precipitated by the deregulated trading of derivatives. Then I watch a long video that someone took in the eighties of the inside of a 7-11 near Disneyland in Orlando.

I stand, pacing a bit more. I pour myself more coffee and take in the view again, bright like before, and I pick up the phone then put it back down. I sit again and do nothing but that for about twenty minutes. Then I go to the bathroom and sit on the toilet for about the same time. I sit at my computer again. I sip coffee. I breathe. I sip and breathe again.

I write.

•

I wake-up early and brew some coffee and always sip and look out, at the towers and sprawl, before I start writing.

But I fix on an e-mail this time. I read it over. There are no instructions, only an address and time and a note that I’ll be providing “one hour, conversational practice.” I don’t think much of it, just that it took several weeks. I figure I’ll go about my day a bit differently.

I feel a lightness as we accelerate up the ramp. I look outside as we pass cars, as cars pass us, as we pass the construction area. I get a look inside, seeing the foundation laid already.

We eventually reach a neighbourhood, the first I’ve seen here, I guess an imitation of a California suburb, with beige stucco houses and terra cotta shingles. The driver slows down, searching for the number, and then he stops.

The house is unlike the others, much larger, both wider and taller, and designed as a stack of layers, all varying lengths, none of them aligned, of concrete and wood and glass, and cascading flowers.

I ring the bell.
The door opens, a woman behind it.
“Hello.”
It seems, from her eyes, that she’s smiling; she steps aside, showing me in.
“Welcome,” a man says.
I turn.
“I am Assad; I am pleased to meet you.”
“I’m Jacob.”
He nods.
I nod back.

I offer my hand, and he grasps it gently. His eyes are fair. His hair and beard are white, like his robe, and he’s tall and thin. I look around. The woman has left us. “Shall we?” he says, raising a hand to the stairs. We start up together. 

“How are you enjoying Dubai?”
I consider an answer. “It’s interesting.”
He joins his hands behind his back. “It is at once beautiful, strange and problematic.”
I leave it at that.

He leads me to a room, with a carpet and cushions and many plants. There are large photographs framed on the walls. They’re black and white and appear to be of bodies, of flesh and of curves, but they’re focused in a way that you can’t tell exactly. They may be of dunes.

“Please,” he says.
I sit, crossing my legs. 
“Tea?” he asks.
I didn’t notice the woman return, now kneeling beside me and holding a tray.
“Thank you.”
She pours me one.
“How have you found the heat?”
“I try to stay out of it.”
She shuffles forward, pours one for him.
He nods. “It is repulsive.”
She stands and bows slightly.
“Thank you,” I say again.
“You are welcome,” he says back.

He sips his tea; then he sips again. He looks at me and I glance away, not sure how to start. He places his glass down. He clasps his hands, staring down for a moment. Then he looks at me straight again.

“What shall we discuss, Jacob?”
I lift my glass.
He waits.
I sip, realizing I should’ve prepared. “I’m sorry.”
He raises his hand. “I will choose a topic, and it will be my pleasure.”
I nod.
He seems to think hard.
“Your english is very good.”
“Thank you.” He smiles. “That is kind of you to say.”

He pulls his sleeves up. There’s light coming through a window, shining on his face. He lifts his glass, sips again.

“Perhaps it would be fitting, if we started with you.”
I tilt my head slightly.
“Excuse me; I must be more precise.” He pauses. “I understand it is customary, or polite, to show interest in a person one meets.”
I reluctantly tell him “That’s right.”
He nods. “I will express it differently.” He sips. “Do you have a family, Jacob?”
I shake my head.
He waits again.
“That’s a good way to start, but we can move on.”
Now he tilts his head.
I look down. “The context allows it.”
“Yes – the context. I understand.”

I look around for the time. I turn my glass. Then I find him looking up, thinking hard again. He just sits that way, for an awkwardly long while, every while sipping, before he suddenly he leans in.

“Jacob – I understand your country is blessed with natural beauty.”
“Yes – we are very fortunate.”
He nods.
I take another sip.
“I once lost a bid on a wonderful painting of your mountains. It bothers me to this day.” He strokes his beard, ridiculously. “There was a subtle, almost spiritual abstraction to it.”
I turn my glass again.
“Do you live near the mountains, Jacob?”
I shake my head. “Those are out west; I’m in the east.”
“I see. Is it also beautiful there?”
“We have lakes.”
He pauses. “The Great Lakes?”
I nod.
He eyes widen slightly. “I know of them.”

I shift positions. He finishes his tea, places his glass down. He shuffles forward, pours me more; he shuffles back, pours for himself.

“Jacob – would you say that we are similarly blessed?”
It takes me a moment. “Well, you have the desert.”
He smiles. “That we have, and I suppose there is a beauty to it – yes.” Another pause. “But how would you describe it? It is an unusual beauty, after all.”
I sit a bit straighter.
He waits.
I remind myself that he’s paying for this. “It’s very quiet.”
He smiles again, now showing bright teeth.

He sips his tea. Then he sits there, waiting again. The moment stretches on. I begin to panic, and I search for something to say, taking what I guess is my queue, to fill the silence growing quickly.

“We have a cottage on Lake Huron – my family does.”
He leans in again.
“I live on one of the Great Lakes.”
He sits up. “Jacob – I understand these lakes are so large, that they are mistaken for oceans.”
I picture it. “It would depend on where you’re looking from; but yes, I guess they can appear that way.”
He slaps his knee. “I must see them one day.”

I steady my breathing, trying hard to hide my irritation. I rub my legs and stop. I raise my glass and hold it, like him, but then I figure that’s also telling. I feel a bit sick.

“Assad – I’m sorry. I don’t think I’m helping.”
He puts his glass down, places his hands on his legs.
“You’re obviously fluent enough for – a more natural situation.”
He bows slightly. “You are very kind.”
I look down again.
“Jacob – are you unhappy with your pay?”
“No – that’s not it.”
“Has someone made you a better offer?”
I shake my head.
“Well I too am satisfied, so it appears that our arrangement is perfectly natural.” He raises his glass and stops, drifting into thought again.  
I wait for something else.
But he leaves me with that.
“Okay.” I focus, straightening again. “May just I use your bathroom?”
“Of course.” He raises his hand to the door. “I assume our time is paused?”
“Yes.”

The bathroom is bright. The wall behind the tub is entirely glass, looking out to a lush, colorful garden, and there many ceiling lights, also an illuminated band framing the mirrored cabinet. I lean on the sink, breathing again. Then I look at myself, seeing hairs and pores that I’ve never seen before, before sitting on the toilet.

I wonder if she also put up with him. Well if she has I doubt she fussed about it. I abruptly stand and shake it off, recognizing that this was bound to happen, that this is what I’ve wanted, in fact. I’ve had plenty of days to write in that tower, in the middle of a desert, eating whatever I want, eating fucking sushi. It’s certainly time that they called to collect, that I faced it head on, if that’s what this is.

I sit again. What this is a very good deal. I think on my cool room. I think on the view. Then I think on the burden of others, to make what I’ve made, just this month, for one fucking hour. I shake my head. This is more than a deal. It’s some kind of horrible miracle, or perhaps it’s a joke. I should get on with it, in any case.

He’s standing at the other side of the room, along the wall. He presses his hand against one of the large photographs, causing it to open, revealing a cavity with dramatically lit shelves and an impressive set of bottles and glasses.

“Do you like whiskey?”
I hesitate.
“It is alright. I promise you.”
“I’m okay – but thank you. I would like to focus on our conversation.”
“And we will.” He pours one. “But first you must try this.”
“No – but thank you again.”
“Okay,” he says. “I will pour you a small one.” He prepares another. Then he hands it to me, smiling again.

We touch glasses. He takes a sip and I follow his lead. It’s very good. He sits, placing his glass down, and I do the same. There’s a bowl of dates in front of us now, looking moist and fleshy.

“Please. You must try one.”
I stare.
“I insist.” He picks up the bowl, offers it forward.
So I try one, finding it very good as well.
“They are from Israel.”
I nod, chewing.

Then I focus on earning my way through this. I think on a subject, on something to talk about, but just as a thought forms, it slips away fast.

“The date was very good. Thank you.” I raise my drink.
He touches my glass. “And the whiskey?”
“It’s also excellent.”
“A gift from another teacher.”
“That was very nice of them.”
“Yes – though she also enjoyed her fair share of it.”
I look at him, sipping.
“Jacob – I pity the African-American.”
I cough. “Sorry?”
“Their history is the worst of tragedies, would you not say?”
I wipe my mouth. I take a moment, swallowing. “It’s certainly among the worst.”
He nods, stroking his beard again.

He stands. He walks back to the wall. Then he presses another photograph. It opens up as well, this time revealing a player and a collection of records. He reaches into a pocket, puts on reading glasses. He fingers through the records and eventually pulls one out, holding it ahead.

He looks at me, grinning. “Blues Number One.”
I nod.
“Loren Connors.”
“I don’t know that one.”

He sets the record, carefully. The scratch is still loud, the needle touching down; then suddenly there is more sound, seeming to come from all around, I’m unsure from where exactly, and it saturates the room, filling its volume. He walks back amid the strum of a reverberated electric guitar, a sustained note, warping and droning, now a trail of others descending. He sits back down, he raises his glass, and I reluctantly cheers him again.

I sip as he looks upward again, pondering, and I guess it’ll be easier this way. It’s better than speaking, or listening to him, so I try to just listen, as he’s just listening, following the notes following each other, my grasp of the melody following just behind. And then I listen more intently, being consistently surprised by the sequence, drifting and falling, realizing that what we’re listening to is extraordinary, sounding at once purposeless and right, like water falling gently.

I look at him. He subtly nods, with pride. Then I look around, trying to find the source of the music. I focus on the ceiling, noticing a faint perforation that I suppose is channeling sound from concealed speakers. And there’s also the bass, a subtle even rumbling, which I soon realize must be coming from beneath me. My irritation returns, stronger now, and it gets worse with every note, with the pauses in between them. And that it turns out is the worst of all yet, the sound of each rest, a faint muffled hissing. I figure at first that it’s just a bad record, but then it feels that it should be that way, that the noise is meaningful, that it’s beautiful, even.

I sip my drink. I breathe deep, and I avoid looking at him, staring at my glass. The song eventually ends, quite abruptly, with a final resonant strum that hangs long in the air. I glance at him, seeing that his eyes are closed, and I stare at him as he keeps them closed, as he points a remote to shut off the player.

His eyes open. “Sublime.”
I nod.
“And an unusual expression of the blues.” He raises a finger, pausing for a moment. “The pain sounded unusually distant, or far in the past, as if we were hearing a mere echo of it – would you not say?”
I think on that.
He waits.
I eventually say “Yes – I guess you could say it sounded that way.”
He sips his whiskey, sitting up straighter. “Jacob – I have wondered if this is because the artist has borrowed a form from another time, and from another people.
I stare.
He raises his finger again. “I have read that the blues may have originated from expressions of African-American suffering, from the ritual shouts of laboring slaves.” He looks at me.
I clench my teeth. “I’ve read that as well.”
He nods. “So I wonder if we may be hearing this artist’s very modern dissociation, a suffering itself, perhaps no less meaningful than any other, but one that is characteristically detached, one that longs for some essential, immediate experience.”
I nod. Then I can’t help myself. “Or it may be that the artist is just tired.”

He laughs. Then he sips his whiskey, smiling and shaking his head. I sip mine as well. It seems that I’ve gotten away with that, though I figure I won’t push my luck, thinking on his power, reminding myself how good I have it.

“I’m sorry.”
He raises his hand. “That is unnecessary.” Now he raises his glass.  “I welcome the jest.”
We cheers again.
“Would you like to hear another?”
“Yes.” I drink as much as I can, without looking it.

He stands, returns to the player. He carefully puts the record away. He searches through the rest again. He stops at one point. Then he pulls out another, excitedly. “Corrado,” he says, “Miles Davis.” And I nod, though I don’t remember ever hearing that, either.

The scratch is milder this time. The sound suddenly clarifies, as it did before, but this time emerging is a band warming up, a guitar and drums; the musicians start chatting. They can’t decide on something, though they quickly give up and just start to play, a sitar leading, a tabla easing in. He turns up the volume, much louder this time, the notes impressively full.

He brings the bottle and refills our drinks. Then the guitar returns, with a few simple strums, and an electric piano joins it, with a flurry of notes, before a snare rushes in, persistently rolling, and it all builds up with great energy until it all seems to crash together, like waves breaking against waves, exploding and vanishing before rising and cresting and crashing again.

We sip our drinks, and a trumpet drifts in. It rises from the chaos, assuredly, and then just as smoothly it slowly drifts back, seeming to flow for a while with another strange harmony, before suddenly reaching for a bold, high note; now quickly falling away again. It seems to give space for the others, to do what they’re doing, but it also sounds as if nothing’s yielded, at once blending and clashing.

I clench my fist. Then I open and close my hand, trying to relax it. The music crashes again and he looks at me with a glint in his eye, sipping, and I consider removing his grin, ever present as he holds his glass from the top, just off the floor, with a loose wrist, swirling with the music.

I close my eyes, listening to the trumpet, as it rises once more and I clench my fist again. Then I remind myself that this is something to write about, with the same assuredness, so I open my eyes and look at him straight. His eyes are closed but they suddenly open, as if he sensed me looking; he nods for some reason.

He raises his glass. We drink. Then we go back to listening, each looking away as the trumpet begins fluttering, and a clarinet trails it, until the trumpet fades and the clarinet fills its space, also now fluttering, as if speaking back. It soon becomes clear that they’re playing together, playing off each other, furiously, repeating some dance until they have nothing left and their patterns disintegrate, dissolving into the rest.

We glance at each other then look back away; the drums leading now, slowing everything down. I drink, the drums roll, they fall back again, and the trumpet joins in and its them speaking this time, until the clarinet returns, soon followed by the others, the guitar and piano and sitar and tabla. I exhale and feel the burn of the whiskey as it all seems to come together, with three descending notes, a sequence that may have been present throughout, too subtle and smooth to discern, at first, but always there and always pointing to something, anticipating it.

I ready myself, listening closely, waiting through a surge and another after that and others yet with each surge more strong and free than the last. But whatever I’m waiting for never comes, each instrument just fades, one of the band members says something, there’s shuffling around and the recording ends.

He looks at me.
I nod.
We touch drinks again.
I tilt back, finishing.
He refills my glass, smiling. “Jacob – we will do this again.”
I drink again.
“The piece was very different, yet similar to the last, would you not say?”
“Yes.”

He lifts his whiskey but pauses to waft it this time. He eventually sips. Then he slowly moves his drink down, toward the floor, swirling again.

“Confounding patterns.”
I look at my glass, thinking that I should slow down.
“There was an order to the music.”
I close my hand; open it.
“But words to describe it elude me, Jacob.”
I stare.
He puts his glass down. “I understand that Mr. Davis rejected the idea that suffering is a critical, inspiring element of the blues. He noted that he could play it as well as anyone, which is surely true, and that his life was relatively free of struggle, with a rich father and a loving mother and a career that followed a uniformly upward trajectory.”
I look for the time again.
He looks up, nodding, agreeing with something he’s thinking. “I agree with Mr. Davis, to an extent.” He raises that same fucking finger. “But I would argue that suffering plays just some role in animating the form, not the whole of it.”
He looks at me.
I keep nodding.

He leans forward, now expecting something back again; then he awkwardly but thankfully withdraws, just looking down intensely. He sits up.

“I have also read that Mr. Davis referred to his earliest memory, of a blue flame suddenly appearing on a gas stove, as the source of his creativity.” He pauses. “That original fear and wonder allegedly propelled him, giving his music a vital force.” He leans in once more.
I look down.
“There is a truth in that, would you not say?”
I eventually say “Yes.”
He nods, sipping.
“I also read he beat his wife.” I look at him straight.
He doesn’t flinch.
I look back down, thinking that I must have, just now, exhausted his patience, and that I’ll be on my way.
“Jacob – have I thus far conveyed my thoughts,” he pauses again, “elegantly?”
I look once more.
He’s smirking now.
“You did,” I say, feeling sick again.

He smiles proudly. Then he stands and heads back to player. “I believe we have time for one more.” And I take his word for it, as he puts the record away and searches for another, fingering through his collection. He pulls one out. “Nino Rota.” He looks at me.

“He often scored Fellini,” I say, now well defeated.
His eyes light up. “Yes!”

He places the record. The scratch is quieter; it’s followed by a light melody, with swift percussion and bright wind and familiar whimsy. I’ve heard this one before but I’m unsure of the film it’s from, exactly. We watched so many and they mostly sounded the same and they were all beautiful but none as memorable as the peace and buzz as we drank and watched them together. I drink, and I catch myself leaning, then I immediately straighten, horrified as he lifts his arms, his hands staying limp, as they swing with the music while his hips sway perversely. I regret everything.

He sits; he turns down the volume. “Jacob – have you seen Mr. Fellini’s Satyricon?”
I may have; I shake my head.
“It is a film of treasures – marvellous images that have often returned to me, unexpectedly, over many years – but there is one I recall more than any, of an African woman who gives birth to fire, from whom it is constantly drawn, by her whole village, through her at once blessed and cursed vagina.”
I hold myself back.
He giggles.

He tops us up. Then he sits back and listens again, the music building momentum, the whimsy now headed for something different; I remember that much but not what’s coming exactly. I exhale slowly, and I suppose my memory fails me, that the song will finish just like the last, just as something’s expected, but instead the melody now certainly reminds me, abruptly shifting, as if drunkenly staggering, into a slightly tragic waltz, a clarinet and guitar now swaying back and forth. I picture her in front of me, looking into my eyes, the way she would when it was late, when we were tired and properly destroyed.

I rub my eyes.
“Jacob – are you alright?”
“Sorry – yes.”
He raises his glass.
We cheers yet again.

There is a crash downstairs. We turn toward the door, listening for more, eventually hearing steps up the stairs, quick and numerous. There’s a knock on the door and a muffled cry, of what I’m not sure.

“Come in!” he says, and they open the door and pour in, a boy and a girl, roughly the same age, perhaps around seven.

The music absurdly picks up, again as I remember it, breaking into something like a carnival march, a trumpet reaching high with a throng of other instruments and some men, you can picture them, arms around each other, singing together, chanting “Da, da, da da!”

The children embrace him, climbing his back, his shoulders, and he laughs trying to manage them, his long arms reaching. He speaks to them, and they to him; I don’t understand but it’s clearly loving. He points at me and says something, and they look and smile warmly. Then he says something again, a bit more firmly, and they quickly stand straight.

They approach me.
The boy says “Mohammad,” and bows.
And the girl says “Anush,” and she bows as well.
They step back, turning and embracing him again, the music blaring.
“I pray for them, and give thanks for them, every day.”
I nod, closing my eyes, wanting to retreat into darkness, but it fills with their laughter.

•

I consider what’s missing. I figure I’ll read it again, in a few weeks, with a clear mind. I take in the view, finishing my water. I sit on the couch and glance at the screen every while, now showing landscapes. I stride to the desk and shut my laptop.

It keeps ringing.
“Hey,” she finally answers.
“Hey.”
It’s quiet.
“I’m sorry.”
She laughs. “What the fuck, Jake?”
I don’t know what to say.
“Where are you?
“I’m at the Rayhaan.”
A pause. “Is that where you went?”
“Yeah.”
She laughs again, but this time her voice breaks.

I adjust the phone and picture her, at the other end, on the couch or in bed. I stand, as if that will help me speak to her better. I strain for more to say.

“I’m sorry,” I say again.
She says nothing back. 
“I want to see you.”
We’re going out tonight.”
“I want to see them, too.”
Another pause; muffled voices.
“Hello?”
“We don’t have room, but we can get you a ride.”
“Or just tell me where to meet you, and I’ll take a cab.”
“They won’t take you there.”
I say “Okay” after a while.
More muffled voices. “The driver will call, probably around midnight.”
“Okay,” I say again.
“See you, Jake.”

I look at myself in the bathroom. I lay out a shirt, jeans. Then I look at the view again. I undress and get in the shower and take my time there, with much time to kill. I lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling, and I wonder where I’m going, whether it’s forward or back or simply what’s next.

I close my eyes, breathe, and I try not to picture her again, with her company now, it’s Jonas I hope, likely giving her shit, rightfully, for inviting me out with them. I breathe again and then I imagine that it’s Will that she’s with, resting against his chest, quietly.

I recall her exploding. She couldn’t it hold it in anymore, trying hard but failing easily at being as dead as I am. She just had to tell me that my greasy hair pissed her off and that I sometimes smelled and that she hated that none of my clothes fit well as well as the face I always made in pictures.

Then she went on to also tell me with a vicious eloquence that my work was sterile and not from a lack of talent but rather because it reflected me truly. And after that she told me that she fucked a fool I saw her talking to at a party and she looked at me proudly before withdrawing with her shoulders curling forward and she confided that she didn’t actually fuck him but that she certainly wanted to and that she would have greatly enjoyed him pulling her hair hard as he came inside her.

Her eyes, like glass, when she looked at me, looking for something, just after. I looked away as she placed her hands on my chest and leaned close, trying to look up, into my eyes again. She said “It’s your turn now,” but I betrayed her with silence.

I reach for her but find something else and I try to picture it clearly. It has no form but it’s warm and I suppose you could call it a brightness though it falls on no surface so that’s not right exactly. It feels like a presence but at once an absence so that’s not right either and I keep trying and missing and ultimately figure that any attempt to imagine it will just as well fail. I see them all.

The phone’s ringing.
“Hello?”
“Yes.” A man’s voice, unfamiliar. “I am here.”
It takes me a moment. “I’ll be right there.”

There’s a car waiting. It’s rusting in places, bubbling and flaking; I approach it and stop. I look around but there’s no one around and I guess the driver’s inside. The engine is running. I open the door, and I lean in.

“Jacob?”
“Yes – thank you.” I close the door behind me.
He nods and starts out.

I haven’t been out, at this time, since our first night here. It’s surprisingly bright again, with all the lit buildings and fountains and palms and roads. It looks entirely different, than it does during the day, until I see the familiar barrier, along the ramp we’re ascending.

I look back for cars. “Hey.”
He glances through the mirror.
I point ahead, further up the ramp. “Can you slow down there?”
He’s confused.
“I want to see over this wall.”
He checks behind us; he barely slows down.
There are many working, wearing headlamps it seems, and I make out some gates.
He accelerates.
“There’s an entrance on the other side. Can you take me there?”
He frowns.
“I won’t be long; I just want to see it better.”
He doesn’t respond.
“I’ll pay you more.”
He shakes his head. “It is forbidden.”
“How much do you want?”
He just shakes his head again.

They’re soon behind us, the city soon after, and soon enough we’re far enough out that we can only see within reach of the headlights. I rest my head against the window. I stare into the dark. Then I look at the road, speeding under us.

I think of their bodies, contorting and stretching, collectively straining to force all that matter into a ludicrous form, once scribbled perhaps on a tissue, during a boozy pitch in a postmodern restaurant. I recall his grin, those children, the laughing. Then I wonder what will happen when I see her, but I remind myself that it doesn’t matter. I need to face that too, whatever it is, and wholly accept it.

I sit up and look around. It’s more of the same but I keep looking anyway. We eventually pass something, a tent of some kind. Then we fast approach something else, a horse; it raises its head and faces our lights and its eyes glow back and follow mine as we pass very quickly and leave it behind us. There’s more of the same again.

“What’s your name?” I ask, surprising myself.
He glances through the mirror again.
I wait.
“Yes?”
“What’s your name?”
He shifts in his seat. “I am Alex.”
“I’m Jacob.”
He nods.
And I nod as well.

Then it suddenly feels too quiet, and I suppose he senses it too because he plays some music, a man singing verses, I guess from the Quran. I expect for the voice to be joined by instruments, but it just goes on like that. We slow down and turn, onto a narrower road with unclear edges, the sand spilled in.

“Are we close?”
He shakes his head. “Still much time.”
“Okay.”
I listen to the singing, the wheels on the road.

I rest my head again, close my eyes this time. I look back on it all, reminded again that I’ve been an ass. Well, perhaps that too was necessary.

I’ll say I’m sorry again, for not really caring. She knows that of course but she should hear me say it so I’ll look in her eyes and I’ll say it well. I’ll admit it was convenient, to pretend to care about everyone and to be slowly numbed by that lie and eventually made unable to care about anyone including or perhaps especially those that care about you. And I’ll confess I enjoyed that result, with enough to do nothing but eat and sleep and write and a tearful excuse to feel nothing either.

But then I’ll say I’m here, aren’t I? And I’m here to feel so she should also hear me say that this place is hell and that Will is a fuck and our employer is worse yet and that I’m certainly bad but at least I know it and feel shame while also knowing it doesn’t make me better and that we’re all just in this shit together.

They are among many and I can’t single them out but I know they’re there and I walk toward them and the others make way and touch me as I pass perhaps with curiosity or compassion. I continue on for a while along what seems a great distance though it is always pleasant and then it suddenly feels that I’ll reach them imminently and I see an opening ahead where the others are circled around and I walk into it and turn but don’t see them anywhere and then it’s dark.

I open my eyes.
He turns to me. “We are here.”
“I don’t see anything.”
He opens my window. “Listen.”
I focus, now hearing a beat in the distance. It’s coming from beyond a black mass, a dune, I realize, not far ahead of us. “Are you coming?”
He shakes his head.
“Will you wait here?”
He shakes his head again.

He drives off. I look around, and up at the stars. I suddenly worry and start toward the music, fearing it may stop. I try to hurry but soon remember there’s little point, my feet sinking. I relax and keep my head down. I follow the sound, eventually making it over the dune. I look out eagerly.

There’s some kind of structure ahead. It’s on top another dune, or not quite on top, a part of it buried. A red light shines through the door every while. It’s turning, I guess. It also shines upward, into the sky, the building roofless. I start toward it again, once more with my head down.

The music slowly gets louder, and I soon near a perimeter of lanterns, paper bags with candles in them. Someone approaches, their body gold, reflecting the light. They’re tall, and thin, with very long arms. I realize they are wholly painted, entirely nude, also hairless.

“Welcome home,” he says, his eyes also metallic.
“Hello.”
He takes my hand. “Come, child.”
“Do you know Ai?” Is she here?”
“We are all here, and we have been waiting.” He turns, starts walking ahead.
We approach the building, the ruins of something; there are moving silhouettes inside, dark against the light.
He stops at the door. He opens a cooler and hands me a water.
“Thank you.”
He touches my face; he walks away, slowly.

I lean against the building, the wall vibrating. I sip my water, thinking what to say again. I breathe. I keep sipping, eventually finishing. Then I quickly head inside.

There are many dancing, most of them around some effigy, made of straw and boards and other things fixed to it, a suitcase, some stuffed animals, parts of a mannequin. There are also large speakers in the corners, blasting inward. The red lights are mounted on them, casting beams through dust in the air.

There are more bodies along the wall, some standing and leaning and others on couches, under dim black lights. Their eyes follow me as I pass; a couple smiles at me, their teeth fluorescent. I keep on and make out three figures on one of the couches in the back, and I figure it could be them. I approach them, straining to make them out, and they lean forward, trying perhaps to make me out as well. They blow bubbles, some girls with wings.

I approach a throbbing speaker, someone shirtless and sweating and dancing beside it. They see me and look up and raise their hands high and sort of writhe, slowly, as if some force is traveling through them. Then they twist, removing their arms from their sockets, and the arms shift, and turn strangely; it’s unclear what’s happening. Someone takes my hand.

They’re suddenly close, looking into my eyes. They hold my face, their hands moist and cold, and their pupils dart around, searching for something. I step back to see them, between stringy wet hair. It takes me a moment. I see that it’s Jonas.

I can’t hear him. “What?”
“I need to ask you something!”
I lean in.
He whispers, too quietly.
I look around.
He holds my face again.
I push him away.
“Please!”
“Where’s Ai?”
He claws his face; his eyes roll back. 
“Stop.” I grab his hands.
“Fuck off!”
“Jonas.”
He penetrates the crowd.

I try after him but then everything intensifies. Many raise their hands and there’s a whistle and a cheer as white lights strobe and the speakers suddenly blare a wave I feel in my teeth. I retreat to the wall; I continue along it.

I make it around the entire space, looking for her, looking for Jonas. I make it around again. Then I sit on a couch and stare, watching them dancing, and I consider getting up after a while but then the couch sinks and I just find her there, sitting as well.

She’s bleached her hair, her brows. They’re glowing brightly. She takes a drag of a cigarette.
I wait.
She exhales. “How long have you been here?”
“A half-hour, maybe.”
“Just sitting here?”
“I couldn’t find you.”
“Right.”
“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah – you said that.” She takes another drag; she exhales. “Thanks.”

She hasn’t looked at me. She’s just looking straight. I think on what to say but nothing comes. I focus but fail again. I turn to her, looking once more at her pearl, her hair. She’s smiling at someone. It’s Jonas approaching.

He sits on her lap, into her embrace.
“What’s wrong, baby?”
He whimpers.
She strokes his head. “What is it?”
“I’m so fucked up.”
“We’re all fucked up, baby.”
He looks at me.
“He’s the most fucked up of all.”
He buries his face.
“Come on.” She nudges him. She takes his hand and leads the way.

I follow them, along the wall and outside. She opens the cooler and hands him a water. Then she hands one to me. “Thanks,” I say, and she nods. She leads us again.

We turn. Jonas is standing, his head down, wobbling a bit. 
She goes to him. “Jonie.”
He doesn’t respond.
“You need to drink water.”
He’s still just standing. 
“Hold him.”
I bring his arm over my back.
She opens his bottle, raises it.
He swallows a bit.
She does it again.
And he gets the hang of it.

She helps him through half the bottle. She looks at him straight, and he looks back this time, his eyes opening. “Hey, baby.” She strokes his face. Then she places the bottle in his hand, and she guides it to his mouth again. He takes a few sips; he finishes the rest.

“You good?”
He nods.
She takes his hand again.

We reach the perimeter; we sit around a lantern. I drink some water. I finish about half. Then I offer it to him and he looks at me, doe-eyed. He leans a bit, reaches into his pocket. He pulls out some tissue.

She touches his hand. “You’ve had too much.”
He looks at her this time, doe-eyed again.
“No, baby.”
He hands it to me.
I look at him; I look at it again.
“Here,” she says, “I’ll hold it.”
I unfold the tissue, revealing a pill.
She opens her hand.
I put it in my mouth, wash it down fast.
She looks away, frowning.

He lays back, folds his hands behind his head. She does the same, laying beside him, and I join as well. We lay there, quietly, and I look at the sky again. There are layers to it, like veils of light. They seem almost liquid.

She starts humming; it’s very tender. There’s also the sound in the distance, the shouts and the music, blaring out from the building and traveling beneath us, rumbling. I think on how fragile it all is. Then I sit up after a while, feeling the lightness. I drink some water. They continue humming, their eye’s closed, now holding hands. I breathe. The air is perfectly still, feeling as if we’re no where, really.

I lay back down and swallow, feeling a lump in my throat, strangely pleasurable. I swallow again, enjoying the sensation, the muscles in my throat constricting and loosening, and the feeling travels. It washes over me, pulsing, and my eyes get heavy. I can’t hold them open.

I still hear them humming though it sounds as if there’s something between us, some sort of barrier. I relax, feeling a membrane against my skin, a warm film. I can hear them saying something but the barrier is too thick to hear what they’re saying, exactly.

I eventually open my eyes, still heavy, and I see I’m in between them now, also holding their hands. They’re still humming. I sit up slowly and then they stop, sitting up with me. I try to stand; I wobble a bit.

“Easy,” she says.
I sit back down.
He rubs my back; it feels very nice.
I try to stand again.

I manage this time. I look at each of them, and they look back blankly. I tell them “I need to find a bathroom,” and I start on before they answer. I head toward the music and realize I’m guided, gently, a hand on my back. It directs me around the building, toward a row of portable bathrooms.

I turn around.
“You good?” She says.
I nod. Then I try to open one but find it locked; I try another and find it empty.

The air is hot and thick inside. It fills my throat. I almost taste it. I shut the door and try not to look in the hole and feel faintly sick but its the strange weight of pleasure I feel more than anything. I lower my pants and squat over the seat and reach for something to hold but then I go weak and fall back and sit, just holding my legs. I clench my teeth; my eyes roll.

There’s a putter, and a burst. I lean forward and stretch my neck and my legs strain hard. I clench my teeth again, my body shuddering; I open my mouth and close it, my jaw shifting. I breathe and feel the many around and reach with more coming out to check that the door is still locked. Then I lean back and squeeze, now truly erupting and feeling a splash as my leg starts to cramp but it feels very good and I moan, releasing the last of it, feeling a gaping. A shiver runs through me. The hair on my skin stands. I’m suddenly very awake.

I look around, at the dim orange walls, now noticing something written with a marker; I go over the words. There’s only two but their hard to make out, the letters shifting. I snap out of trying after too long has passed and I stand and take account of myself, wiping carefully. I wash my hands twice to be safe. Then I open the door and breathe, realizing how deep I’m in it.

She’s smirks.
I turn to the music.
“You sure?”
I nod again, chewing.

She takes my hand and leads me inside, into a barrage of sound. The layers are vague, at first, until I focus and slowly discern a heavy drumming, a steady clicking, and someone speaking, very quietly, in another language. It’s not Arabic; it’s Greek, I think, and there are many more around, dancing, looking moved by the whispers.

We make our way through the crowd, rubbing against bodies, wet and slippery, eventually nearing the center. She turns raising her arms over the shoulders and necks and heads and she manages to face me. She closes her eyes and begins to sway, and I start to move with her, and them, and she opens her eyes slightly; then she smiles and closes them again. I look around at the other faces, some eyes open, many closed as well, and I also close mine. It’s very hot. I breathe. I put my hands on her waist and wonder if she wants them there but then decide not to worry and we sway all the same.

I catch myself grinding my teeth again; I grind them harder and open my eyes and take it all in. The sounds are round and the light is perfect and I consider pulling her closer but I hesitate though she does seem to ultimately welcome it as she hangs her arms around my neck and her head falls back and she smiles at the sky. I look up as well at the stars and the beams and it all starts to blur, and slow down, and I’m in something suddenly but then I break out. I feel a coolness on my head and it rolls on my temple, along my cheek and down my neck. She touches my face.

“You need to drink water.”
I nod, tilting a bottle, not sure where I got it.
She drinks from it next.
Someone grasps my shoulder; then they squeeze.
I turn around, meeting eyes again, almost black. I step back, seeing it’s Will this time.

He stares. He licks his lips and embraces me, lifting me, putting me down, then hugging and lifting again. Jonas is beside him, looking at me now, expecting something. I find myself embracing him. He holds tight. He rests his head against my shoulder, and we sway a bit.

“Will!” She says.
I look at them.
He’s holding her head in his hands, looking into her eyes, like he’s looking into her.
“Fuck!” she says, trying to free herself.
I grab his neck.
He grabs me back.

He pulls me close, his forehead pressing on mine. It starts to slide down and he turns, toward someone else, and he buries his nose in their hair, breathing. Then he turns back to me and slowly opens his eyes and I see nothing in them and push as he tries to pull me in again and we struggle for a moment, until a hand runs down his face. His mouth opens, around the fingers. He lets me go and I step away.

My heart pounds. I look around for her, amid everyone dancing, black and white in the strobing light again. I squeeze between others and stand on my toes and spot her running her hands through her bright hair and then she’s gone. Then I’m suddenly facing a fleshy back and just as suddenly it’s no longer there. Will is devouring Jonas, licking is neck, and I see her again and she sees me and she makes her way around them, her arms in the air again. We embrace each other, and we stay that way. I close my eyes and feel the music; it travels through us.

It’s a violent rumbling and a voice joins in, saying everything everything everything everything and I feel her let go and then I feel her hands as they slip under my shirt and I realize it’s wet and she takes it off me and I open my eyes as she removes hers as well and her chest shines and with every flash she’s just a bit closer always looking at me straight with a void in her eyes as well and she embraces me again. We hold each other, moving and slipping with trickling notes and swelling vibrations that convey some bruising darkness and mouths spilling words and women and children and men and their hands and I touch her hand and she touches my face.

There are drops on my face as someone strikes the air emptying their bottle to a throbbing note that reaches into my chest and we smile at each other as another also empties theirs wetting us more and I feel slightly refreshed and loose and something in my throat as I swallow; it wants to come out, something perfectly round and something that’s blooming and through us all perhaps and I look at the sky and it’s fluid light again and I feel her lips on my neck and I kiss her back and she looks up and turns to someone else now and she kisses Jonas and he brings me closer and his cheek is cool and nice and someone touches my back their hand feeling tender as we all keep dancing.

I turn and it’s Will with tears in his eyes and he closes them and kisses her and Jonas and I’m draw in as well and there are also others as we hold each other and kiss and I reach upward for breathe and my eyes roll and we slide into one another and then there’s a bang and the force of a shove or rather a pressure and I’m enveloped by a beautiful whiteness and I see a fiery glint in her eyes.

III

I’ve yet to learn that laying down doesn’t help and neither does a shower or a whiskey or some time on the dock looking at the water and trees and sky and the flow of it all. My hands still shake. It seems they always shake, if I look close enough.

I stare at the screen, looking for edits. I consider writing her again. I lean back, eventually. I turn, hearing a car pull up. Then I stand to see through the window, and my heart beats fast. He exits his truck, glancing toward me. He opens the back and pulls out a box.

“Hello, Jake.”
I nod.
He waits.
“I wasn’t expecting you.”
He squeezes passed me.
I follow him into the kitchen.
“I brought you groceries.”
“Thanks, but I think I’m okay.”
He looks at me straight.
I look down.
He starts unpacking.

It’s strange to see him in a running shirt, jeans, what look like new boots. It’s strange as well to just see him here, or to see anyone here. I open the fridge, start putting things away.

“Your mother’s worried.”
“I’m fine.”
He collapses the box. Then he looks at me straight again.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
I wait.
“I’ll fix us some lunch.”
I cross my arms. “I’m really okay.”
He puts the box away, also noticing the empties. “I’ll be staying a while, Jake.”
“For how long?”
He places a refill on the counter. “We’ll see.”

I watch as he returns to the truck, as he gets his bag. Then I put the pills in my pocket, even more eager to be left alone, with a few and a drink. I wait at the door. I follow him upstairs, into a bedroom, and I think on how to shorten his stay. He places his bag on the bed; he turns to find me close behind him.

He frowns.
“There’s something wrong with the water.”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“It starts and stops. And the pressure’s bad.”
He pushes passed me this time.

He enters the bathroom, opens the faucet. It sputters, as it usually does. Then it starts to stream slowly. He stops it; he waits before trying again. It just streams this time, still quite slowly.

He shuts it tight. “How long has it been like this?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Have you checked the pump?”
I stare.
“The way I showed you.”
“What?”
He rubs his temple. “I’ll take a look. Why don’t you get those sausages going?”
I eventually say “Okay.”
He returns to the bedroom.

I breathe, and I realize that, after brooding for months, searching for this feeling, it’s now welling up again. I turn, looking in the mirror. Then I picture her face, scarred and molten, and he catches me as he heads downstairs. He’s changed into water shoes, some bright yellow swim shorts.

I follow him again, out back this time, and I watch him walk down, toward the shed. He opens it and goes inside and I just stand for a while. Then I start the barbecue and get what I need from the kitchen. I place the sausages down; I stare as they sizzle.

I feel the lightness, as if I’m there again, in the flash of that moment, fleeting yet endless, all flesh and light and sound, so perfectly whole. It must have come from just behind Will, and though I’ve long given up trying to figure it out, long after the rest, I can’t help but search my memory again, trying to penetrate that brightness, for a glimpse of the person and the look in their eyes, their pain and their madness.

“What was this doing in there?” He’s looking at me, holding a painting; it was once in the dining room.
I shrug. I don’t remember taking it down, but I do recall being told, at ever chance, that it was the work of an important Ojibway artist.
He shakes his head, carrying it in carefully.
I tend to the sausages again.
He heads back down, toward the water, on the way picking up what I guess is a toolbox.
The barbecue flares; I flinch from some grease.

I move the sausages around, and I hold back a gag. I suddenly feel cold so I step inside, putting on my shirt. Then I return to the barbecue flaring again. I flip the sausages and turn the heat down. I let the flames settle and close the lid.

“Jesus!” He’s passed his knees in the water; he rinses his hands. He hunches over, his back straining as he pulls something up. He lets go, catches his breath. He lifts it up again, drags it to shore. He crouches over it, looking closely, and he stands and says “Jesus!” again.

He waves me down.
I breathe, lowering the heat.
He watches me, hands on his hips.
I stand in front of him. I nod, waiting for something.
He points. “Take a gander.”
There’s a tangle of black scum on the shore, some shells among it, and it’s trailed with strands of what I guess is lake weed.
He tilts the pump. “Hold it like this, alright?”
I do what he says.
He scoops more scum out. “Jesus,” he says again, getting a few more handfuls, each with more shells. He stands back.
I put the pump down.
“Zebra mussels.” He rinses his hands.
I nod.
“You have to do this every while.”
“Okay.”
He stretches his back. “How are those sausages doing?”
I hurry back, seeing them smoking.

I open the lid; they’re charred pretty bad. I turn the gas off and set them on the plate and bring them to the dining table. I head for glasses and plates and cutlery. Then he says “Alright!” as he looks inside from the deck, drying himself and placing his towel on the bannister.

He sits. “Grab the baguette and mustard I brought, would you?”
I bring them to the table.
“And the Merlot on the counter.”
I get that as well.
“From your mother’s trip to St. Emilion.”
I nod, sitting.
He breaks some bread, opens the mustard. Then he looks at the bottle.
I stare.
He stands and picks up the bottle, heads to the kitchen.
I close my eyes.
The bottle pops; he pours me wine.
“Thanks.”
He nods, pouring for himself. Then we dig in, and it’s quiet for a while, until he says “The sausages are dry, Jake – a bit overdone.”

I keep my head down, not saying anything back, and I guess he gets the message because he thankfully goes quiet again, leaving us to eat in peace, but then he abruptly stands and walks over to the painting, now leaning against the wall, and he picks it up and hangs it where it was and he takes his time to level it.

I look at it, at an apparition with wings and faint tendrils gently holding a woman with both compassion and fear in her eyes, herself contorting and embracing a serpent that has just emerged from inside her, which has itself climbed her neck and is craning over and whispering to her. He returns to his seat, continues eating, and he seems to chew more loudly this time.

I eat the last of my sausage, wash it down with wine. Then I just sit there, regretting that I finished so quickly. He’s taking his time, helping himself to another sausage, cutting it to pieces, smearing mustard on each before placing them in his mouth; he seems to chew forever. He eventually finishes. He sits back and holds his glass and takes a swig and just sits back again, looking at me.

I look down. I stand without saying anything. I quickly head out, and I continue down the steps and reach the shore and place an oar in the canoe and push it into the water. I get on the dock and into the canoe and push off. Then I begin to paddle, toward the center of the lake, and I fall into a rhythm, inhaling and exhaling, picking up speed.

I cut deep into the water, focusing the feeling, and I keep at it, aggressively, my arms starting to burn. I think on this abundance and our luck and his quiet contentment, being ignorant or worse yet aware or worst of all smug in it all and the naked tragedy of it. I breathe, and I think again on all that we have and I look around, at the long shores, at the expanse of water ahead. I’m going the wrong way.

I should turn around; I should close the distance between me and him and between us and the rest and I imagine his fear if he looked in those eyes and was finally met with the same indifference always hidden in his eyes when he looks at his art or reads the paper and admires his investments. I imagine his face while seeing that distance collapsing and so quickly abandoning all pretence of caring as they ask for their share or better yet take it or best yet think they may as well fuck it all as the other probably did suddenly embracing him and releasing the force of a long accumulating pressure of suffering and rage and despair.

I continue paddling, clenching my teeth. Then I wonder if it’s really so wrong of him to accept what’s been given him, and to enrich himself and a few others that he sees as a part of himself, and to limit his imagination the way everyone else does to that and some pleasant dinner conversation because it’s too painful and perhaps pointless to look at it straight for longer than a moment anyway. Well I suppose it isn’t wrong but then neither is it wrong to despise him for it and to fan this fire of want for his share of the pain to be proportionate to the rest and for feeling to flow freely between us along with everything else once we’ve broken through everything in the way finally colliding and achieving some truth together.

I close my eyes. I feel the air. I eventually open them, the canoe now drifting. I put the paddle down. I look at my hands, now shaking hard, and I reach for the pills but suddenly stop, thinking instead that I can’t spurn this feeling. I need it, in fact.

I watch a boat heading in from the bay and it’s coming fast so I turn a bit. The canoe rises and falls. I let it settle and I try to take in some sun, and the sound of the water, and the slightly sweet air, but then I swallow and almost gag again. I get the life jacket from the back and set it against the seat and shift forward and lay down, my legs hanging over the edge slightly. The enveloping body of the canoe is somewhat comforting, as is the water lapping against it. I close my eyes again, trying to feel better, but my stomach keeps turning so I sit up, going back to looking around.

There’s a blandness to everything, as if the brightness is washing it all out or flattening it somehow or emptying it of meaning through some terrible process of entropy or more terrible yet a process of calcification, everything settling into some permanent state of obscene imbalance. Well then perhaps what I’m feeling is the weight of it all shifting underneath me, teetering on some edge, and soon enough I feel a wave of nausea as if it’s about to come down and take me down with it, and I look for something firm and see the island at the center of the lake.

I start for it; then I suddenly feel like I may in fact vomit so I start paddling hard again as if to balance my unease by moving with the momentum and that does seem to help so I go even harder and it’s not long until I’m feeling better enough and nearing the island then making my way around it. I try to recall when I was last this far and figure it must have been one of my first times here, when he was showing this off, when he dealt me in.

I look at the island as I pass it. I’ve never seen anyone on it. I look the other way, at the broad shore, into the shadowed canopy of trees, and I imagine what all this looked like before anyone was here, and I suppose it wasn’t much different, besides the cottage now ahead.

I quicken my pace, my breathing with it. I clench my teeth as I picture him in those shorts, and I grow impatient. I breathe deeper and I adjust myself and paddle harder yet. I gain momentum, starting to glide across the water, and I keep my eyes on the cottage, to keep myself straight and to sight him perhaps and to otherwise imagine him better. I feel the burn again, and I stop for a moment to catch my breath, but then I feel the weight of it coming down again, or this time rather I feel it closing in from all directions. I push on, through the burn in my arms and my neck and now in my chest.

I eventually stop. I breathe. I angle the paddle in the water, slowing my approach. I grab the dock and step out, carefully. I pull the canoe to the shore and look at the cottage and my heart starts beating again. I head up the steps. I slide the door open and head in, looking around but not seeing him. The table’s been cleared and everything’s clean. I look at the painting.

There’s a creak above me. I climb the stairs, slowly. My heart keeps going and I feel cold again. I stop near the top, hearing him in the bathroom, the door a bit open, pissing. He pauses and starts again. He finishes after a while. Then he appears in the gap, now washing his hands and whistling. The last stair creaks so I stop again, hesitating, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He keeps whistling.

I open the door and he sees me through the mirror and we stand there, staring. He nods slightly, and I consider saying something, but there’s nothing to say so I grab his neck and his arm and push his face into the mirror, breaking it. I step back. He looks at his broken reflection, his blood trickling. Then he turns and looks at me, his eyes wide, the blood continuing around his nose, into his mouth. “Jesus,” he says.

I grab his arm again and with all my weight pull him out his side striking the door frame hard and I turn and turn that into a shove directing him into the bedroom where he trips his body striking the stand this time and the lamp that was on it falling and breaking and the corner he lands in going suddenly dim. I head to him but then he sits up and swipes at me blindly trying to swat me away and I find a moment following another swipe to lunge at him but he catches my body with a straight kick sending me back toward the entrance where my body strikes the frame now causing something to crack and some chips and powder to fall from the ceiling.

“Fuck!” he says.

And we take a moment to breathe but then I’m compelled to immediately fill that gap so I lunge at him again as he starts getting up but he plants his feet and leans forward and braces himself well so once I reach him he’s able to halt my momentum seizing my shoulders and locking me into a grapple. I push and pull him but we remained locked together so I reach back and tighten my fist and strike at him but he at once deflects it and ducks so I try again with my other hand but he escapes once again and we repeat that several times in a flurry until he strikes at me now and he succeeds though once he makes contact what lands is a slap.

We pause again, I guess considering whether that humiliation was enough to resolve our contest, and a moment passes though it seems much longer and certainly too long for me so I try to butt him with my head but it doesn’t reach him and he turns me around somehow and presses me against the wall and I try to push off before having to grasp his large arm as it wraps my neck.

“That’s enough,” he says, and I pull his arm trying to loosen his hold and I stomp on his foot and grab his face but he doesn’t let go he just breathes, tightening his grip. I step back and keep stepping back taking us into the hall and into the bathroom and he pulls down hard and I fall to my knees and then he leans forward, dropping me to the floor. He turns to his side, leaning into me, my face near the toilet, and I try to burst out shifting one way then the other and kicking the wall putting a hole in it but he just breathes again, through his teeth, and he squeezes harder yet.

I breathe myself, as best I can, smelling piss faintly. Then neither of us move, both waiting, until a while passes and I quietly find some footing on the wall and I bet he’s relaxed and I press hard levering myself as I try to free myself again and my face touches the bowl and I try to butt his face with the back of my head this time and he firms up again. “Jake – that’s enough!” he says, but I strain, trying to create the space to escape or for my hand at least and then his whole arm suddenly hardens and I pull down on it again and I go for his eyes and I begin to see bright spots and feel pins in my fingers. I think on what else to do but then I forget what I was thinking about and the spots grow larger and brighter and more colorful and my arms weaken and I see her face and their faces and our arms reach up again and then everything goes black and there’s just the sound of my heart or his before there’s nothing.

I hear another slap. Then I feel it, and I open my eyes. It’s blurry; I make out blue eyes, his face, the blood wiped from it. He stands, offering his hand, his shirt off now. He pulls me up. I wobble, and he helps me out from the bathroom, through the hall and into the bedroom. I sit on the bed.

“You alright?”
I nod.
“Bloody hell, Jake.”
I look down.
It’s very quiet. I wait for him to say something, but I guess we’ve made our points, we’re resolved, because he eventually leaves, heading into the hall. I follow him and he turns, about halfway down the stairs.

I push him. He fails to grab hold of something, pulling the phone off the wall, and he lands very hard, shaking the dining room. Then it feels as if everything has stopped, as I stand on the steps for a while, looking at him on the floor, until he suddenly turns on his side, wheezing.

I pull out a chair; I sit beside him. The wheeze turns to breathing. He coughs. Then I lean down and slap the back of his head. He moans. I slap him again, and again, and he lets out a whine, or a squeal rather, and his neck starts to redden. I stop. He settles into a whimper.

I stand, feeling very alive, but then just cold again. I walk over him, carefully, and I pour myself a whiskey. I down it. My head keeps throbbing, and my body aches, so I reach into my pocket. I take a few pills and wash them down with whiskey, the warmth spreading quickly. I pour myself another, down it as well, and I look at the painting, now hanging crooked.

I lift it off the wall, place it on the floor; then I turn, annoyed by his whimpering. I head back to him and stand above him and he stops, just laying now. I stare at him for a while, until he seems too still, so I check if he’s breathing, crouching close, relieved that his chest is moving faintly, rising and falling. I walk over him again. I grab the bottle of whiskey.

I head upstairs, feeling dizzy, and I make it to my bed and lie down. I open the bottle and drink, spilling a bit. I look around, having lost the cap; I rest the bottle against my side. I look at my hand, still trembling, some blood on it. I wipe it on the sheets, but it’s already dried.

I start to feel hot, the warmth from the whiskey washing over me, coming in waves as I keep drinking, and I realize it’s also the sun shining through the window, and the blankets, so I get out of bed and the bottle goes with me. It begins to spill on the floor and I grab it fast and I take another swig while I’m at it and then I place it on the side table and I shut the curtains and take off my clothes and clear the blankets and I lay down again.

I take another swig and wonder if he’s alright then I wonder if she’s alright and I drink again. And then I think of everyone else and the comfort of being alone and I hear him moaning again and I drink again and my whole body begins to itch and everything spins.

•

There are birds chirping. My head pounds. I’m very thirsty and I have to piss badly so I get up, feeling suddenly sore. There’s debris in the hall, some plaster and wood. I listen, carefully.

I step forward, slowly; the floor creaks anyway. I stop and listen again, waiting a moment. Then I check the other beds, all still made. I head downstairs and notice the phone on the floor, the cord pulled out from the wall. He’s not here, either. I look outside, his truck gone now.

I piss for a very long time. I splash water on my face and drink, cupping my hands. I make coffee and sit on the deck for a while. Then I return inside and look where he landed again. I pick up the phone, looking quite broken; I plug it in and listen, finding it is. I glance at the painting, leaning against the wall, and I return to bed.

I stare at the ceiling. I listen to the trees sway. I think for a while, eventually figuring it time to leave. I pack my laptop and pad it with clothes and add all the rest, which is not very much. I fill a water bottle and wash down a pill and put my wallet and keys in my pockets.

I sling my pack over my shoulder and start out the back, feeling propelled, heading toward the water and turning behind the shed into the path along the lake. I duck under branches and pass between bushes grown thick on both sides and step onto the firm stone in the creek and continue over the mound where it seems the path stops into the tighter rows of birch with knots like eyes.

I wind my way through them grasping some of them as I pass and I try to keep mindful of the place where the trees widen slightly and there is a sudden drop. I manage to find it and step down carefully and I know there’s still a way to go but it’s quite easy from here on with the path continuing and widening and it’s easy enough even to keep my head down while I keep a strong pace though I do begin to feel tired.

I take a break at the point, drinking some water, and I sit against a tree and look at the other ahead of me. The trunk is gnarly and seeping, with sap accumulating over a bulbous knot; I look at the water instead, where there are patches of flickering, light breaking through the thick canopy.

I think on how she got the worst of it, though I suppose you could say that of Will, or perhaps you could say he was lucky, with nothing left of him. I look at my hands, now covered in scabs, very much shaking, and I doubt I’ve made things much worse, or better, all things considered, though it doesn’t exactly feel that way.

I close my eyes and rest my head back and listen to the water lapping, the leaves rustling, a boat in the distance, and for a moment the darkness gives way to a pulsing, orange and red, the sun penetrating my eyelids, warm on my face. I eventually catch my head lolling and sit up, feeling somewhat refreshed.

I finish my water. I continue along the path. Then I soon reach the clearing, for whatever they’re building, something new and large, and I consider using the portable toilets but decide against it. I go instead behind a pile of lumber, and I piss all around, trying to wet as much as I can.

I walk into the bar, entering from the back, and I look at the booths, all of them empty. I consider sitting in the last one but I sit at the bar instead. She comes out from the kitchen.

“Hi.”
I nod.
“Menu?”
I wonder again if she knows I was there.
She waits, struggling to smile.
“I’ll just have a Keith’s.”
She opens the draft, fills a glass.
“Thanks.”
She heads back.

Today she seems worse but maybe it’s me. Not that I blame her, being left alone with this place, that child, and the burden of someday explaining that tragedy, made all the more horrible by horrible vagueness. She could be much worse. I wouldn’t mind. I’d sit here and take it.

I sip, looking at the television. It’s showing a music video, but there isn’t any sound. The singer is blonde and strong and looks very loud as she steers what looks like a mower through traffic while drinking and flailing her arms, others flailing back. Now she appears to be buying a guitar, before slamming it down and striking the salesman. Then she walks across a lawn, wielding a chainsaw.

I sip again; I can’t help but stand. I head to the phones and pick up the receiver and insert my card, and I’ve just about finished dialing her number but I quickly hang up and take my card back. I return to the bar and drink. The singer’s on stage, flames shooting behind her.

She returns, looks at the screen. She points the remote. “You want to me change it?”
“No – this is fine.”
She gives me a look. Then she hands it to me. “In case you change your mind.”
“Thanks.”
She moves to end of the bar, leans against the counter. She takes out her phone, starts scrolling and tapping.

I sip again; another video begins in a diner. “What Ever You Like” appears on the screen. A waitress takes an order, from the artist, I guess. Then he gives her his number and she’s clearly smitten. I change the channel, find some news. A reporter is speaking in some kind of haze. Cyclists are passing as he uses a device, I guess for pollution. There are shots of traffic, a skyline, now a very large factory.

I look around. It’s clean and empty and the windows are open. I look at my glass before drinking again. “Sorry,” I eventually say.
She stares.
“I think I’ll look at the menu.”
She reaches under the bar, places it in front of me.
I pretend to review it.
She keeps scrolling and tapping.
“I’ll have the salad.”
“You want it with tofu, again?”
I nod.
She punches it in.

I turn as a large, sunburnt man walks in. He holds the door behind him; a woman holding a baby follows, and a small boy, screaming and crying, comes next. The man closes the door. Then they seat themselves in a booth, and he catches me looking. He smiles as the mother calms the boy, or tries, rather.

She looks up from her phone, looking annoyed. Then she heads over to them, smiling suddenly. I open my pack and pull out my wallet and find the hotel card with his number written on it. I look back at the television; they’re covering the weather. I hold the card between my fingers, tapping and flipping.

She comes back just as my lunch comes out, carried by the cook, a teenager with thick glasses and matted hair. He serves the plate awkwardly, not caring to center it.
“Thank you,” I say.
But he doesn’t say anything back.
She glares as he returns to the kitchen.
I put the card in my pocket.

I eat fast, but then I slow down, and I stop once I’m through about half. I lean back and sip my drink and stare at the screen for a while, at two men debating about something, it doesn’t matter what. I take another bite. I move my food around. Then I head for the phones with my drink.

I take a sip, put my drink down. I pull the card out and look at it briefly before putting it back in my pocket. I swipe my card and wait for the tone and I dial the number and sip again.

“Hello?” he says.
It barely rang.
“Hello who the fuck?” he sings.
“It’s Jacob.”
He stops chewing gum.
My heart beats fast.
“How are you?” he asks, almost whispering.
“I’m alright. You?”
He eventually laughs.

I strain for something to say. He starts chewing gum again. I finish my drink and put the glass down. I look at the bar and catch her glancing. She returns to the back.

“Hello?”
“Sorry – I shouldn’t have called.”
“The fuck, Jake.”
I breathe.
“Where are you?”
“I’m at the Bay. You?”
“In Florida with my aunt.”
I wait. “Do you know where Ai is?”
“She’s with her parents.”
I look down.
“Yeah.”
“I called her a while back. I tried sending money.”
“Yeah,” he says again.

We’re quiet for a while. The boy laughs for some reason. Then he shrieks and I turn. The parents both reach, trying to take something from him, but then they both stop, thinking that the other is taking it, before they both reach and stop again. They look at each other, looking annoyed.

“You should come,” he says.
“What?”
“It’s nice here.”
“It’s nice here, too.”
He doesn’t say anything.
I rub my eyes; I look at my glass.
“Jake.”
“Yeah?”
He whimpers.
I wait.
“Sorry.” He collects himself.
I resist hanging up.

The father approaches. He nods when he’s near, and I nod as he passes. He heads for the bathroom. The boy shrieks again, louder this time, and the mother leans in, speaking to him closely while feeding her baby.

I switch hands.
He’s not chewing gum anymore.
I look at my glass again.
“Jake?”
“I’m here.”
“Okay.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say.”
“I know, baby.”
“Well, I guess I’ll go now.”
“Please don’t.”
I eventually say “Alright,” and I just listen to him, breathing.

I turn, lean against the wall. I hear someone else on the other end, a girl laughing, so I listen carefully. She’s speaking to someone, but it can’t be Jonas, he’s much too quiet, he must be listening too, and then there are others laughing and music playing and I realize he’s watching television.

I resist hanging up again, listening as the television eventually goes quiet, or far perhaps, and a bag of something is opened. A moment passes. Then the television grows clear again. He turns up the volume. There’s a crunch and more laughing. The father comes out from the bathroom, and I look the other way.

“I miss her.”
He finishes chewing. “Well, you know where we’ll be, in just a few weeks.”
It takes me a moment. “She’s still going?”
“Yeah – I mean, what else is there to do?”
I nod, as if he can see me.
The crunching again.

Another man enters, much thinner and older, and bald, wearing a fishing vest and nothing under it. He looks around. Then he sees her return from the kitchen, and he heads to the bar. He chats her up and she forces a smile again, pouring his beer.

“Jake?”
“Yeah.”
“How are you?”
“I’m fine; I just need another drink.”
“Please – tell me.”
I don’t say anything.
Another whimper.
I eventually say “Jonas.”
He collects himself again.
“I’m sorry – I have to go.”
“Okay,” he says, defeated.
“Bye.”

I return to the bar, bringing my glass. She fills it. I drink, and we listen to him rambling, about nothing, really, until she breaks free, heading back to the kitchen. He turns and raises his glass and I nod and look at the television, the men still debating.

The boy screams this time and the baby starts crying and we turn as the mother and father both stand, looking at each other. The father approaches. Then he places his hands on the bar, waiting.

“Your boy can sing,” the man says, drinking.
“Yes,” the father says, leaning forward, to see into the kitchen.
She comes back out, the boy screaming again.
“Excuse me – do you have any crayons?”
“What?”
“Crayons.”

I stand; I take my drink with me.

I head to the patio. The trees haven’t been trimmed in a while, with many dangling and some even touching the tables. I choose one and take the chairs down and use my pack to sweep the branches off and sit down, looking out. The growth is thick, the branches and leaves in front of other branches and leaves and many after that layered all the way to the shore, the water only partly visible.

I sip my drink. I close my eyes, and now I listen. There are birds around, the water further, and what I guess is the hum of the air conditioner. I focus on them, one at a time, and then all together, trying to get lost in it, until I think on how she found out, how she’ll tell her son, and what will become of him. I hear it again. Then I think on the distance that terrible echo will travel, seeing his eyes, older and hateful, like mine, with a fire that came out of nothing.

I wonder if the weight of my failure is not yet too great, if it’s still not too late. I sip again. Then I sigh, feeling a peace, or feeling the pill, and I start to drift off and see many eyes, the fire in them, so I open mine and shake it off and look around again. It’s the same as before. I finish my drink and head back inside.

The family is gone, but the other man isn’t, still sitting at the bar, swigging the last of his beer, alone now. I sit back down, my food still there. I look at the television, a film trailer playing, showing a clip of two women fighting in a bathroom. They strike each other and pull a lot of hair and throw each other around, breaking things. He laughs.

She’s back again.
He raises his glass.
She nods, taking it.
He grins as she pours.
She serves his drink and looks at me, waiting.
I nod, handing my glass as well.
He places a twenty on the bar.
“You settling up, John?”
He shakes his head. “That’s just for you, and just because you’re darling, darling. I’m just getting started.”
“Thanks,” she says, looking down. She puts the bill in her pocket, and she serves my beer.

I sip and look at the television, at the same women, but looking very different, posing on a red carpet; now they’re being interviewed, in a dark room, a poster behind them. I don’t know what they’re saying, the sound still off. They smile and they laugh.

“Not so fast,” he says.
She turns, half in the kitchen.
“Stay put for a while, would you?”
She pauses.
He’s sweating.
“Okay,” she says. “I just need a minute. I’ll be right back.”
He reluctantly nods.

We watch a commercial, for tourism to the Caribbean, starting with a panning view across a beach, eventually following a tanned couple, both in white swimsuits, as they run along the sand, laughing and playfully touching each other. Now they’re bathing under a waterfall, amid lush forest; then dining on the same beach, at sunset, the camera panning out as their waiter approaches.

She returns. “Okay,” she says, a bit abruptly.
“Everything alright?”
“Yes.” She fingers her hair over her ears.|
“You having trouble with that boy?”
“It’s fine.”
“He’s a bit of a tard, isn’t he?”
She looks down.
He drinks.

I look at her, leaning back, retreating to her phone. Then I glance at him, staring intensely.

“Well?”
She looks at him, at me; then back at him again.
“You’re not much for conversation, are you?”
She places her phone on the bar. “What would you like to talk about?”
He smiles. “Oh, nothing, really; whatever to pass some time with you, darling.”
She waits.
He drinks. “You like to fish?”
She keeps staring.
He laughs.

The moment lasts a while. I look at her, struggling to get through it. It seems she has nothing left, as if hollowed out and now just a shell that will surely collapse under the terrible weight of it.

“You get out this morning?”
He turns, a bit surprised.
She’s surprised as well.
“I did.” He sips.
I nod, sipping myself.
He leans toward her, about to start again.
“You catch anything?”
He turns once more, clearly annoyed. “I did,” he says again.
“I see.”
He looks at me now. “You get out this morning?”
I shake my head. “Too hungover.”
He titters.
“And too sore.” I raise my scabby hand; I open and close it.
She picks up her phone again.

I turn my beer, feeling him stare. Then I hold myself back and focus, thinking on his pain. I think on his failings, likely many and varied, and I think on his solitude, with no one probably left, no one to forgive him.

“How about a shot?”
He frowns.
“Come on.”
She glances at us.
“Alright,” he says.
I raise two fingers. “Jack.”
She sets the glasses; she pours.
I lift mine. “Cheers.”
“Cheers,” he says, but he doesn’t look back.
We down them.
I wipe my mouth with my hand.

I pick up the remote, start clicking through channels, and I stop on a soccer game. I turn up the volume as the camera moves across a crowd, where fans with red shirts and scarves and paint on their faces and in some cases bodies are screaming and smiling and waving their arms.

I turn up the volume again.
He turns.
I raise my beer.
He just drinks.
“You a fan?” I ask, loudly.
“Yes,” he eventually says.
“Hey,” I say, catching her attention. I raise my fingers again.
She sets the glasses; she pours.
He hesitates.
But we down them.

I pat his back; we return to the game. The ball is kicked around, uneventfully, but after a while a player runs into another, knocking them down, and they roll in agony, theatrically. I drink more beer, running cool down my throat, my chest growing warm from the whiskey.

He stands, reaches into his jeans.
I stand as well.
He places another twenty.
I turn down the volume. “That it?”
He nods, finishing his beer.
“Come on. We’re just getting started.”
She glances up.
He shakes his head and says “Thanks.”
I pat his back again.

He turns and leaves. She looks at me. I nod, and I click through the channels, soon getting through all and stopping on the game again. I sit down and drink.

Then I glance at her, and I search for more words. I suppose I could tell her that I was there and that was with him and that I was close and touching him in fact and that I saw something empty and true and good in his eyes along with the pain and the horror, something glorious. I shake my head, quite sure that will help.

“Are we not winning?”
I look up. “Sorry?”
She turns to the game.
“I don’t know.”
“Okay.”
I drink, finishing.
“You want another?”
I shake my head, handing my card. “Just the bill.
She nods.

I hold the pen, and I think on the words again. I eventually just sign the bill and leave her a tip, as large as my card will allow, and I leave.

•

I wait in line, with others, together ignoring a vague scent of piss. I insert my card and key in my number and withdraw the rest. Then I anxiously wait, as I usually do, until the machine counts, opens, presents money. I take it and my card and look at the receipt.

I step outside and wait once more, for a gap to rejoin the rest, and I find one and continue on, looking at the bald head of a suited man ahead, noting beads of sweat; then looking down, focusing on his leather shoes instead, stepping as he steps and stopping as he stops and eventually turning down the other street, toward the station.

It looks like it hasn’t changed for some time, though it’s hard to tell exactly, having a rectangular design conveying no particular moment, and a brick facade that may not be naturally brown, and very washed out. In any case, it’s wholly forgettable, and perhaps forgotten, and similar inside.

The walls are yellowed. The plastic seats are cracked; there are ashtrays fixed to them. It certainly has been left behind, like the others here, an old couple, wearing clothes they wore twenty years ago, a group of teenagers, pierced and tattooed, counting what little they have, and me, looking around, trying hard to get ahead of it.

The bus is cold. I sit in the back, beside a window, starting to get comfortable, until I notice the vent above me, blasting air. I try to close it but it’s stuck. I move up a row and open my pack and put on a sweater. I sit and place my pack on my lap, and I check for the envelope and open it slightly and look at the money before pushing it deeper and burying it again. I breathe.

I consider its worth, its meaning, against her loss, her pain, and the terrible mass of the rest. I suppose it’s a gesture, or it could be an insult, or perhaps you could say it’s a prayer. I shake my head and breathe again. Then I consider what happens to me, without it, and them, and I guess I’ll know fear and I’ll also feel hungry for once and thirsty for a very strong drink but it won’t any longer just be a swipe away so I’ll feel more and very much feel my own share of pain and perhaps that’s a gift, and maybe that’s also what’s missing.

I cross my arms over my pack and bury my face and with it I try to stifle the thinking I knew would come as I feel it come and feel it accelerate and I already feel fear with so much distance to travel and so much time for this thinking to culminate not knowing where it will take me but at once feeling drawn. I breathe once more, feeling heavier, my thoughts now thankfully sinking, feeling the creep of the pills.

But they’re not yet enough to stop me imagining that she might embrace me or strike me or just shake her head sickened by the all too familiar event of standing and staring at each other yet again not knowing what to do or say and what’s next. There are voices around me. I open my eyes, just slightly, seeing others boarding, and packing, and I lean against the window. It’s cool on my face; the voices blend.

And then there’s movement and it feels nice as well, like when we took the train to Montreal together and slept most of the way, her head on my shoulder. She must have felt trust, she must have felt safe, not yet fearing what’s happened. We later laid in a park, the drums in the distance.

I feel steady thumps, the bumps in the road. I open my eyes and watch as we pass the buildings, people going in and out, others walking by, all looking the same. We climb a ramp and I look at a brightness on one of the towers, the sun reflecting on mirrored windows, forming a glittering band that continues passed the tower, reflecting on others as well. I close my eyes for another while, just listening to the rhythm again, and it’s pleasant, at first; then suddenly terrifying.

I sit up. I notice a thin man beside me, smelling like cigarettes. I realize some time has passed and look outside, to see where we are, but it appears we’re nowhere, just heading along a highway, between barren fields and the occasional industrial building.

“You headed home?”
I turn to him.
He scratches his face.
I consider his question. “I’m not sure.”
He nods.
“You?”
“Headed back to Windsor.”
I wait. “Is that home?”
He shakes his head, biting his nails.

He opens his tray, places a lighter. He spins it every while. The woman across the aisle looks at us, and he stops. He closes his tray and his leg starts moving, up and down quickly.

He shifts in his seat. “You headed there, too?”
“Windsor?”
He nods.
“No – I’m going much further.”
“Across the river?”
“I guess so.”
“I’ve always wanted to go.”
“Okay.”
“But I can’t do it.”
“Why not?”
“No passport.”
“It’s not hard to get one.”
He shakes his head again. “Don’t like my picture taken, you know?”
I nod.

His leg eventually stops; he begins to snore. I watch some posts go by and I think on this road, imagining it continuing through stretches of more fields and passing buildings but the buildings becoming steadily less frequent then the road running through forest and climbing some hills while at once breaking off in places into other roads with those going other ways and some passing through towns and tunnels and over rivers and a few rejoining this road eventually.

And then my eyes feel heavy again as I imagine this road eventually joining a broader one yet and then I imagine what I’m headed into with so many roads spanning across that landscape and swelling as so many more of us pulse through in these cages holding our piss and shit in until we break to empty ourselves and fill ourselves again and likewise feed these machines more death until we reach our destinations with those being no less temporary.

I remind myself that many of us have experienced shining moments of joy along with the pain and that in some cases it must amount to something bearable and meaningful and collectively more but I also remember that it continues at a terrible cost such as the number of others sure to exist among so many who have felt nothing but suffering and I think on how we all play a part in that infliction and then I think on the arrogance to think that I can make anything right, that I can resist it, but I suppose I can neither resist trying.

I shake my head and let my eyes close and this time remind myself that there is also arrogance in that loftiness and that I’m trying to do something small, just trying to give her some comfort, perhaps a new start.

I feel a warmth and shift my pack and rest against it and I can’t help imagine being with her again in a very small room while it storms outside, the windows black, but then I see the spark in her eyes now knowing it well as I know myself and I know it’s too late but I also desperately hope that there’s still time for, something. I see waves breaking on a shore, and I resist seeing it as some fucking metaphor and instead see it simply as waves breaking on a shore, each wave washing over the sand, disappearing into it, the sand suddenly lightening with a very gentle whoosh.

More voices, and a nudge. I open my eyes and turn to him, but I don’t find him there and instead find a large woman standing as she pulls her bag from the rack above us, her flesh hanging over pink and grey joggers. I try to keep my eyes open. I open and close my hands, feeling pins in them. Most have left the bus already; her and I are the last.

She frees her bag and heads to the front and I follow her slinging my pack over my shoulder then I head out and find myself directed by many armed men, toward a line of passengers. I look around, noting the few ways out, tended by many more men, their faces blank.

Someone sucks their teeth; it came from the family ahead of me, a mother and an almost teenage girl and a very young boy. The boy is holding a purse open, the mother rummaging through it. She suddenly looks at him and scolds him with some word and he straightens for a moment, before soon reverting to a visible restlessness.

They sort themselves out. The line moves steadily. It’s soon their turn to approach the desk, another of the officers waiting. I ready myself, ready to walk up next and to hand him my passport; but they linger, encountering some issue, the mother going through her purse again. They’re eventually directed to a table, the officer leaving his desk.

I watch as he puts on latex gloves and he and the mother muddle through the distance between them, the former trying to remain expressionless but the other not hiding anything, shifting her body and twirling her hair and from the look of it all, maybe sucking her teeth again.

“Sir.” There’s another at the desk, waving me forward.
I hand him my passport.
“Why are you crossing?”
I hesitate. “I’m visiting friends.”
“How long will you be staying?”
I’m not sure; I say “A week.”
He looks at me, back at my picture.
I try to stay still.
He hands my passport. “Thanks.”

I head through some doors and look around, noting a way up a ramp, the way I suppose the buses have gone. But I’m unsure and pause, the officers glancing, with their dogs; I approach one of them, a woman with her hair pulled back very tight.

She points. “Please continue outside.”
“Is my bus up there?”
“Please continue outside, sir.” She looks at me straight, the others as well.
I do as she says.

I reach the street and find the buses, lined up and waiting. I look up, many towers here as well. I stare at one for a while, at something painted on it, dulled and flaking and wholly illegible. Then I look down the street at an enormous pillared building, an iron fence around it, its lot entirely empty, and it suddenly strikes me that something’s different. It’s quiet. There aren’t any cars on the roads, just one in the distance, turning a corner, and there’s no one walking around. I consider looking some more; I find my bus instead.

I knock on the door.
It opens, releasing air.
“Are we leaving soon?”
“You have a ticket?”
I show it to him.
“What’s it say on it?”
I look at it. “Sorry – I don’t have the time.”
He crosses his arms, leans back. “You have about an hour.”
“Thanks.”
The door shuts behind me.
I consider turning around.

It would be nice to get a good seat again, to get very comfortable and to take some more pills, to return to a drift through the long way ahead. But I’m hungry, and curious, and there’s time for that yet, so I walk in the direction of the car, looking up every while, at the dark windows, the fine moldings, the arches and frames, until I reach the corner and turn as well.

There’s a 7-11 coming up, some men and a woman across it. Some are standing and some are sitting and some are laying on the sidewalk, one half in a tent. One let’s out a cry, or a laugh, or something in between. I head inside the store, a guard holding the door for me.

I stare at a cabinet displaying hot dogs and pizza and sticks of glazed meat. I eventually pass on them, continuing down an aisle, the store not unlike the others I’ve visited, with a bit of everything, but nothing good.

I reach the refrigerated shelves at the end, beside the drink machines, and I notice another mother, filling an enormous cup with slush, her daughter next to her. She’s seated in a stroller too small for her, kicking her feet and drinking from her own enormous cup; she sees me and smiles, her mouth blue, and I turn to the sandwiches. I glance at the woman again, seeing she’s pregnant, and I grab a cheese sandwich and a bottle of water as I head back through the aisle and straight to the cashier. He doesn’t look at me, perhaps out of habit, and I don’t blame him. I wouldn’t look, either.

I continue down the street, well away from the others, before opening my sandwich. I bite into it, wash it down with water. I keep biting and drinking and it’s very soon done. I swing my pack around and find the pills. I wash some down as well.

I figure I’ll turn at the next corner, to start heading back, but I stop as a pair of tinted doors open, just as I pass them, a very large couple exiting and laughing. A wave of noise follows them, spilling outside, until the doors shut again. I watch them stumble across the street, the man grabbing the woman’s huge ass. They turn into an alley, disappearing, and I step forward, toward the corner again. But then I wonder if I can get through the building they came from, coming out the other side, and I pivot and head in.

The sound is chaotic, dizzying, but perhaps calculated, the clicks and dings and melodies; they playfully rise and fall, sounding bright like the carpets and walls and lights. I pass many machines, some of them horrifyingly themed, with sports machines and racing machines and western machines and also, standing tall at the center of the hall, a frail woman seated at it, holding another very large drink, a Britney Spears machine. I consider turning around but then I see the exit, on the other side, so I continue on, passing the card tables quickly, flinching slightly as someone yells.

I choose the same seat, the bus still empty. I settle in as before, leaning against the window and holding my pack and waiting for the pills. I look across the street, at a fire escape on one of the towers, many steps strangely missing. I stare at another building, half collapsed with weeds growing from the rubble, climbing the walls and dangling in places. I close my eyes, hoping they don’t open, at least until we’ve long departed again.

Why must a thought always rush in, as soon as there’s space for it? Why can’t the space rush in, penetrating the thought, the noise, the matter? I sigh, knowing of course that asking won’t help, trying instead to picture the waves. I see them. I see an ocean, the surface swelling. And I see a lot more, as if panning out, a curve visible along the horizon. Then I see him on the floor again. I see him arrive home, his face swollen, holding his side, and I see the familiar look in her eyes, the fear, but also a new recognition, that his money’s just paper, not even that. I clench my teeth hard.

We were somewhere warm. She was young, not yet afraid, and we were sitting on the porch of a small beach house, the sun going down. We watched a flock of birds flying over the water, one eventually diving, followed by the rest; when they breached the surface they caused many small eruptions, the water catching the light, looking like fire. It’s a nice memory, but I wonder if it’s that, exactly, having never bothered, I realize, to ask if it actually happened. I guess I could have watched it somewhere, or imagined it entirely, like I may be imagining the motion I’m feeling again.

I open my eyes, seeing that we are moving now, passing an abandoned gas station, some tents under the cover, a lot where something once stood, only debris and grass left, and a tall building standing alone, one side covered with many different paints, seemingly thrown from the roof, forming layers of colourful spills. There is a field in front of the building. I figure it would be nice to lay there, staring at the colours and sky.

“It’s a choice,” someone says.
“It ain’t like that.”
“It is.”
“Fuck – don’t take it personal.”
“I don’t; but I worry for her.”
“What are you saying?”
“She’ll go to hell for it.”
A groan.

They’re behind me. I keep my eyes closed, trying to fall in again, and I manage, now feeling very warm, just hearing whispers, but then I think on what I’ll do again, when all this goes bad.

A laugh.
“I ain’t doing that.”
“Okay, but say you don’t love me.”
“You’re cold, man.”
“He’s old, man.”
“So what?”
“Just forget it.”
“I will – just say you don’t love me.”
“Fuck you.”
Another laugh.

Then it’s back to the whispering, so thankfully vague, and the bumps on the road again. I stare as we pass many fields, or I imagine my staring, the fields giving way to trees every while, and the occasional billboard, but all of it eventually seeming too similar, as if repeating, the trees and fields and billboards and the same trees and fields and billboards again. It’s both awful and pleasant, and I know it’s a matter of time, until I’m awoken, but I also know I can sink much deeper, with the distance remaining and the plentiful pills. It goes very quiet, warmer yet, and all of it fades, almost going black were it not for a faint layer of light, drifting slowly, like a piece of silk underwater.

I open my eyes, hearing something. Then I flinch, seeing a palm strike the pane; it squeaks as the hand slides down, smearing. There are people outside, their faces twisted and mouths gaping as they punch the air and strain themselves yelling. I sit up, wondering if I’ve awoken, the woman beside me standing now, looking outside. We’ve come to a stop, or are moving slowly, as many march on and stream around us, some carrying signs.

I drink some water, look at the sky. It’s almost dark. I wonder if enough time has passed; but then I figure I’ll just take my chances, and I take out the pills. I wash down more, a few after that, the woman glancing as she sits back down.

We break away from the crowd, picking up speed again, driving along a river, across some buildings, their insides lit for the many still working, staring at their screens. We pass them then pass smaller buildings and turn away from the river and begin to pass through a neighborhood, the windows with bars but the people outside on porches and lawns and corners, enjoying the heat of the night. I stare, seeing how far the neighborhood stretches; it seems endless, with house after house and many more people and more after that.

But then it does end, or it changes rather, with fewer people outside and the houses getting nicer, and the space between them widening, and the gardens and trees growing larger as well. It’s soon very clearly a different place entirely, with a distance between each property, and most of the many windows dark, and no one in sight. That too eventually passes, with the road opening and the houses even sparser until we’re well away from it all, among trees and fields and billboards again.

I could just keep going; it would be easier that way. I mean, I could keep buying tickets. I could ride from place to place, or nowhere to nowhere. I wonder where I’d run out, and awaken, or not wake at all. Perhaps I could even afford a car. That way I could be alone, driving as far I could pay for gas, and food, and water and pills, or until I’m stopped for a license. Or perhaps I could just park somewhere, in the woods, or behind some hills, in a place where no one would find me. Then I could peacefully waste away, like a dying animal, and no one would know it.

I try to recall it, the absence, and I begin to discern it, the branches, the fronds; they’re reaching into the light, blooming downward. I breathe. Then I feel the heaviness swell, and I start to sink with it, and it’s nice, until I can’t tell which way is up, and I focus my breathing, fearing I’ll stop. I shudder, trying but failing to open my eyes; I can’t keep my head up.

The darkness stretches, and tears. I break through a film and it’s suddenly bright. My eyes adjust, revealing blue skies, now something gray, and green. I’m somewhere high, on top a tower, other towers around me, much taller, most of the windows gone, many walls crumbled, and plants sprawling everywhere, climbing and spilling. It’s very quiet but for a faint howling. I turn one way; then the other. The sound seems to be everywhere. I guess it’s the wind passing between the towers, and through them, maybe also faintly echoing.

I try to look at myself, at my feet on the roof, at my hands, but it seems I’m only observing somehow, without any presence. I wonder if it will all vanish when I awaken, or if it will continue to exist somewhere, crumbling and growing, unseen and pure. It all goes dark; the howling continues.

I try to open my eyes again, managing this time, also managing, with some effort, to sit up. The seat beside me is empty, the bus mostly dark, just a reading light on a few rows ahead. I look outside, but there’s nothing to see, so I look the other way, across the aisle, seeing another person sleeping, entirely under a blanket. I think on their pain.

I have to piss bad. I feel very weak so I grasp the seat in front of me, readying myself to stand, but then I look at my pack, not wanting to leave it; I decide to bring it. I try to stand but fall back, surprised. I feel very dizzy. I start to see spots. I wait a moment, breathing deeply. Then I try to stand again, now succeeding, though my legs are unsteady, trembling. I head to the bathroom, holding seats as I pass, glancing at the others sleeping, thinking on them as well.

I balance my pack on the sink ledge, not wanting it on the floor, and I look at myself, with little recognition, the mirror made of steel, warping my reflection. I stare a while, the reflection shifting as the bus does, as it sways on the road, and I think on where she might be, at this very moment, and if she knows I’m coming. I undo my pants and piss into the bowl, mostly, for a very long time, my eyes occasionally closing. I don’t recall returning, but I’m in my seat now. My pack is on my lap. I open it, feeling around, eventually finding the envelope.

The darkness again, now contours emerging, some jagged edges. I soon see it whole, a mountain, large and silent; it suddenly bursts, spewing magma and fire, though still strangely quiet. I see it closer, the surging and flowing, moving thick and slowly, at first, before crashing and coursing through channels, these veins of brightness. I’m closer yet, seeing bubbles and swirls and in all that shifting glimpses of more, a hand reaching out, a body, a face in joy or anguish. I see them in moments but they vanish quickly, back into the light.

Suddenly a room, very bare, with two small beds. There are bodies in them, breathing slowly, the heads showing, both shaved. The ceiling illuminates, a body rises, the other next, mirroring the first. They stand, facing each other but looking down. The first starts for a door, followed by the other. They’re dressed the same, wearing plain robes. I somehow gather one is a woman, the other a man.

Now they’re sitting at a table, beside each other. They’re eating something grey and uniform, not saying a word, their spoons barely touching their bowls. They eventually finish, only seconds apart. They stand with their bowls and head to a sink. They take turns washing, placing their bowls and spoons on a cloth, laid neatly on a counter.

The woman heads into another room, closes the door behind her. The man turns away, just facing a corner. A piercing sound, faint at first but growing louder, eventually becoming a jarring squeal, or a scream. The man crouches, holding his ears and shaking his head.

My head pounds. I open my eyes and look through the window; I turn away, wait before trying again. The glass is tinted but it’s still too bright. I stand and look around, seeing no one inside. I look outside again, seeing the others, some talking and smoking and a few at a door, on the side of a gas station. I finish my water, wanting some more. I put on my pack; my head keeps pounding.

I close my eyes as I step outside. I wait again, leaning against the bus, and I hear someone close. They open a compartment, pull something out.
“Where are we?” I ask.
“Red Cloud.”
I slowly open my eyes, looking at the others, some glancing back, the driver crouching, searching through a bag, and a broad sky, totally clear and slightly green but steadily clarifying. The blue emerges, a glowing band in the center, spreading out from both sides.
“How much time do we have?”
“About fifteen minutes.”
I head for the station.

I’m greeted by a cutout, the colours faded, a woman in a bikini holding her thumbs up cheerfully. There isn’t much else here, a shelf with snacks, a cooler with drinks, and columns of cigarettes behind a man wearing a frayed cap, reading a paper on the counter. I grab some water and bring it to him and I also give him some money and he gives me change, neither of us saying anything.

I step outside. I open my bottle and eagerly drink, a few of the others glancing again. I wander away from their view, around the side of the building, looking at the windows, each of them boarded; I continue around the back. There is a great stretch of grass ahead, straight to the horizon, with swells of earth, long gentle hills, cleanly dividing the land and the sky. I breathe deep. I feel somewhat awakened, my head feeling better.

There’s a wreck further ahead, a truck long abandoned. I think on the time but then I just head to it, eventually finding it entirely covered in rust, the windows gone, the upholstery too, with only springs left. I stop, hearing something.

It’s panting. I walk around, carefully, finding a dog lying on the ground, very thin, ribs showing, stomach caved and breathing fast. I crouch. He doesn’t move but his eye turns upward, black, seeking mercy, perhaps. I stand and look around. Then I crouch again, touching him, and I look around once more, thinking on how I would do it. I hurry back to the front. There are less of the others outside. I head inside the station.

“Is that your dog out back?”
He looks up from his paper. “I seen him roaming this morning; he ain’t mine.”
“I think he’s sick.”
He looks at his paper again. “He could very well be.”
I wait. “We should do something.”
“What’s that?”
“Call someone.”
“There’s a phone out front. You can call anyone you like.”
I look outside, the rest now entering the bus. “I have to go; just check on him, would you?”
He neatly closes his paper. He stares. “I said he ain’t mine.”
I stare back.

I head to the cooler for another bottle of water and look for something else and very soon settle on a bag of jerky then quickly return to the counter. I give him more money. He gives me more change, and he places the water and jerky in a bag. He hands it to me.

I glance at the bus seeing the door open but no longer seeing anyone around and I hurry around the building again this time cutting around the corner a bit too fast knocking something down but not slowing down to see what it is just continuing to the wreck and behind it.

The dog looks at me, a fly near his eye, and I crouch down and swat the fly away and touch him again and he whines this time, barely. I open the bottle and look around, looking for something to pour it in, worrying about the time. I settle on a hub cap, hoping the rust doesn’t make him any sicker. I pour the water and place it near his mouth, petting him, but he doesn’t drink. I open the bag of jerky, emptying it beside the water, and I try to feed him some but he doesn’t go for it, either. The fly returns.

The bus is moving. I run after it. I catch up just as it’s turning on to the road. I knock on the door and the bus stops; the door eventually opens. I step inside, keeping my head down, saying “Sorry” to the driver, feeling him stare, and I walk down the aisle, avoiding looks from the others, saying “Sorry” to them as well. I head straight to the bathroom. I lock the door behind me and open my pack and find the pills and open the bottle.

I look at myself. I empty the bottle into my mouth and crush the pills, tearing, until I suddenly gag, heaving forward and spitting what’s left in the sink. I run the water. I cup my hands, washing my mouth out, and I think on what’s next. I stare again.

•

A piece of fabric drifts toward me, carried by a breeze. I grasp it. I lie down. Then I place it over my face, the sun now bearable, as if dulled by a sky of ash. I eventually sit up, looking at the cracked earth, the hills much further ahead.

The sound of a vehicle, the wheels crushing the ground. I turn, an enormous breast approaching, a spiral painted around the nipple. The whole thing swirls, the truck it’s mounted on continuing forward. It stops. Then the door opens and an obese man in a dress emerges, his bald head sweaty. He walks with the help of an absurdly large staff.

“Hoo-ah!”
I stand.
He catches his breath. “I saw you alone out here.”
I nod.
“You must be thirsty.” His eye shakes.
I show him my water bottle.
“It’s your soul, brother.”
“Sorry?”
“Look!”

He waddles to the breast, rests his staff against it. He uses both hands to unlatch the nipple. Then he draws out a hose and raises the nozzle and closes his eyes and opens his mouth. He pushes his thumb against the valve, slowly; the flow is strong.

He wipes his mouth and the foam on his beard vanishes, leaving dripping beads. He offers the hose.
“What is it?”
“A wondrous brew.” He smiles wide, his eye shaking again.
I consider it. “I think I’m okay.”
“It’s good, brother – look.” He raises the hose, drinks some more. Then he offers the hose again.
I take it and drink.
“Hoo-ah.”
I wipe my mouth; then I drink again.
“Hoo-ah!” he yells.
I hand the hose back.
He pats my back hard.
“Thanks,” I say.
He stares, both eyes shaking this time.
I nod.
He bows as best he can.

I walk, looking down mostly, until I hear a clanking. Someone is walking in some kind of armour, made of scrap metal, car parts and license plates; they wave and I wave back. I look up again when I hear laughing, a nude couple on bikes; I stop to let them pass, and they nod and smile in thanks. Then it’s a car, or a bit more than a car, with a platform built onto the back and others packed on it, dancing.

I stop to also let it pass but on its approach it begins to slow down, and then it stops, the cloud of dust behind it settling. The car’s covered in fur. The driver leans out the window. He turns down the music.

“Hey, man.”
“Hey.”
He stares. “Well, come on.”
I hesitate. I start for the passenger door but find the seat taken, by an inflatable woman.
“Up here, man.” He taps the hood.
I look at it.
“I’ll keep her steady.”
I climb on. I swing my pack around, lie against the wind shield.

We roll forward. We pick up speed, and he turns up the music again, amid a lilting song I’ve never heard before, a woman singing about summer wine, a man singing back. We pass many others, most on bikes, a few walking, others waving. Then we turn around a large dome, made of pipes joined in triangles; there’s another pair on top, both working hard on it.

We reach the rows of tents and trailers. We slow down, turning into one of the lanes. The music stops for a while, until it suddenly returns, this time blaring something I recognize, an orchestral song from a film, maybe played near the end, very steadily culminating. It grows louder, others emerge from their shelters, more of them bare, and they wave with the music. I glance at the driver and the others behind us, their hands cupped, turning just slightly. And then comes a familiar chorus, singing Beauty and the Beast, and the many now watching start swaying. I raise my hand, wave as well. The song soon reaches a climax, and just as suddenly stops. The car does as well.

I get off, putting my pack back on. I raise my hand and say “Thanks.” The driver tips an imaginary hat, and I head down another one of the lanes, eventually reaching a line of others waiting. I join them, not bothering to ask what we’re waiting for, just keeping to myself, until I stand on my toes and manage to see a large topless woman at the end, her breasts fat and sweaty, stationed at what looks like a bar, under a few lace umbrellas.

The line doesn’t move, but there’s a beeping after a while, and I stand high again, seeing the woman waving. She’s directing a truck as it reverses toward her. It eventually stops. Then she pulls a lever releasing the door and it noisily springs upward, revealing a large pile of oranges and ice, with some of it spilling and a bit making it over the barrier that keeps it all from coming out entirely. Everyone cheers. They settle down. I hear ice being blended, more cheering, and the line starts to move.

“Suck my dick.”
I turn.
It’s a girl beside me now, her hair in pigtails, holding a bottle. She points toward her bikini bottom, a stack of plastic shot glasses in it, the top one filled with something pink.
I shake my head.
“I’ll do it.” Another girl’s voice.
We turn to it.
Her hair is buzzed, and bleached. She too is wearing a bikini, but also a collar with a chain running from it, linked to another around her waist. She crouches.
The girl steps forward, thrusting slightly.
Then the other stares upward, her hands on her thighs, taking her time, before closing her eyes and opening her mouth and covering the top.
Someone whistles.
She tilts back, drinking.
Everyone cheers again.

The line moves fast, and I’m soon up front. I look straight, trying to avoid looking at the woman’s huge, glistening breasts. She makes it hard, just standing there, smiling, waiting for me to say something, I guess.

“I’ll have what everyone’s having.”
“Of course, honey. I’ll just need your cup.”
I pause. Then I finish the last of my water, and I raise my bottle. “Will this do?”
“It might, but that’s no way to celebrate.”
I nod.
She looks me up and down. “Is this your first time?”
“Sorry?”
She pulls out a bell, starts ringing it loudly, her arm flapping.
A frail man emerges from a tent, looking startled, perhaps just awoken. He’s wearing chaps and carrying a briefcase and what looks like a brand.
I look around, everyone watching.
She puts her hand on my shoulder. “This won’t hurt, honey, unless you want it to.”
“What?” She bends me over.

She pulls my shorts down, my underwear with it. I cover myself as she spanks a cheek hard; there’s a shout and some laughter. I turn, seeing the man lean the heart shaped brand against the bar. He crouches and opens the briefcase, revealing what looks like a large ink pad. He picks up the brand and presses it into the pad and raises it and smiles, showing mostly bare gums, a pair of gold teeth.

She braces me.
I feel the brand, the cold metal.
The cheering once more, a whistle again.
She leans in, her breast against me. “Do you want a blow job?”
I don’t say anything.
I feel her blowing gently, on the spot that was branded.
The man pats my back.
She stands.
I pull up my shorts.

She scoops ice into the blender, adds some orange juice. She starts pouring vodka and I try to hand her my bottle, but she winks and says “I got you, honey.”

She looks around. “Bo!”
The man turns. He was behind her, speaking with someone in a mask made of shards, pieces of mirror.
“Where’d you run off to?”
“I’ve been here the whole time.”
“Get me my Hildur.”
“Where is it?”
She rolls her eyes.
“Alright, alright,” he says, heading back to the tent.

More music blaring, a song they all seem to know. They nod and wave and jump with approval, and her body sways, her flesh swinging. She blends the orange juice and ice and vodka. Then he emerges from the tent, a horn strung around his neck.

She releases the blender, takes the horn from him.
He joins the rest, lewdly dancing.
She fills the horn and raises it and drinks fast, some spilling on her breasts.
I look away. Someone outside another tent is bent over, vomiting.
She wipes her mouth, smiling. Then she fills the horn again, hands it to me.
I take it and drink; it’s cold, and strong. I hand it back.
She shouts over the music. “She’s yours now!”
I hand it further.
“You’re going to need her!” She places it around my neck, carefully.
I look down at it. I swing my pack around, open it, and I pull out some money.
She shakes her head.
I wait.
She touches my face. “We don’t do that here!”
I eventually say “Thanks.”

I sip my drink, heading further down the lane. I soon arrive at the other edge of the camp, and I look at the creations, spread very wide, a sculpture of a man and woman embracing, a whirlwind of dust forming near them, an enormous Rubik’s cube, it must be two stories, and an oddly placed tent, very far out; I head toward that.

I mostly look down again, soon finishing my drink, and I let the horn hang. I look up after a while, and I’m surprised how far I still have to go, so I quicken my pace, looking down once more, until I feel lightheaded, I guess from the sun and the beer and the drink. I reach for my bottle and remember that it’s empty. I close my eyes and stop, swaying. I open them and continue walking, a bit slower now. There’s another welcome breeze.

It picks up, enough that a fine dust begins blowing into my face. I squint for a while. I raise my arm. Then I eventually turn, walking backward, feeling the dust accumulating on my clothes, my skin, my eyelids even. I lick my lips, quickly learning that I shouldn’t, feeling the dust turn into clay. I try and fail to spit it out. I keep walking backward. The wind grows stronger yet.

I stop, try to look around, but I can’t really see anymore. It’s all just haze, though I manage to hear something, a thumping; it’s growing louder, closer, the sound of steps, many of them, mechanically striking the ground. I hear laughing, and I shield my eyes and strain, looking toward the sound. It gets very close and I make something out, just for a moment, a walker of some kind, spider-like, a man seated in the center. He leans back, cackles as he passes. I wait until I don’t hear him anymore. Then I just stand, waiting for the wind to settle, but it shows no sign of letting up so I sit on the ground, cross-legged, and I close my eyes again.

The sound of the dust, a whooshing, flowing around me in waves. I focus on it until I start slipping, into a darkness, the sound growing distant. I breathe, now only hearing my breathing, until very soon that too is gone.

A hand on my shoulder.
I look up, seeing a silhouette, dark against the haze. I make out a head, a top hat, goggles and a bandana.
“Hello, friend.”
I reach for my water, again not remembering.
He hands me his.
I drink and say “Thanks.”
“Je vouz en prie.” He’s in a tuxedo. He bows and offers his hand.
I grasp it.
And he pulls me up.
I look around; the dust has started to settle, not enough to see far, but enough that it’s bearable.
“Come,” he says.

We hurry forward for a very long while. I imagine that we’re headed nowhere, that I’ll somehow be following him forever, and the horror of that notion strikes me suddenly, and I stop, pulling back slightly. He turns, smiling, assuring me that “We are almost there,” so we continue on, and soon enough the large tent becomes visible. He leads me to it.

I say “Thanks” again.
He bows once more. Then he disappears, back into the haze.
The tent is droning.

I make my way around it, trying to hear more, trying to find a way in, and I hear a voice, or a cough, from someone inside. I eventually find the entrance, a nearly invisible slit, and I consider going in but then I just stand, mustering up the will. I open the flap. It’s very dark, but for the beam of light now shining through the opening, across what appear to be pillows, and bodies, some faces looking up. Someone touches my hand.

“Please come in,” they whisper, and the sunlight vanishes, the flap behind me closing. My eyes adjust, and I see the bodies everywhere, in the glimmer of a projection above them, coming from a device at the center of the tent, its rays illuminating smoke from incense. The few that looked have lied back down; they stare at the light.

I rub my hands together, feeling the dusty film; I run my hands through my hair, feeling it there as well. The hand ushers me forward, eventually showing me a spot, an opening, for me to lie as well. I’m handed a small, cool glass with something very fragrant in it. I drink it, a mint tea. Then I hand the glass back and lie down, touching the bodies around me. They quickly adjust. I place my pack between my legs.

I look at the projection, the light shifting, warped by the smoke as it drifts and coils. I focus on the image, trying to make it out, and then I listen, figuring that may help. At first it’s just the droning, though I soon discern a rise and fall, a whooshing, not unlike the sand outside, with a hint of something human. It’s a voice. It’s coming from of an apparition now appearing in the smoke; it slowly settles, eventually revealing a woman on stage, singled out by a spot light, her skin glowing and her eyes closed and her arms in the air, a blur joining her slight movements. I realize she’s singing but that it her performance is slowed, so we are watching and hearing a sustained moment, seconds turned into minutes, the whole of it perhaps stretching hours.

Her voice washes over us, and I breathe as the others next to me breathe, their bodies swelling. I enjoy it all for a very long while until it feels that it’s all too much. I breathe again. I sit up, meeting the usher’s glance. I raise my hand but someone pulls me down. I don’t try again and I try to calm down and I steadily fall back into it, no longer resisting.

I wake, a hand on my face, calloused and dry; it reaches my forehead and runs through my hair. It’s quiet, apart from the occasional whisper, and shuffling. I’d rather not open my eyes so I wait. The person with me finally stops. I listen to them leave and then I sit up, seeing the inside well lit, bright with light from many openings, revealing a mess of Persian rugs and pillows but also my bottle beside me, now full. I drink. I check inside my pack, all still there. I attach my bottle to the strap again.

I step outside, shield my eyes. The dust has settled. The playa is white, the sky very blue, a shimmer between them. I see the tents and trailers again, but also from here, directly ahead, the effigy standing, many stories high, it’s arms outstretched.

I consider heading for it but then I see something else, also very large, but wide where the other is tall, resembling an ark, looking quiet somehow. I head for it instead, keeping a very strong pace, with the heat and distance to cover, and this time I keep my head down, even as I pass others, hearing them walking and riding and talking and laughing and some of them playing music. There’s a shout a distance away, and it turns into a different sort of laughter, riotous and theatrical, and I’m curious about it but I manage to keep my focus, and when I finally look up the structure is not much further ahead, many scattered around it, seeming strangely quiet as well.

I make my way through a small crowd, nearing the ark, and no one pays me mind, just staring at it instead. I walk along its breadth, impressed by the long wooden beams, smooth, remarkably curved, running my hand across it, until I find a way in.

It’s cool inside, and mostly dark. The sun is beaming through small holes in the roof, all round but varying in size; they form a constellation mirrored on the ground, with the largest and brightest circle near the center, the widest opening above it.

There are many others here, some roaming in the darkness, most gathered around the light. And it’s mostly quiet though there is a whimper somewhere, sounding like it could be coming from anywhere, the sound traversing the volume around me.

I walk slowly, not wanting to disturb whatever is happening, especially as I approach the large circle at the center, noticing others gathered around an illuminated pile, of photos and letters, a few stuffed animals, a blanket, a guitar, a violent painting, a bottle of whiskey and a carton of cigarettes, a coffee mug, some underwear stained with blood, an unopened present, a sweater, baby shoes, a dried rat, notebooks, a birth certificate and a braid.

The whimpering fades, but then there’s a mumbling, much closer. I turn to the group just behind me. They’re huddled around one of the smaller circles, which I also approach carefully, finding the sound coming from a woman on her knees, others around her, keeping their distance. I stand with them, watching her say “I’m sorry,” curling forward, her face in her hands. “I know what I did. I know it now, or maybe I’ve always known.” She says “I’m sorry” again. Then she wails, looking away, and up, her hands trembling. Someone crouches, touches her back. She’s quiet for a while, until she says “I wish you were here. I wish I could you could hear this; but even if you could, I know it would be too late. It’s always too late.”

She opens her pack, pulls out some pictures. She looks at each of them, taking her time, before placing them into the light. I look at the others, also watching. Then I turn away, suddenly feeling that we shouldn’t be watching, feeling a weight in my chest.

I come out the other side. I look at the hills again, far in the distance, but there’s also something else, a small house; it wasn’t there before. I realize it’s moving, slowly, on wheels concealed by a skirt of tilted mirrors, so it looks like it’s floating somehow. I catch up. It’s white, with yellow window trims, a red door, even a bit of garden. It stops.

He opens the door, a man dressed plainly, his shirt tucked into khakis, wearing thick glasses. “You coming from the temple?”
“I guess.”
“How was it?”
“It was fine.”
He shakes his head. “They’re misaligned, you know.”
I wait.
He looks around.
I look around, too.
“You want to come in? I have beer.”
“Okay.”

The inside is different, the floor and walls and ceiling just raw boards. There’s a bike seat in the center, fixed to handles and pedals, facing the largest window. There’s also a cot in the corner, a ladder leading up to an attic, and a smell. He climbs the ladder. “You coming?” he asks. I climb after him.

Everything is suddenly pink, except for the floor, which is carpeted white. There’s a pink bed, with frilled pillows, a painted chest in a corner, some initials on it, and a large stuffed bear in another corner, wearing a crown. There are also pink curtains, frilled as well, and a round piece of glass hanging in front of another large window, this one arched.

“This is my sister’s room.”
“Okay.”
He opens the chest, hands me a beer.
I touch his bottle and drink.
“This your first time?”
I look away, drinking again.
“The light is perfect sometimes.”
I nod.
He sits, leaning against the wall, beside the bear.
I sit as well, cross-legged.

He’s stares at the bed. He looks at the window. Then he stares at the bed again. He catches me looking and he nods this time, drinking. I look at the glass hanging in front of the window; it’s slightly prismatic.

He doesn’t say anything.
I take my pack off. I shift further back, reaching the wall, and I lean back as well.
“I’m Tom.”
“I’m Jacob. Thanks for the beer, Tom.”
“You’re welcome.”

He folds his hands. Then he frees them and drinks, glancing at the bed again. He puts down his drink and pulls a pipe from his pocket, also a lighter. He places the pipe in his mouth.

Then he raises the lighter. “You mind?”
I shake my head.
He lights the joint, takes a few pulls. Then he hands it to me, the smoke meandering.
I take a pull and hand it back. I close my eyes.
“Hey,” he eventually says.
I look at him, waiting.
He looks down. “Would you do me a favour, Jacob?”
“Maybe.”
“Wuh-wuh-would you pedal and steer for a while? I need to navigate, from here, to find the light.”
I don’t read into it; I resist asking. I just drink and say “Sure.”

He suddenly stands, and waits, meaning I guess that he wants to start now. I stand as well, and he opens the chest again. I down my beer and he hands me another; I put my pack back on. I climb back down, holding my beer, carefully.

I place my beer in a holder, attached to the handles. Then I try pedaling, but the pedals don’t budge, so I try standing, pushing my weight down, and I manage to get one going. I shift my weight to the other. I push hard again, this time getting the pedal down with less effort, breathing as I build momentum.

“That’s it, man!”

I push down again, and again, and I’m soon able to sit. I sip my beer and look through the window, the house creaking as we creep forward, toward more of the playa, the hills and the sky. The colours have softened, the sun lower now. I fall into a rhythm, drinking and pedaling.

“Twenty left!”
I listen for more.
“Twenty left!” He shouts again.
“What?”
“Stee-steer twenty degrees left, please!”

I look at the handles, now noticing a dial. I turn hard, trying to align with the marker, finding the handles as challenging as the pedals, though with some effort they also give way, soon aligning with the twenty; then passing it.

“Too far, man!”
Turning back is harder.
He mumbles.
“What?”
He doesn’t answer.
I finish my beer.
“Ten to the right!”
I get the hang of it.
“Now straighten her out!”
I stand and push hard.
“Okay!” he says.
I keep pedaling.
“Stop, please!”

I get off the seat, my shirt very wet. I breathe. Then he descends the ladder, holding a beer. He hands it forward and I eagerly drink.

“Thanks.”
I nod, sipping. “Did you find what you’re looking for?”
“I think so; we’ll see.”
“Great.”
“You should get some rest.” He points to the cot.
“I think I’ll just sit for a while.”
He excitedly nods. “I’ll be upstairs.”

I sit. I remove my pack. I lean against a wall again. I close my eyes and breathe, still catching my breath. I sip every while, enjoying the quiet. I eventually lie on the floor, using my pack as a pillow.

She may be close; I may have already passed her. I shake my head. I’ve had so much time, and I still haven’t found the words. Well, perhaps she’ll take what I have, and maybe she’ll let me touch her face, tenderly. My breathing slows, and I settle into something, or nothing, again.

“Emma.”

The room is gold, now filled with light. I consider standing, to listen for more, but I return to my peace, just breathing again. I think on nothing, and no one, just slipping away, almost forgetting.

I awaken. It’s very dark, and quiet. I slowly stand and say “Tom?” He doesn’t answer so I say “Tom?” again, louder this time, but still there’s nothing. I touch the wall with my hands. Then I follow it, searching for the door. I open it.

There are lights filling the horizon, in many colours and forms; webs and orbs and tendrils, many moving and twinkling. I step outside, surprised that it’s cool. I open my pack, put away the horn and put on a sweater. Then I head for the closest of the lights, the largest and brightest.

I eventually get close enough to realize I’m approaching the dome, the one I saw earlier, complete now and very alive, the light illuminating something happening inside. There are many gathered around, also atop it, having climbed the frame.

I head for a gap in the crowd. There’s a shriek as I near it, a bit operatic; everyone cheers. In the center is someone naked, their back turned to me, wet stringy hair sticking to their body, running to their waist. They raise their hands, showing very long nails; everyone quiet now. Then they shriek or sing once more, and everyone cheers again.

The person turns. It’s a man, or not exactly, with soon to be breasts, just budding, the cups of flesh protruding. They continue to turn, some hair swinging with them, and I see they are otherwise hairless, with a very smooth body, also missing lashes and brows.

A shout from another direction. I lean forward, slightly passed the crowd, turning to see a very large man in a long fur coat, little underneath it. He begins to circle the dome, saying something in a language I don’t recognize, a language that may be made up. But it seems we all understand anyway, knowing he’s introducing someone, watching as he now steps toward an opening, someone handing him something.

It’s a leash; he turns back toward the center, leading something into the light. It’s covered in leather with openings only for the eyes, a zipper on the mouth. It’s a person on all fours, or not quite on fours, with their appendages ending at the elbows and knees, no hands and feet at those endings, just fleshy stubs.

The large man shouts something, pointing at them. They manage to stand on what’s left of their legs, and raise what’s left of their arms; they lower and raise them again. Everyone cheers even louder, except for the one with the nails, across from the other, now pacing back and forth.

A pair of women suddenly appear, in rusty chain bikinis. The man introduces them now, and they lap the dome, posing and greeting us all, one blowing fire. They position themselves, each beside one of the participants, and they raise their hands, reaching for something, until harnesses drop from above, attached to the frame with elastic cords.

The one with the nails is easily fitted. They begin jumping around, bouncing. Then the leathered one receives the attention of both women, soon also the man. They seem to doubt what they’re doing, fiddling with the harness. They eventually step back, releasing the other, whose unable to balance, despite trying hard, squirming and bobbing and flipping. There are chuckles.

The women grab hold; then they huddle, along with the man again. There’s nodding, some sort of consensus. The man approaches the one with the nails, whispering something, and there’s nodding again. The man heads to the opening, and the one with the nails moves back, as far as they can, now grasping the frame, the cord tensing. The women pull the leathered one to the opposite side, preparing to release it, and everyone screams.

Thrashing music suddenly blares and the one with the nails lunges forward then leaps into the air shrieking with their hair trailing and the women release the leathered one and it launches toward the other squirming and flailing its appendages as everyone screams louder yet. They crash and each in their own way awkwardly try to strike each other and everyone keeps screaming but their screams soon subside and turn into chuckles and chatter as the small one flips again and is unable to right themselves and the women jump trying to grab them and the one with the nails keeps leaping, clawing at the air.

I turn, head back to the dark. I get far enough that the shouting and music is a vague sound, blending into the rest. I fold my arms, feeling the coolness, and I look around, at all of the lights. I sit on the ground, holding my head in my hands, staying that way for a very long time, until there’s a screech in the distance. I turn, seeing that it’s coming from the neon effigy, the arms raising somehow, a fountain of sparks firing from each of them, shooting into the sky.

It’s far; I start on and soon find others nearing me, on either side, also heading to it, converging. There are people walking and others on bikes, many wearing lights. There’s someone in a spacesuit, carrying a large American flag, another in a long dirty wedding dress, dragging far behind them. One of them begins walking with me, looking at me, wearing nothing but a fish head. They tilt it back and forth, looking curious. Then they suddenly sprint ahead, swerving, and many bikes speed by, all ringing their bells.

There are also more of the vehicles, a bus covered in baby dolls, a ship with sails of chrome fabric, flowing like liquid, and an enormous black pyramid, dimly illuminated. And suddenly there’s also a train, a convoy of golf carts moving quite fast, maybe a dozen, strings of light connecting them all. They’re headed toward me; I wait for them to pass. Then I start on again and bump into someone, a couple, no three people, their arms locked. They say “Sorry!” turning and laughing, and then “We love you!” blowing kisses and turning back and kissing each other now, stumbling.

There are even more ahead, many gathered around more vehicles, some blaring music and parked. There’s a freight truck covered in fur, large openings cut into the sides, others inside dancing. Then there is bus supporting a frame, a scaffold shaped as a stereo, a glowing heart in the centre, within it a deejay playing at a stand. The ground rumbles and flames suddenly shoot from above and I realize they are coming from turrets, manned by nude women, their bodies covered in sweat and glitter, glistening with each firing.

I’m close now. The arms of the effigy are fully raised, the sparks have stopped. I keep walking, eventually reaching a crowd, winding through it until there’s a boom. We all look up. A bulbous flame engulfs the effigy, lighting the sky; there are shouts and gasps. I turn, feeling the others tightening around me, and I see in their eyes, the many black pools, a flickering. A few of them look at me, but not for long, soon pulled back in. I gaze as well. The fire is stark, the brightness searing, so I close my eyes and it gets tighter yet. There is another great boom and an “Oh,” and cheering, and even more behind me surging. We shift forward, then back.

I retreat, push my way out. I take off my sweater and stuff it into my pack and stand for a while, breathing, my back to it all as more of them come, passing me fast. There’s someone in a gas mask with a tube coiled around their torso, their arms and legs. There’s another covered in black feathers, with broad wings and a baby strapped to her chest, and now an ornate mirror approaches, the person carrying it concealed wholly. It stops in front of me, reflecting my silhouette, the fire. I step away but it follows me, one way, the other. I circle it fast but it pivots as quickly. I turn around and halt, a stilt striking the ground. I look up, a man looking down. He widens his stance with the other stilt; it strikes the ground as well. He grins as I notice something between his legs, swinging, a weight hanging from his pierced penis, the flesh stretched horribly.

I hurry passed more some jumping and raising their hands and shouting at the violence and another howling at the sky with smears on his body and face and many pales around him. He reaches into one cupping black paint and he lifts it to the fire and lets it spill down his arm and chest and then with his tongue out and very wide eyes he suddenly fans his hand throwing the rest some drops reaching me as I pass him and I look at another holding a dark sphere above their head. It’s emitting faint beams that are constantly shifting or rather somehow following the others around shining red points on them and me and an enormous man wearing a leather mask and a large sheep coat which he’s also wrapped around a very small woman, her eyes closed. I pass them and others with each less visible than the last until there is enough darkness around to be sure I’m alone again and to be well reminded that this isn’t the way.

I pace and shake my head and stop to catch my breath and I look at the blaze and the lights amid the night sprawling and I breathe and start back toward it others soon appearing again among them a couple lying on the ground staring at the sky and a group pointing from the roof of a transparent van and a few police officers looking at me blankly. Then there’s a large man with a staff who stops as I near him our eyes meeting and recognizing that we shared his brew earlier his tired face suddenly lifting just as I turn away and continue the others appearing faster now though it’s easier as I flow with the momentum and their backs mostly turned to me. I thread between them as they grow closer yet most paying me no mind but some glancing as I eagerly press on and a few smiling like a striking girl with glowing eyes and a filthy boy who reaches for me from someone’s shoulders and a very old man who I bump gently but enough to unsteady him his smile vanishing as he falls; someone catches him. I help lift him and he looks out vaguely with darting eyes shocked I suppose to be pulled from the drunken rapture that he quickly recovers upon hearing a thunderous crack and seeing the fire again as all of us turn and find an arm of the effigy falling into an eruption of flames and sparks but there’s also something else in the sky.

It’s blue and moving and some point and soon realize it’s a parachute and they cheer at the bold descent not far from the fire and I imagine the heat with another surge behind me and I struggle to turn but manage finding more pointing and shouting and I struggle again before I give in and breathe and sway. I’m even lifted the diver nearing and now much closer moving fast and curving toward us and many cheering louder but others looking wary the parachute growing large then with a whoosh abruptly slowing almost stopping above us an eye on its underside visible and closing and crumpling behind the diver as the crowd roars and reaches for him. They cheer and shout and soon engulf him and I see the old man some bodies away his eyes closed and his head lolling and I reach for him but there’s a swell and I breathe and close my eyes and steadily forget until after some time I suddenly feel us all shudder following another great crack the effigy collapsing amid more flames and sparks and I’m lifted again. I find myself elsewhere seeing a clearing ahead a ring of space between us all and the blaze and I squirm my feet both finding the ground to step forward squeezing between wet torsos and hair also feeling rubber as I push on getting even closer and facing a bare woman who leaps and is raised over me by many hands she turns and laughs and I pass under her and crouch the flesh close and the air thick as I breathe my face pressing against a sweaty stomach and sliding with another step forward; I break out, stumbling.

The fire is near, rising from a wide mound of embers, bright and smoldering. The others around it are sparse, few willing to be closer, those daring enough appearing as shadows, some warped by the heat, shimmering.

I head into the open and stop, looking back at the bodies, a wall of flesh and eyes; then I turn to a flowing, not far away, someone enveloped by a long sheet of white silk, blowing far toward the blaze. I keep my distance. She raises a hand, lifts the fabric with it, her arm emerging briefly, the skin shining. She pulls it in and pushes the sheet forward, and down, against the wind, her face concealed but also visible, in faint contour, her head tilted upward, proudly.

She slowly brings her hands to her chest. Then she turns around, carefully, staying wholly under the membrane. She faces down, her shoulders curling forward, her torso as well. She stays that way for a while, the wind picking up, blowing hard against her back. I sit, watching the fabric move around her, shifting in light and in shadow.

She crouches slowly, adjusting the sheet, ensuring she’s in it. Then she sits as well, and turns, facing me, as if staring back. The silk is just above the ground now, still blowing against her, floating. She faces upward again, looking at the sky, or feeling the blowing, and I realize it’s not a blowing at all, but a pull.

I stand. I step toward her. Then I pivot to the fire.

A few are staring, a couple swaying while holding each other. Another darts by, naked and cackling, whipping their hair; they’re followed by others, running and skipping, skirting the embers, some holding hands and singing.

I approach the edge and breathe, feeling the heat in my teeth. I look at my hands, wet and glistening, the air behind them rippling. I swing my pack around. I pause. Then I throw it into the blaze. I take off my clothes. I look around. I throw them in as well.

It burns quickly, and soon enough there’s little left but the screen, the metal, the flames blue and green. I close my eyes and see the echoes of light, glowing purple and pink and red. I eventually look up. I see black, the stars, a spark.

There’s a humming.