193 Thoughts of You

The war’s tide recedes, and I’m on my way back from work—reclusive old me, newly thirty. It’s July, my month, and the incomprehensibly banal killing fields are once again confined primarily to the Strip. I am spared immediate threat of death, obscenely rich with comparative safety. The slaughter goes on there, unabated, in the remorseless heat, and the local news, while shielding this population from the extermination of that one, focuses its reports on picked flowers, heroic men—no, boys—killed in their prime; the result of loathsome ambushes by repugnant mehablim. And I wonder about those killed men, for they were men, and why they did not refuse, and about the mothers, and why they did not refuse. Even I managed; why couldn’t they? I know the answer, but I pretend that I don’t. Each time I check the news and see a new number of dead, I briefly wonder whether this time it includes my old, incorrigible, unrepentant friend. Do I wish for him to die? I’m not sure, because I play along with dark humor in our group chat—I say despicable things to keep the peace with those with whom peace probably no longer has the worth, or value, I once thought it did. So, it’s the war I keep. But I can’t bring myself to kill him, so I passively wait to see whether someone else will.

While the manageable mundane is back in its pacifying effusiveness—which I’m all too receptive toward—I assess my effort to escape. It’s going slowly—so slowly it makes me wonder whether I truly want to escape. But I do. I always have. So why am I molested by this doubt? Desires must be as simple as what one states. I want, so I want. There are no hidden meanings. And this year I made a promise to myself, signed by my entering the fourth decade of my life.

As for practicalities, I did cast my first die, somewhat quietly, and now I wait for my employer to agree to my leaving and continuing to take complicit payments from afar, for services rendered via the internet. At least until I can uproot fully, be allowed to stay and labor in some not-yet-chosen European land. And if they refuse, well, then I will simply cast myself.

These are my thoughts as I uncomfortably exist in a feldgrau shirt much too warm for this weather, which doesn’t sufficiently hide my lethargic, dejected form. I recognize this, which is why I’ve given up on my usual vain delusion—that I look good. I stand and cradle my black backpack, and I almost let all thoughts go for the time being. I got used to the fact that this is the station that gave birth to my first short story. What does that make this one, then?

Ah, there it is. Reliable, convenient line 193—I almost didn’t notice it in time, so concerned I was with flipping through the songs that carry me home. But no worries, I get on the bus just fine, even brazenly cut in line, and I walk down the aisle until I spot it—yes, an empty pair of seats, with my choice being the one by the window. Here I get as comfortable as I can, direct the AC vent at myself from the ceiling, and resign myself to primarily looking to the left. Even at thirty, I’m still self-conscious about where I allow my eyes to go. Less so, but still. The ride mostly goes the way it always does, only suddenly a backpack lands on the empty seat beside me. It jolts me, and I look, and I see that it’s been cast there by some wild man freer than me. He is loud, emotive, but my black seashells whisper louder, so I turn back to the window and pay it all no mind.

Although I thought it was destined to be an eventless ride—its mundanity offensive when considered beside the Holocaust down south—you come in and make it memorable enough to stand out. Hello, Ms. Tom Latin. You’re looking lovely this afternoon, another Israeli girl come to haunt me, knowing that I can’t, won’t, am not allowed. Do not want. I’d say it’s been a while, but haven’t I seen you on a different bus only a few months prior? And now you’re on this one. But what a shame that the seat next to mine was first taken by a backpack and now some adolescent child who’s quicker than you. So, you are forced to stand seatless with your small bag, and you remain there. I hope you won’t mind if I stare.

The songs in my ears, in case you’re wondering, although of course you aren’t, are of love and snow. Rain, frost and ice, which is to say, they are of Russian love. I consciously let them amplify our unexpected meeting. I allow myself to tentatively look toward you, and you’re wearing your jet-black hair in a small, responsible bun, and your dark eyes aren’t framed by the glasses I remember. Have you gotten rid of them? They suited you so, those years long ago. It’s okay, though; you still have that smart look. I never dared talk to you. But hold that thought, the current song is ill-suited.

I turn away and look at my much-too-dim phone, lest anyone see I use it for music, and I skip, skip. I hurry so our moment isn’t interrupted—already I feel it slipping, the set dressing fraying. My world is so dour; what’s yours like? There, that sounds right, that’s better. You aren’t aware, but the mood’s been restored, so again, I inch my face in your direction. I steal glances. Somehow, I know you’re married. Mrs. then. I don’t want it to be true, but I vaguely remember checking, finding, then seeing that your name is no longer Latin, but something else, something offensive to me, which now, upon remembering, frustrates me. Thus, the already meager possibilities between us diminish. All that remains is this: do you recognize me as easily as I do you? I think it’s not vain of me to expect, because, after all, we equally had no interaction with one another in that middle school, that high school. You were in my periphery as much as I was in yours, and yet still, your face calls out brightly from the bunch. It is luminous and preferable and unmistakable, and I care deeply about how it goes through various expressions—frustrated, neutral, wandering, wondering. The way only a lover could. But what would we speak of if you did sit down beside me, did confirm your recognition of me? Yes, it’s me, and yes, it’s you. I work there—where do you? I see, I see. This isn’t working—wouldn’t work. So, I self-reject. Just looking is enough, isn’t it?

I don’t think I’m wrong about our lines of sight; I believe I am in your vision’s periphery right now, as before. You can easily see me if you just turn ever so slightly toward the window I command. And would you see if you turned? A man with a reddish beard, receding brown hair and uncontrollably somber, uninviting eyes. Do you see through all of that to how I was back then? Maybe not too much has changed. My demeanor was never inviting, always working against me, perhaps in foreknowledge of what kind of man I’d grow to be. And now I fear I’ve glanced too much, too freely, and I turn away to internally compose, pace myself. But just as I look at the spaces not tinged by you, I sense—I’m quite sure—you’re looking in this direction, likely at the window. I turn back, but you do too. I missed them, didn’t I? I missed your lovely black eyes. And now you’re smiling, your eyes too, if only slightly. It suits you, only I suspect it doesn’t concern me. And now I wonder what makes you smile, in this time of endless war? I’m curious what you make of it all. It’s what I’d ask you, if I spoke truly during our commute-meet-cute. Would you escape with me, give up all of this? I think I’m too weak to go it alone. I need to be beholden to a You, or perhaps a Her, but sadly not you.

While you smile, soft beauty, and think unknowable thoughts, in front of you stands some slightly taller blonde I couldn’t care less about. Sure, she’s likely Russian, in fact I’m certain she is, and I did learn that the closer to my language and therefore my soul, the better, but it doesn’t feel so, at least not now. Because it’s you I’m having this dance with. You did not agree to it, are likely not aware of it, but I must say, you move beautifully, and we have a history.

What’s this? We’re interrupted as some passengers get up and move past us—I mean you, and there, you look so concentrated as you position yourself awkwardly to allow them to squeeze past—the same expression you wore during the math lessons that were beyond me, during physics. I recall your peeking lower back. You’re uncomfortable, aren’t you? Wait—where are you…? My heart sinks as I realize others leaving equals you getting to sit down, only it’s out of sight and therefore appalling. What’s not transpiring right now is between you and me, and how can it continue if you’re somewhere behind and unseen?

Now you’re exactly one row behind, and what I’m wondering is whether you can see the notes I’m taking, despite the turned-down brightness. If you can, well, then these notes are for later, so I can recollect in shame, in disquietude. I loosen my posture and cradle my face with one hand, aim my subjectless eyes at not-you, and the cold air from above is as icy as the songs come from the seashells. But too bright and inappropriate now, so I skip and land on moodier melodies. There. The moment is near its ending, though I can periodically feel you shifting in your seat. Damn you, damn you. I catch myself turning a palm into a fist and I’m gnashing my teeth. Why am I so aware of you? And you, and you.

I shut the small AC vent above because the cold is no longer conducive to anything—merely uncomfortable, excessive, biting. Soon I will disembark. But. Will I get one final glance? Will you go first, or will I? There goes the blonde. I pay her no mind. And you?

Unexpectedly, the music in my ears flares up in accordance with my desperate hope for one last look, and I realize that I need this—I always do. I momentarily feel as though I could tear up. But no, I must be imagining it. I couldn’t possibly tear up because of this. And there’s my stop. I suppose it’s time. I get up, fail to look back, and step outside as cruelly warm sunlight hits my cold skin like a wave.

The war goes on, and so do you. Merciless, the both of you.