The East Burnside Blockbuster video, and the intersection watched by the dead-eyed metal mask sculpture, marked the beginning of the burn in my left eye. Exhausted by nearly twenty-four hours of marriage to hard contact lenses, it was a miracle I could even see, and not with the slightest trace of distortion; I smiled and shivered slightly in the Dalek t-shirt.
I purchased a Sunday paper at a machine just west of the MAX stop, bought a ticket with a pair of the seemingly infinite number of Pocahontas dollar coins in my pocket, and tried to read. Unhappy with the sudden demand for complex processes, my brain decided to shut down, systems freezing at every possible instant, so much so that I longed for the normally-ignored jolts of the train.
As if on cue, it appeared, snaking around the corner like it owned the fucking street. I boarded seemingly in a soundless world, the sudden disappearance of my second most-noticed sense I casually attributed to the crash of another system. I picked the first inner-facing seat I saw and let the newsprint rustle beneath my fingers.
The images came annoyingly quick: the black dress and how it creeped up those impossibly long legs, its strapless top constantly adjusted to keep from sliding off breasts undoubtedly dismissed (and irrationally) by a criminally large contingent as "too small," brown eyes on a face that seemed just the slightest bit cartoonish, longer chin, straight brown hair, metallic green eye shadow, flirtatious smile, lips saying "you're cute" with the confidence and unreliability of intoxication.
My hearing returned as I whispered to no one in particular "she won't even remember."
Fueled by the return of sound, the memories started faster: Riikka's sharp accent telling me to be careful, Rachel's North Carolina twang from somewhere else in the room, the hydrologist with the tired drone and the warm dismissal borne of someone whose truths couldn't possibly be gauged from the outside. The sounds became a blur, as did the sights, and the brain shut that down and opened the "what didn't happen" folder: the black dress sliding up even farther, the eyes closing as the shapely hands touched my forehead, the lips pulsing as the breath became just slightly more urgent, or simply me asking her if she really meant that I was cute, wanting that confident smile to flash, wanting her to feel empowered or think me weak, if only that got her to say anything other than no--
>click<
Senses shut down, only one thought--awake, awake, awake--the train is moving impossibly slow, please speed the fuck up, I'm not going to make it back...
>click<
"The doors are closing," but that was part of "what didn't happen," I'm already standing on the traction patch, feeling the bus silently rush away twice as fast as it emerged from the tunnel. With neither the time nor the energy to feel bitter, I stared at the Starbucks sign 100 meters away and walked along hay and grass and weeds and wheat, surrounded by plastic-looking condos and new houses whose cost surely belied some preposterous belief in the Candide-esque. Every footfall made my eyelids heavier, the dream of the dress more real, until the return of my peripheral vision brought the sun, angry and lovely (or so I thought in spite of myself), and the world of glass and fake surfaces got too close to be a bad dream.
The steps weren't, really, they were only bits and pieces of reflex, taking over as all essential systems deactivated.
Contacts out. Pants off.
The feel of removing clothing sparks some activity, perhaps the beginning of a dream, the dress, now most likely hanging back in the closet while the eyes and legs and affinity for French literature, freshly arrived in Portland from Virginia Beach and presented with a charming smile and acid tongue and promise of unspeakable complexity (like all women) slept.
The feel, however imaginary, of what lay beneath the dress, and the guilt of the spasm.
The alarm, 11:47. Lunch with Stefanie today.
I hope I get enough sleep.
>click< .
25.09.2003-Epilogue.
30.08.2003-Exeunt, the Moor.
28.08.2003-why?
27.08.2003-Last night, and august in general.