My Magpie Eyes, My Trampoline Heart
There he is. Sitting across from me on the 22 bus. Something about the wave of hair over his ears reminds me of the man I knew before. My heart is a slamming door. He looks as though he wants to tell of everything good that ever happened to him. The time when he was sixteen and kissed his best friend’s girlfriend behind the dumpsters outside the Shezan Tandoori. The way her tongue tasted of sea salt and lemon. How her skin felt like cobwebs beneath his thumb.
I am interrupted by his laughter. It sounds like liquid running into puddles, but then it stops. His silence makes me realize it’s not him at all, but someone else.
I pocket that laughter and take it with me.
There he is. I am at Revolution. Cherries sit on my tongue, dancing with the knife-edge of vodka in my mouth. I watch him from across the room, through neon pink lights and dust filaments. My heart is a skipping stone. There is something about the gunmetal of his coat; it looks like it could wrap its steel fingers around me and talk of war. It’s the coat he bought from Armstrongs’ in the Grassmarket, the one that had every button missing. I laid that coat on my lap and sewed new ones on, pricking the skin of my knees. I told him he could never forget me now, that his coat was stained with my blood.
I pocket that coat and take it with me.
There he is. He’s sitting across from me at Joseph Pierce’s now. I can barely taste the vodka in my drink anymore. Someone is talking in my ear. I feel aquamarine. The walls are covered in algae. The ground beneath me is crumbling into a chalky sea. The barmaid has fins. I can’t place my own voice. There they go, minnows of words, phrases darting past me, silver-lined and scaled. I see him. He is fading into the walls. He looks as though he wants to tell of everything that happened while he was underwater. That time when he was twenty-five and took magic mushrooms for the first time. How he screamed at his reflection in the mirror, scared that someone would break the glass and the shards of his face would be dispersed among leaves and an abandoned shopping cart. How his cries beat against his eardrums like the time he nearly drowned in the pounding waves and yellow foam at Scarborough.
I pocket those cries and take them with me.
There he is. He catches my eye outside the theater. The rain pelts the pavement and bounces up again. The wind gnashes at my thighs like an angry lover. His eyes rest on mine, and it is almost like a kiss. My knees give way. There is something in that glance that reminds me of the man I knew before. I tried to paint those eyes, but couldn’t capture the flicker of sadness. I never could make that sadness go away.
A hand on his shoulder. He turns, and I can no longer see his eyes. The way he holds her makes me realize that it’s not him at all, but someone else.
I pocket those eyes and take them with me. Maybe this time I’ll know what they were trying to tell me.
There he is. I am walking through the door ten minutes late. The television plays out scenes from a life that we do not live. There is something about the curve of his nose from the side that reminds me of the man I knew before. My heart is a trapped fly on a windowpane. He looks as though he wants to tell of every moment that made it all worth it. The nights we walked home under a thousand streetlamps. The afternoons under a blanket, listening to the rain, safe inside our own rowboat.
The turn of his face makes me realize that it’s not him, but someone else.
I pocket that nose and take it with me. I feel it pressing against my hand, sniffing my fingertips, tickling my palm with its exhale.
There he is. I am running late again, carrying library books across George Square. Even now. Even now. Seeing him is like a fist in the liver, a boot to the spine. My heart is a trampoline. He turns to me. There is something about the line of his mouth. He looks as though he wants to tell of every time he nearly gave in. That time when he was fifteen and felt the rollercoaster wheels beneath his feet and couldn’t stop it. When he was twenty-five and it was just one line. One more line. When he was twenty-seven and I couldn’t look at him anymore. When he was twenty-eight and could see the black wave out of the corner of his eye. Could see it cresting.
He smiles, and I realize that it’s not him at all, but someone else.
I pocket those lips and take them with me. For afternoons when I want him to tell me why the tide comes in. Why the world is round. Why his heart no longer beats for me. Why I couldn’t paint his eyes.
There he is. I smell him next to me in bed. The curtains let in lemon slices of light across my hair. I roll over with open arms, but he is gone. I push my body back into his sarcophagus imprint in my sheets. I remember this shape and pick up my brush.
There he is. Reaching up to close the window, his translucent skin drawn tight over the drum of his chest. I count each rib. My heart blinks like a magpie’s eyes. He looks like he wants to tell of every time his skin burned with anticipation. That time he stood at the pier and the pull of the tide reminded him that he was packaged in this skin, painted paper that shrouds his bones.
I am interrupted by a woman’s hand pulling the hem of his tee shirt. It is then that I realize that it’s not him at all, but someone else.
I pocket that ribcage and take it with me. To pin my painted paper upon.
There he is. The roof is collapsing. I step over abandoned chair legs, plaster dust, cutlery. Needles and gas flames. He sits in the corner. He is surrounded by canvas and blushes of red oil. I sit down across from him and put my brush to paper.
It is breaking now. The atrium of this place is wide open and the light streams through in orange clouds. My painted papers, prints of him, cover the holes in the walls above the table where we used to sit. The beginning was what neither of us expected, and the end curled around our fingers like burnt paper.
Somewhere there is a center to it all.
On Saturday mornings, I listen to people’s stories on the 22 bus. On Tuesday afternoons, when the sky is a concrete pastry lid, I paint him from stolen body parts. Wednesday evenings, I draw his silhouette and he steps out of the pages. On Thursday mornings he strokes my hair. Friday he is gone again. Saturday morning, I’m back on the 22 bus.
I step over the debris of these moments and take the seat opposite him.
I reach out, and there is nothing there. There he is. And there is nothing there.
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