(no title)

It started in the city, or at least, it felt like it started in the city. I had marched for a long time to get to this party and all along I was whistling. Nothing brazen and loud, but quietly. I guess it was more like a hum with the occasional whisper in the wind as I pursed my lips together in an effort to make noise. I wasn’t making much noise, in fact, it felt like a long creep to your place. Letting my arms dangle, I moved my hands in a mild gestural manner: an old habit of mine. I have a nervous disposition, I told him once over Thai. My fingers stretched against my tights so I could feel the nylon. It was more dense than nylon but my shins were lined in goosebumps. My legs were wrapped in a thicker fabric like leggings, but sheer so the wind cut through. I don’t remember carrying anything like a book-bag or purse. Room floated around me and it was past dusk, it was dark. It was night when I arrived. I had marched a long time through the city to get to this party; this specific party in which I was going to confront a few of them at once. There was a guest list and I was on it. I was dressed appropriately although I did not look at my face in a mirror so I cannot tell you what I looked like only what I felt like: like vapor rising past an edge. I was shifty.

The last thing I remember before turning the corner to get on your block was that I had no idea if I had driven or not. It was strange. I had the sensation of getting out of a car earlier but truly I didn’t have any recollection of it. It felt like I had walked for miles. I dissociate. When I opened the door to your place, it felt familiar; not the place but the way I entered. It was as if I always open the door on my own. There was a gathering in the center and you turned to greet me with a chilling apathy and I smiled with every tooth. I embraced you which was out of my character. Perhaps to soothe a beast in you. You said:

You look taller.

That’s when I looked down to see my boots and my knees, a little shaky and wrapped in black, and then I felt the sweater as you turned to put your arm around my waist and I held it there. There was one moment in time in synthesis and I held it there. This is what I am wearing. Even though you delivered a tepid reception, you grabbed me like I was yours. You brought me closer to the kitchen but a dark swarm took over my body. I looked sideways to follow it. My friend Reagan approached me from the other side. I’m being flanked. I was distracted long enough to ignore the person skulking out the back door.

“Hi!” she embraced me like we were sisters and pulled me to the couch.

Funny how recollection tricks you. There was someone else in the kitchen who slipped out the back door as I sat down but I would tell you then on the couch that never happened. I would embrace Reagan like a friend even though I barely knew her. I would tell you it was comfortable even though I felt set up. I looked down at my dress. A dress. I’m wearing a dress.

“How are you?” she smiled brightly in my face, her dark hair hanging over her cheeks.

There was nothing memorable about her except her green eyes. They were beautiful to look at in my moment of rising panic. I swallowed like I was swallowing an apple core and I held her hand like we knew each other forever. Turning to look for him, she squeezed it.

“Let’s catch up, hon.”

I kept turning my head to understand the new layout. There were candles lining the floor to the stairs but the staircase was on the opposite side. When I turned back it also appeared that the stairs were in the right place even though there were none near the front door. It was like the room was cut with mirrors and drapes. It felt like a stage. I don’t think there is an upstairs.

“ I want to see my reflection,” I suddenly said.

“Hahaha omg,” she patted my leg. “Listen, I don’t know why you would trust him. He’s an alcoholic and manipulative.”

I swallowed again and stood up. I should confront him. Where did he go? I walked away from her and realized the entire party had cleared. It was just the three of us. He greeted me without his shirt and I saw a tattoo. There were two. The bigger one, I couldn’t read it though.

“Are you staying or leaving?” he said.

His eyes were blue and that was normal. Blue like a fresh paved lake of ice.

“I’m leaving,” and I shuffled past Reagan without acknowledging her again.

I headed towards the door that was on the right side even though the kitchen and stairs were misplaced. I stepped out before I could change my mind, before I could stop and pause and demand my reflection. Let me use the bathroom. There were no cars anymore. No streetlights or streets. I held the hem of my dress, once feeling thick like a sweater felt thinner, lighter, more spring but still black. I had come to the party in all black and now I was shivering. It had dropped a few degrees in the forest. I was staring at a forest. I was staring at a row of trees and yellow eyes were popping out of them. They were slow, methodical and walking towards me. My hands were gripping the handles of a bicycle. I can’t bike through this. Turning around to plead with him, he was already closing the door. My eyes narrowed at his side as he leaned against the frame.

“Can I just stay here a while until the wolves go away?”

He shut the door without a word. I turned to face the forest I had just somehow safely walked through and pretended it was a street. I pretended the people were people. The people were hungry. The entire pack settled at the entrance and watched me. Gripping the bike, I turned back to make sure, yes, he shut the door and yes, he wasn’t coming back. A giant red oak square with a brass knocker stared me in my face and the man I had been chasing vanished inside. I looked down.

I become so enlightened at the turn of it

I start writing with a desperation.

That’s what the note on my arm said.

And what did the note on his ribs say?

I interrupt myself. I am scrambling to remember the whole thing before it fades. It is 5:30 in the morning and I am in pain; not from separation but from untended rhythm. Maybe I never noticed my dreams had cadence or style or meaning, yet, I have pages full of them. I begin again. I have to begin again. I stopped myself from compulsively flipping through last year’s journal. Sitting is my weakness. The morning overcomes me and dawn is nice. I am too tired to move so I stay. It was a tattoo on his chest, not his ribs. He had two and I could only read one. They were connected over his body like a map.

I tapped my head with my pen and sat. Sometimes the morning is foggy and I just need a second to breathe. Coffee is too stimulating and I just need a quiet moment to breathe. One was so giant I couldn’t read it like it cascaded across his whole body, I reread my note from earlier and I put the pen back on the paper. Mania is a curse of the unrested and dutiful investigator. Jaw clenched already, my migraine set in but I continued. It said:

One was so giant I couldn’t read it like it cascaded across his whole body, and the other said love exists with or without hope.

It was twenty degrees and he felt it before he even opened the door. With every change in the wind’s direction, the cabin dropped a degree. He was layered now: hoodie, jacket, fleece, long johns, gloves, hat and a bottle of water in his pocket. He stood on the front step to examine the window before his hike. The hole was covered with duct tape that he had criss crossed into a new flimsy pane.

“This will have to last until Monday, “ he said aloud to himself

Standing on the front porch, he could see the holes where he didn’t affix the pieces together correctly; pin-sized and almost tiny but enough for air to freely flow back and forth. Every time a breeze blew he felt it. It was Saturday afternoon. He had two more days before he was leaving

“This can wait until Monday.”

Looking at it only a few seconds longer, he nodded to himself to confirm that was true and began walking west towards the boulder with the blue paint mark. He would light a fire later, put on the kettle, run a hot bath. There may be another sudden gust this weekend and he just wanted to stay warm. There may be more windows to patch depending on the direction of the storm. For now, all was still.

He heard a couple crow calls, around eight am, and then nothing. There was no wind or sound or movement in the woods.The cabin stood at the edge of the lake in the middle of a trail, not the mouth of the hike. Because he only hiked when he visited the cabin, Milo was always forced to start with The Blue Trail. If he was feeling up to it, he would cut north and wander the three miles through the Red Trail and decide later if he was game for the Black Trail. He was tired and hadn’t slept well because of the shattered window at 1:00 am so he doubted he would make it there. He never ruled it out though. The Black Trail was a beautiful hike through the middle of the forest. In the summer, it was lush and colored by unidentified evergreens, pines, full blue spruces, oaks, and fir. In summer, it was littered with people and birds: sparrows, blue jays, cardinals, finches, hawks, owls, the occasional eagle, and tons and tons of goldfinches. Milo loved birds. He loved listening to them during his days at the cabin with his dad.

“Look!” He would nudge his father every time they saw a cardinal. “Look!”

“Cardinal,” his father said.

Milo would nod. His father would walk in front of him.
“And what’s the black and white bird and the long tail that sang to us this morning?”

Milo would look sheepishly at his shoes as they hiked, feeling like a girl.

“Magpie.”
“Good son,” he would say without turning around.

There were other animals too: deer, beavers, frogs at the edge of the lake, squirrels, chipmunks, mice, the occasional fox, and even the occasional coyote. Wolves roamed the perimeter but he never saw any. In winter, the hunters abandoned the area and all animals moved south to eat or north to hibernate. It was lonely. Milo watched himself tread the snow-covered floor and he wanted the sound of the morning birds: the magpies and the sparrows, the coffeemaker and his father’s cough from the living room. The lake was covered in ice. He cherished the couple of spiders nesting in the corners of his bedroom. He was completely alone again. Whether he was in the city or not, he was alone.

About two miles in and past the tree he always noticed, the one with the X carved neatly into it from some bored hunter’s buck knife, he suddenly couldn’t remember if he locked the front door. He was overcome with this sensation; something unfamiliar, the sensation, and a thought pattern he had never had to soothe before.It started at the bottom of his spine and traveled upwards through his shoulders. Ominously, he turned back but all he could see were trees: brown trunks and white ground. The cabin was out of sight and would him take him too long to circle back, yet he stood there, frozen, waiting for the door to answer. He thought to himself: I didn’t lock the door and the thought reverberated all over his body. It seemed strange to even question it and he doubted anyone else was here but it was on his mind and gripping his mind. He felt anxious. He patted his pocket to feel for his key. I must have, he thought. He turned back around to face the X.

“I must have.”

Yet, he couldn’t remember doing it: actually taking the key out of his pocket and turning the lock, checking to make sure that the door was locked. Milo stood silently on the trail and thought about it. He remembered standing on the front porch to examine his window. He remembered taking the bottle of water out of his pocket to drink. He remembered walking towards the boulder. He did not remember locking his door. Milo waited another few seconds for something to interrupt: a rogue squirrel or light breeze or ice droplet from a branch, but nothing shook him. He held the key in his pocket and stared at the X. Let it go. There’s no one here. A crow called in the distance. It must be noon, he thought and kept walking forward.