Thursday, January 31, 2008

Fiction work # 4

Everyday this man comes to the coffee shop where I wait for him. I used to be mad at him. Furious with his stupidity, for not figuring it out, for putting me in this situation. It gave way, gradually, to something else. What are those five stages again? Oh well.
The only thing in this gaping room is me, the wadded newspaper discarded in the corner by the window. Everything is frozen until he arrives. Then, a carnival! Strobed colors, chimes, heat flows into me through my blood, my breath whooshing through my nostrils like turbines. How alive he makes me!

I sometimes look at other men. I cannot help it, I suppose, I get so bored. They mean nothing, though, when he appears. How could they?

I spoke with a priest once. Hoping to be absolved. With the stained glass drifting like pale feathers kissing his features, he washed his hands of me. Said only God could judge me now. Said I would find Him in my heart. I prayed he was right, then left the house of worship, where I long to be, but dare not profane with my confusion. Jesus wept in the Garden of Gethsemane; that is why I keep him in my troubled heart. He knows me, still loves me.

I would say I am angry, but it has drained out of me so long ago. I keep it in a bottle in the corner, along with other necessities. Sometimes I hear it, yelling at that stupid fedora he wears, that I swear I know better then my own knees, telling him to "Go Away!" because anything is better than letting me do it. But he doesn't. Every day is the same. So I wait for the sign. The sign that he is giving up. Giving up his home. Is throwing fortune to the wind. I long for it, and dread it. I know it is coming.

What a man he is! To inspire this dichotomy. He seems powerful, yet stocky. A bushy, but trim mustache, keen eyes. My favorite part of him is his hands. Meticulously covered in soft brown leather that matches his briefcase, he must condition them nightly.

What will I do when he is gone? My mind is drawn to the macabre question as surely as a cart on tracks. To combat the problem, I like to imagine drapes on the window I lay by. It is currently bare, in keeping with the austerity of the room, which was chosen for it's function, not it's form.

Every inch of my body screams for this to be over, but my heart and my soul wish it could go on forever.

Maybe some nice pink ones. I could sew them myself. I wonder if he'll like them? I wonder if he'll notice.

Before he arrives, I work-out. The sweat, the pain in my muscles, is honest. Pure truth in lactic acid. I start with push-ups, moving to handstand push-ups. There is a bar set up for chin-ups, and I like to do crunches. This tiny zen workout seems to be the only thing between myself and sheer madness.

On a cold day, I touched my tongue to the metal. Some of it stuck, peeling off of me. Now this tiny cylinder with myself on it is a symbol. An apology of sorts. A sign of respect, an acknowledgment. "I know you. I love you. I am sorry." I hope it is enough. For both of us. Our absolution. I have loaded my symbol and now I wait for the sign to put a piece of me through his head.

My name is Sergeant Gunnery Hart. I have been assigned to kill this man when he defects. God Preserve us Both.

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