He graced them all with his presence; with a dash of a poisonous viper’s vice he could slither his way to my side without fail, wishing to escape the surrounding swirl of thundering footsteps among the party’s elite. Just as he located me with his dark blue eyes past crowds of dully ornate individuals, he made the false cold air of venues seem warm with a blazing fire. It was strange; the only thing people complained of in his manner were his sullen eyes, but the ones I knew were vibrantly aflame. That perfection propelled him into ambitious adventures. Thinking of his jovial attire and airy adieu cracked me up without time to gather my spare change, which happened quite often at the news stand. And yet, it was a cold winter each year.
That stand held itself up by some fallen law of nature. A miracle too glorious for a proper sign, it spread “NEWS” with the faded enthusiasm of an old bed-rotten man, crinkled like paper trash yet thinking he could throw cigarettes onto the sidewalk like he wasn’t part of the garbage itself. I never told him that though: Mr. Jared was innocent and jolly, so much so that he scared me into thinking I hallucinated Santa Claus. His glasses glimmered, blinding, in the incandescent light that melted snow around his head, so I turned around when I read the newspaper every morning, cracking my knuckles at my sides in the silent street thinking of when that hand cut like a butcher’s would grab me and tell me, “Don’t hurt yourself. Who’ll take care of me?” But he must have known my uselessness; he wasn’t around.
Each day, I’d move on. Paying for the paper, even though I’d already read my part about the young, ambitious entrepreneur I knew, stranded in a sweaty coat walking aimlessly home. I’d wonder how long I’d wait in that apartment until the snow would stop. And I’d think how well I’d sleep in the morning light that came so late in the day.
It was too dark in there. The city lights only exaggerated the sun’s absence with a heavy laugh and feathered feet that brushed the towering scrapers without getting pricked because it was nothing, it was empty. The scrawled notes on the table indicating sudden leaves looked burnt at the edges, like they faced time longer than they should have. The room was the horizon waiting for a risen day, quivering with anticipation and the electrical sounds of apartment life, knowing Christmas was coming, even when I preferred it didn’t.
I stared at the door. Grazed it with my distant eyelashes so incapable of willing its release from an old frame scratched and stained. It opened in a mindless hallucination by a man’s hand; he had a voice as free as time itself, waiting for an embrace that simply radiated its own eternal grace. The lights on the tree thrashed the stale air with seizure-inducing brightness and regularity.
My present life found no solace in older days, a time as empty, only more loud and excessive. I had no need to recall the early years of fortunate isolation, but I could only sigh knowing that the ever swimming and swirling islands of individuals produced an illusion of connectedness. The only time I wasn’t stranded was with Sam, a life of the party that hated his title. He was my rock, but he never got in the way of others’ fun, even as they chased him around. A bit of ease and a smidge of struggle was what he’d take.
Music blaring, or no, my headache. I felt ringing with tiredness. I was angry that I had been left alone. He always had the kindling ready, in case the flame hung low. I didn’t know how he did it. Survived. When the cold had frozen through the air and ground and you couldn’t feel yourself anymore. How did he stay warm and ablaze? Then, with the tree hanging bare of ornaments and my skin in a cold sweat, I had no choice but to fall into a heavy sleep, my head weighed down by the thoughts running through it.
But, what seemed nights later, a rough hand swept through my hair. Light and gentle, listening for a stir. I pulled my sodden eyelids apart to see the shining light of the window on dark eyes; and again, I was ready for another morning.