Tuesday, October 2, 2007

Beneath the Brooklyn Sky

The sky over Metropolitan Avenue is mostly light blue, with very thin streaks of white, white cloud. The sun is all gone, but it is still bright enough out. No need yet for streetlamps. Twilight, he assumes. It’s that time of day when he really has to struggle to see anything clearly. He’s told you about this before: When you were walking somewhere near Astor Place. Everything seems grainy and slightly out of focus.

They are standing outside of a dank bar. He’s waiting for her to finish her cigarette.

“What are Puerto Rican women like?” she asks.

He searches, but abandoned by his own blood, he cannot find an answer. He lets her continue on her own: “His last girlfriend was Puerto Rican, and she was so jealous about everything that it totally fucked him up. He thinks he should be the center of my universe and that all my attention should be devoted to him.”

Standing there, beneath the Brooklyn sky, he considers how sensitive, insecure, and jealous he, too, can be, but doesn’t say anything about it. Instead, he offers: “It shouldn’t be that way.”

For the time, it’s the best he has to offer.

Finally, they go inside to get a beer. From the jukebox comes the old line: “I hate myself for loving you.” He shakes his head and fakes a laugh.

No comments: