Zhanna Slor - At the End of the World, Turn Left

When we’re done, the light turns green and we continue our conversation like nothing has happened. Except it has. My stomach is giddy with butterflies. I try to ignore it, and circle back to what we were talking about before.

“I wish I could travel more,” I say. “I wish I could move, really.”

“Yeah? Why don’t you then?”

“My family, I guess. They would be really upset. I don’t have the balls to leave.”

Tristan purses his lips, lets out a little whistle. “I wish my dad gave two shits what I did.”

“He doesn’t?” I ask.

“He has this whole new family now. Doesn’t even remember to call on my birthday.” He creases his brows into what appears to be a grimace, before letting it melt away into impassiveness. “Whatever.”

“Sorry. That sucks.”

Tristan shrugs. “He’s Cuban. We didn’t really get along when I was little. I think he called me a fag more often then he used my name.” He doesn’t seem sad expressing this information, which makes it even sadder. We stop again at another light, and kiss again.

The kiss lasts a long time, considering the circumstances. It’s a very good kiss. But it’s impossible to stay focused on it, with the blizzard still swirling around us, and people walking by. Cars, too, continue to drive through the flooded street. We also happen to be a block away from my grandparents’ house. Visibility right now is nil—and yet, all I can do is worry they might see us. What would my eighty-year-old grandparents be doing walking around a blizzard at night? Who knows. But I can’t get it off my mind.

Tristan stops suddenly and looks around. “Hey, this road doesn’t go to Riverwest.”

“Yeah, I am actually not going that way. I just said that to throw you off.”

“Where are you going?”

Should I really tell a stranger where I live? I wonder. Then I tell myself to stop thinking. What has thinking ever done for me? Nothing good. However, neither has catching pneumonia. I point north towards Prospect Ave. “That way. Sorry.”

He looks at me again like I’m a textbook he’s studying. “If it makes you feel better, I’m leaving town tomorrow. I’d like to keep hanging out with you, but no pressure.”

“Oh,” I say, unsure how to feel about this. “Okay.”

“You wanna check out this shitty college bar a couple blocks from here? I’ll let you beat me at pool.”

I’m freezing, and could definitely use a real drink, so I agree to this without much thought. The door guy is so busy texting someone on one of those new smartphones that he barely looks up when he sees us, and even though Masha’s old ID is expired, he doesn’t seem to notice and waves us through. Inside, the place is dark and dank and reeks of sticky beer. But it’s so much better than that party I could puke. I’m surprised to find Tristan with a decent-sized wad of cash in his wallet, and I allow him to buy me several drinks in a row before we actually get around to a pool game. He doesn’t let me win, however, like he promised. In fact, he seems to actively be sabotaging the game. The more we drink the more hyper he gets. He starts poking me with the pool cue, and finding ways to wrap himself around me to show me what I’m doing wrong. When he isn’t doing that, he is juggling the pool balls. Eventually I stop trying, and he wins. By then, I’ve figured out that pool is only an excuse to touch me, and I’m drunk, so we go back outside into the cold to share a cigarette.

Tristan is in great spirits now. He starts massaging my shoulders while simultaneously smoking without use of his hands, a feat I have never been able to accomplish. While we stand there, this skinny old bearded man we in Riverwest call Rabbi walks by with a grocery cart of old flowers and asks us if we want any. I say no, because I always say no to Rabbi, but to my surprise Tristan reaches into his pocket and hands him a five, and before I know it, I have an individually wrapped daisy in my pocket.

“I can’t believe you did that,” I say. “That’s so nice of you. I see that guy every day and never think to get anything.”

“You know he gets those flowers out of dumpsters and sells them for crack money, right?” he asks me.

“ No ,” I say.

“He’s not even a rabbi.”

“What?!” I frown. “You really just ruined this guy for me. I always thought he was a cute little old man.”

“Look at his eyes. And his teeth.”

“I don’t look at his eyes or his teeth. I look at his pants. They’re like halfway up his stomach. It reminds me of my grandpa.”

“That’s kind of sweet.” Tristan smiles and puts his cigarette out so he can kiss me. When he’s done, I ask, “Can we go? I’m freezing.”

After that, we start walking again, practically running all the way back to my block despite a red light. Tristan, a gentleman, places an arm on my back, steering me away from puddles that have formed from melting snow. Then, when we are only a block from my house, out of breath, we slow down again. The snow has finally stopped, and the streetlights here seem brighter than the rest of the neighborhood. For the first time I notice Tristan’s clothes are not only black and a little ratty, but that he’s wearing Carharrts and a bandana. I somehow hadn’t realized he is not so much a punk as a train-hopper. Suddenly I find myself wondering how we managed to cross paths.

“That party doesn’t really seem like your scene,” I say, out of breath.

“It’s not,” he says.

“What were you doing there?”

Tristan looks around in both directions, then reaches into his back pocket to show me a pair of wallets. “I was working.”

I stop and look at the wallets. One is leather, and filled with cash. The other is a silver purse with a fake diamond clasp. “You’re a thief?”

“Well, I prefer the term pickpocket,” he says, then laughs. “Just kidding. I don’t give a shit.”

“Cool,” I can’t help but whisper. Then I remember we’re not in a movie, that he stole things from people, from Margot’s friends. I don’t like Margot’s friends, but still. “Why would you tell me that? We just met.”

He licks his lips, then puts the wallets back. “Because I have a feeling you’d be good at it.” he says, rubbing his hands together for warmth. “It’s better with a partner.”

I cross my arms over my chest. For a moment I forget the cold. “I don’t think so. I would feel bad.” I scratch my head, itchy under my hat. Then I start walking again; either for warmth, or to give myself space from Tristan, who is not exactly what I expected. Maybe it’s my fault. The blue hair should have been a clue. But having spent so much time in Riverwest, I’d stopped noticing those things.

“Why? You don’t need money?” he asks, pointing at my torn shoes.

“I could get a job, like a normal person.”

“Is that what you are? A normal person?” he asks, smiling. “Come on, Anastasia! Why should rich people have all the fun? The system is rigged against us from the day we’re born. I’m just evening the scales a little.”

“So you’re Robin Hood?” I ask.

He grabs me by the hand and turns me towards him, both a question and an answer in his gaze. It’s so intense my entire body turns into a flutter of nerves. I feel like he can see into my soul or something. “Want to be my Maid Marion?” he asks.

I look at him skeptically. “What?”

“That’s Robin Hood’s girl.”

“I didn’t know he had a girl.”

“Oh, there’s always a girl,” Tristan says with a wink.

Then we start kissing again. If I had been thinking of anything else before, it was all gone in a flash. It doesn’t matter how many times a man touches me; it always feels like I’m about to jump off a gigantic cliff. And despite the warning bells going off in my mind, I have to admit I find the pickpocket thing sort of intriguing. Sexy, even. I don’t want to contribute, of course, but I would like to hear about it. There’s something about him that makes me feel like we’ve known each other for years, not less than a few hours.