Michael Thomas - Man Gone Down

I wonder if this is what it feels like to fall out of love — mirthless, but too spent to rage or lament its passing; numb to old shames; alone, watching the sun bleed and not having the vision drop you to your knees. My bride across the summer lawn — not even a memory, one thin image — the empty gesture of a desperate man who knows it but won’t feel himself going down.

There’s a surge of sun at the end of the day, one last push for heat and light. I can sense the moon. It will be low and orange in the east and then gradually rise and fade to yellow — high in the late summer sky. At Edith’s the moon is just over the guery pond, not yet lit but bigger than anything else you can see, dwarfing even the sunset in the opposite sky, making you almost forget that night is coming.

She’s waiting in the window of the hallway. She sticks her head out. Her hair rolls down. She waves and calls out to me like we’re friends.

“Hey, you.”

She hangs her arm out and dangles a ring of keys.

“Catch.” She swings them, trying to give them a high arc, as though it will slow their descent. I catch them. “It’s the one with the blue.”

She’s waiting in her doorway, still open just enough to slide her body through along with dim orange light and the murmur of music. She backs away from the door, still holding it, but blocking entry. I wait outside. We study each other. She’s wearing flip-flops, painter’s pants stained and cut off at the knees, a pink tank top, and a violet bra — the straps exposed. She’s tied her hair up — piled it on her crown. A few loose tendrils snake down to her nape. I get caught up in it. It takes a moment to register her broad smile.

“How’s it going?”

“Fine, I suppose.”

She takes it in for a second, cocks her head to the side, and mimics me, “Fine, I suppose.” I nod at her poor imitation. She steps to the side, pulling the door open with her, and waves me in, but I stay where I am and try to get a look in and see what I could possibly be doing in there — if there could be several thousand dollars’ worth of work to be done tonight. She waves again, shrinking her smile, wrinkling her face almost to a pout. I give her the keys, taking care to not let our fingers touch. She gives me a wider berth. I go in.

I expected something else, but the orange light is only a colored, low-wattage, bare bulb, naked in a plain porcelain socket — mood lighting for a makeshift mudroom.

“Lucky, huh?” she asks, pointing at the bag. I nod. She points to the floor beside the door where she keeps her footwear and umbrella. “You can drop that stuff there.” She turns her back and disappears around the wall.

It’s a much smaller space than the other loft — a rectangle about twenty by twenty-five divided into three discrete areas. On the left is a living space — a dark velvet couch, ratty womb chair, and an old rocker surround a large painted wooden crate; dining — a large glass rectangle on sawhorses, no chairs; and the kitchen on the far right against an exposed brick wall. The appliances look old — not vintage, just old, but there’s a new blue kettle on the stove. On the back wall are three closed doors.

“Yeah,” she says, half turning to me. “It’s totally illegal.” She points up. “I put these in last year.” I look up to see three enormous skylights. “No one would touch that job. I was up there on the roof cutting holes in it — totally messed it up. I had no idea what I was doing. When there were buckets of water pouring in, I made a promise — no more do-it-yourself jobs, no matter how easy.” She goes toward the kitchen, remembers something, stops and answers a question that she believes I should’ve asked. “I had to find these guys, pay them cash — trust that they wouldn’t screw me.”

She waves me over to the table and points. “Are you hungry?” There’s fruit, cheese, bread, a bottle of sparkling water, a bowl of ice, and some glasses. “I didn’t know what you like, so, I figured everyone likes fruit, right?” She waits a minute, then gestures at the fruit. “Right?”

She waits for me to take something, but I don’t. I don’t even think I can speak. I hope, somewhere inside of me I’m appalled at my rudeness.

“Right.”

“Suit yourself,” she snaps, but then I suppose feels a bit guilty. She lightens. “I can make you some coffee.” She points to the wall-less galley kitchen. “That’s the only thing that gets made in there.” She shakes her head. “My mama didn’t raise me right — no, not at all.” She starts to take a step to me but cranes her neck and squints. “Do you eat, drink, talk — anything?”

“I’m sorry.” I shuffle in my spot, look over at the kettle. “I’m just a bit tired.”

“Oh no, don’t be, please. I’m sorry.” She straightens her neck but softens the rest of her body to curve backward into a c. “You must be tired, shit, the double-shift.” She leans forward even more to show interest. It’s convincing. “How was your day?”

I decide to trust the question. I exhale and feel contradicting tensions I didn’t know were there — caffeine and fatigue — release their grips, and I’m taken by the sudden levity. I hear the music now. I don’t recognize it — a piano solo, no, an upright bass, too. Slow tempo — the high end melancholy and whimsical, the low, brooding. I find myself reaching for a pineapple slice. She follows me with her eyes, then quickly settles on my face. She looks worried.

“Work wasn’t so good.”

“Why not?” She looks at my hands as if to check for missing fingers.

“I was let go.”

“What? Why?”

“I fought with the GC.”

“You had an argument?”

“No.”

She doesn’t want to, but she gasps. “A fight fight?”

“Yes.”

“With that little guy?”

“No, his partner.”

She scans my face. “Well, you look fine.”

I shrug. She cranes her neck again. “Oh, I see.” She narrows her eyes — almost whispers, “May I ask why?”

“I think he called me a nigger.”

She looks over my face again, turns an ear to me as though she missed what I said, then seems to get it from some echo unheard by me. She shakes her head, slowly. “No,” she stutters, “I don’t believe it.” She leans in again. “What do you mean, you think?”

I look around the room again. Tall white walls, the same height as the other loft’s, making this space seem vault-like. Everything’s so simple, practical — the furniture, the painted plywood floors — there’s nothing that encroaches upon me and nothing for me to encroach upon — a place to let your guard down. I almost close my eyes, but then I remember her — paint stained, disheveled, and beautiful — the faded pink cotton top, the soft loop of hair, and the warm glow of lights; that floor lamp by the sofa, the dying sun above.

“Are you okay?” She finally takes that step forward, extends her hand. She gestures at my bags with her fingers. “Give me those.” I give her the jeans bag, but she waits for my tools. I shake my head, but she demands it with her whole hand this time and grinds her foot against the floor. I give her the tool bag, holding most of the weight. She won’t lower her arm. She thinks she can suspend it like this, her shoulder in such a vulnerable position. She rolls her eyes at me to let go. I do. The bag yanks her arm down so she has to grab it with the other hand and hop quickly to the side to keep it from crashing into her shin.

“Jesus, what do you have in here?” She stares at the bag as though she can see through the canvas. “Shit — how do you carry this thing?” She drops it onto the floor; something inside clanks and rattles. “Oops,” she knocks her knees and covers her mouth.