Post by M!$H on Oct 14, 2007 22:36:27 GMT -5
The heat was oppressive. Flat on them like an iron. Bearing down. The steam rose from the black concrete streets, crowded with bright yellow taxis with checked blocks on the doors. Lights flashed and dimmed in the afternoon swelter. The air thick and yellow, like a pill, like the hospital.
The girl was sitting with her back against a gray building. The man was sitting in front of her. A contrast of lifestyles. She was dressed in dirty, torn jeans and a white tank top that hung off of her, her body malnourished and her cheeks hollow. He was in a gray business suit, the knee ripped and bloody flesh showing through. A green tie and a white shirt. Clean. An accountant. His hair the color of flaxseed.
"What do you do for a living?" the girl asked. She reached into her guitar case and removed a clean handkerchief. She dabbed it on the man's knee, wiping away the blood.
"I'm an accountant." He stared at her face. She could have been pretty, if she hadn't been dirty and if she had maybe eaten in the past week. Her eyes were the color of dying embers – a strange orange and gray color. Her skin was the color of milk – translucent blue. She looked like some sort of fallen angel. Torn to pieces. Dark, dirty hair around her face like a veil, a curtain.
He kept talking. He was 41 years old. He had a wife and two little daughters. He really liked his job. He'd had a long day at work though. His name was something plain and common. The girl looked into his plain brown eyes and shrugged her bony shoulders. Her entire body shuddered at the movement.
"I'm a musician," she said. "When I sleep, I dream about music."
He wanted to know her name. She looked into the sky. She said she liked to think her name was a mystery. But everyone called her Navie and she could never remember why. "Sometimes I hear music in the alleyways. I walk in and there's nothing. I think it's God. I dream about Him."
She was young. 15. 16. She couldn't remember. Her life was a blur. She was happy to be alive. All she had was a guitar case and a grimy notebook, which scribbled writing. Fragmented dreams.
The man insisted she come with him. This Navie. This girl. He helped her walk to his home. Just as she'd helped him up when he'd tripped on the step coming up from the subway. He opened the door and startled his wife. Tried to explain the teenage girl with the guitar.
She ate a bag of salad greens and took a shower. His wife sent him dirty looks as she cooked chicken breasts in a skillet.
The girl fell asleep in the guestroom. She slept for a long time. She dreamed of wide fields of wheat. The stalks rustling around her face like the gentle brushing of guitar strings. Dreamed of birds flying over her head, the flap of their wings like the beat of a drum. God's whisper through the sky. The deadly blue, so blue she would cry if she looked into it too long. The wind through the blackberry bushes, like violins, like a flute. The echo of all the noises around her, surrounding her, engulfing her. Becoming part of her.
The man fell asleep next to his angry wife and dreamed of running through the streets. The dirty streets. Screaming the name he didn't know. The moon hollow. A silver shadow. A young girl running ahead of him. Turning down a different street. Or the same street. Or he didn't know. Her silhouette against the horizon. Stretching out over the water. Her arms stretched out. Her feet on the banister. Turning her head. Smiling a brilliant smile, like a sunset. And crashing into the water.
The girl was sitting with her back against a gray building. The man was sitting in front of her. A contrast of lifestyles. She was dressed in dirty, torn jeans and a white tank top that hung off of her, her body malnourished and her cheeks hollow. He was in a gray business suit, the knee ripped and bloody flesh showing through. A green tie and a white shirt. Clean. An accountant. His hair the color of flaxseed.
"What do you do for a living?" the girl asked. She reached into her guitar case and removed a clean handkerchief. She dabbed it on the man's knee, wiping away the blood.
"I'm an accountant." He stared at her face. She could have been pretty, if she hadn't been dirty and if she had maybe eaten in the past week. Her eyes were the color of dying embers – a strange orange and gray color. Her skin was the color of milk – translucent blue. She looked like some sort of fallen angel. Torn to pieces. Dark, dirty hair around her face like a veil, a curtain.
He kept talking. He was 41 years old. He had a wife and two little daughters. He really liked his job. He'd had a long day at work though. His name was something plain and common. The girl looked into his plain brown eyes and shrugged her bony shoulders. Her entire body shuddered at the movement.
"I'm a musician," she said. "When I sleep, I dream about music."
He wanted to know her name. She looked into the sky. She said she liked to think her name was a mystery. But everyone called her Navie and she could never remember why. "Sometimes I hear music in the alleyways. I walk in and there's nothing. I think it's God. I dream about Him."
She was young. 15. 16. She couldn't remember. Her life was a blur. She was happy to be alive. All she had was a guitar case and a grimy notebook, which scribbled writing. Fragmented dreams.
The man insisted she come with him. This Navie. This girl. He helped her walk to his home. Just as she'd helped him up when he'd tripped on the step coming up from the subway. He opened the door and startled his wife. Tried to explain the teenage girl with the guitar.
She ate a bag of salad greens and took a shower. His wife sent him dirty looks as she cooked chicken breasts in a skillet.
The girl fell asleep in the guestroom. She slept for a long time. She dreamed of wide fields of wheat. The stalks rustling around her face like the gentle brushing of guitar strings. Dreamed of birds flying over her head, the flap of their wings like the beat of a drum. God's whisper through the sky. The deadly blue, so blue she would cry if she looked into it too long. The wind through the blackberry bushes, like violins, like a flute. The echo of all the noises around her, surrounding her, engulfing her. Becoming part of her.
The man fell asleep next to his angry wife and dreamed of running through the streets. The dirty streets. Screaming the name he didn't know. The moon hollow. A silver shadow. A young girl running ahead of him. Turning down a different street. Or the same street. Or he didn't know. Her silhouette against the horizon. Stretching out over the water. Her arms stretched out. Her feet on the banister. Turning her head. Smiling a brilliant smile, like a sunset. And crashing into the water.
