There was certainly a point from which it began, going out vicious Thursday night. But that doesn’t paint it, not in the appropriate shade…Vicious.
The turnaround was blistering. Down at 3, up by 6. First thing at work Friday morning, I sat down at the bar with my bowl of Raisin Bran and stared, starry eyed at the bottle of Patron that was aching to tango all over my face, again. It would be healing, comforting, mind numbing…
No. This would be a battle fought straight…
Hitting a fastball without Winstrol. Bedding a beauty without Viagra. Ashlee Simpson without a guide track. I would do this with dignity, with a dizzying grace.
That morning I dropped plates with distant eyes…knuckle scabs from boxing sans gloves…gangrenous slashes from jumping construction lot fences…parfum de Corona, Silver, and Walker Blue…and wondered why I wasn’t sent home.
I don’t do this often. Truth be told, I am one of the more responsible and count-on gentlemen west of the Mississippi…but sometimes, simply put, shit flies when cows cough.
I got off around 3 in the afternoon and slept on my face for three hours. I don’t know what it is about day/recovery sleeping, but those three hours…my, oh my.
…
I met her on a stairwell. It stretched high and wide…reaching…pulling in every direction. I remember seeing her and smiling, noting nothing initially spellbinding in her distant appearance…
Until I fell, curb-kicked into hypnotic eyes. And let us dance with clarity for a moment…
There’s a difference, tabbing eyes hypnotic to win over a wavering soul for a midnight two-step, and this…eyes that lend shudder and sigh. The sort that cynics believe only exist in a dream.
These fucking eyes…
Anything more than an empty space between us hurt with a physical pain so great, I woke and checked for bruises, convinced I’d be the first to bring back reality from a dream.
I don’t remember kissing her, just that I couldn’t stop. I remember paralysis. I remember wondering how she could have known, the hang of my ear. That light bite and something too shooting and sense electric to put into words.
In my dreams, perfection lasts brief. She would pull back and walk away, standing no more than 10 feet. She’d wait with her eyes and smile, knowing I’d do anything to get close...if only for a second. It didn’t take me 24 years to know I was a fool…this epiphany came in days long gone.
I could have kissed her for the entire three hours. It would have likely picked up a little steam, but not for a while. I would have gone slow…if only the plot kept thin.
As she pulled back and stood off, a man approached. The feeling hit quick, we were about to battle. He shot me between the ribs…likely a symbolic roadmap that when translated in my after life, will contain the secrets to our existence. I’ve learned, by the age of 24, to manipulate my sleeping conscience with rare inferiority. And because of it, in my dreams, few stand a chance.
We wrestled for a moment before I choked him and threw him over the ledge. 50 flights up, I was back on her lips by the time he crossed 37.
It lasted for a couple minutes until she pulled back and walked away, tempting me to follow. We walked the hall until it gave way. Open air…another ledge. She stepped back and waited while two men approached. They fired multiple shots, all running straight through my upper torso but missing my heart. This, I remember checking. I threw them over the ledge and met her lips, again and again. I never stopped to ask why. Fool, remember?
And that’s how it went. I didn’t care that the intervals became shorter and shorter. I didn’t wonder why the challenges increased. It didn’t bug me that I rode to the statistical zenith amongst competing mass murderers. I needed her lips. I would do anything to get them.
…
I woke, walked to the bathroom and met my reflection. Heavy, so heavy. There was a line running between my eyes, down my nose and splitting my chin. When I told you I fell asleep flat on my face, I meant it. It’s called ill lack of rest.
There are only two ways to wake from a dream. You either want to go back or stay away forever…depending on the flavor shit you get mixed up in.
I knew the feeling as I looked in the mirror. There was no relief…knowing I was no murderer…knowing the infinite bullet wounds didn’t exist. They weren’t real, none of it was. And the part that stung…
I lost my girl.
