Catastrophe Jones

He put his blackgloved fingers carefully against to the windows’ glass, followed by the pink shell of his ear. He listened to the dreams of those sleeping inside, and watched his breath in the moonlight, the silver of it kissing the pane, frosting it in white dust feathers. It reminded him of the coldness of the glass, and he lifted his head from it, and pulled his hat down to cover his now-red ear.

It was easy to ball up his fist and put it through the window; the noise it made was colder than the night, all crystal bright and somehow blue, and yet it was swallowed up in the dark, lost in the moment.

He reached down and unlocked the deadbolt, then let himself in, and shut the door behind, and headed right for the stairs that would take him up to the second floor, where the small bedroom was.

The gun at his side was heavy, but it would be lighter soon.  Not one, but two bullets’ worth.

“Don’t touch me!” she shrieked, flapping her hands in his direction, when he tried to get closer, his face wearing concern. “Don’t even look at me!” she shouted, backing away. “I can’t stand to have you see me like this!” she said, her voice on the edge of hysteria.  She trembled beneath the thick coat he’d put over her shoulders after pulling her from the river.

“Like what?” he said, trying not to sound too exasperated, even as he stood in the dark, his button-down shirt steaming in the moonlight, even as the wet folds of it began to frost. “Like what, Joyce? Afraid?”

“LIKE THIS!” she shouted, directing her hand-flapping in her own direction, as though she could explain to him just what it was she couldn’t stand to have him look at by having him look at whatever it was she couldn’t stand to have him look at — as though the revelation of it would bring about a sudden repulsion for that same thing… whatever it was.

“Screaming? Upset?” he said, backing up from her waving arms.

“NO! THIS!” she shouted. “ME! LIKE THIS!” she said, her voice growing louder as his grew softer.

“Angry?”

“NO!”

“Confused?”

“NO! NO NO NO!!”

“Unfuckingreasonable?” he said, trying to match her tone. “Bent? Like WHAT? Joyce? Like. Fucking. WHAT?”

“LIKE THIS!” she screamed, stomping her foot in the winter slush on the river bank.

“Dramatic and having a tantrum?” he finally asked. “Because honestly, I never wanted to see you like this, either.”

The calm honesty in his words stunned her. She blinkblinkblinked her big watery eyes and stared at him, her breath pluming in the night, billowing out into the dark, moonbreaths of silver that sprawled between them both.

“What?” she whispered.

“I never wanted you to be fragile and screaming, Joyce,” he said. “I just wanted you to be honest. Not broken. Not interesting. Not… damaged artistically. I don’t require it of you. I never have.”

“You think I do this for you?” she asked, cocking her head to the side, her mouth making a face of angry disdain.

“I know you do,” he said softly.  “Same way I know your name isn’t Joyce,” he sighed.

“Pfft,” she scowled, wiping water from her face with a muddied hand, warpainting her cheek. “Like yours is Adam.”

All of a sudden, I wanted to punch him in the face.  I wanted to feel the knuckles of my right hand sting against the bone of his cheek, where it becomes his eye socket. I wanted to give that motherfucker a shiner, right before he was supposed to go talk to the director.  I don’t think it was his fault; he hadn’t said or done anything to cause it — it was just there, a burning feeling, a rising, swelling, on-fire feeling.

I wanted to watch his head snap back-and-to-the-right. I wanted to see his brow split in a snap of blood, like a sugar-pea showering hands with its inside-spray, sticky-sweet, drops of blood to patter against face and hands.

I wanted to hear him try to roar, and feel only a choked splat come up, a backfired shout, a stuttered start that putters out, the kind of thing that will only resolve as l’esprit de l’escalier, when I walk away and leave him  hunched over, fingers making a feeble cage over the ruin of his cheek, tears leaking.

Instead, straightened his tie and kissed his forehead, smoothing the cowlick of his red hair and said, “Have a good day at work, dear.”

All I know is drowning is easy. Just stop struggling.

All I know is floating away is easy. Just stop holding on.

All I know is burning is easy. Just breathe.

All I know is waiting is

* * *

Fragments of things half begun half started half finished half touched. Praised now and then. Angry and biting. What, do you think I’m talking about you? No one would believe me, even if I told them, and then I read articles that make me realize you took advantage of me. I thought I was talented. You just thought I had a nice ass. You should’ve been more careful. Then you wouldn’t be where you are now, buried beneath an island of rot, each slice of you sandwiched between layers of six mil plastic, rolled in lawn fabric, soaked in hydrofluoric acid, dusted with quicklime.

* * *

When they come to get me, I’ll tell them you made me do it.

When they come to get me, I’ll tell them you made me

When they come to get me, I’ll tell

When they come

When