Chapter Text
At once Vanessa Fisk’s head exploded when terrible Fortune had smiled down on Gracie mansion. Tonight’s inaugural jubilee was filled with the company of every evil contraband body that waddled inside the white nest for Mister and Missus Fisk.
The atrium carried each rotten character you could imagine. Every wicked malcontent that was summoned for his and her’s great council. Swollen like wasps inside Gracie’s chamber; they had been all laid about and where they too had eaten and drunk to their delight for the very happy couple as well—as the prospects of their promised recompense. Their festivities and celebration grew just as the evening blemished; the crowd erected themselves in an orderly fashion across the edge of the ball, leaving the few sum in its focal to a merry dance, it was here where she exploded; scattered on their faces, on their dressage, and on their very souls. Her innards erupted into segregated stringy, knotted, or ruptured fibre across the room in decorative display, the hair produced from her face and most comely crown sprinkled in the air like confetti and pirouetted until softly landing on the wet, red faces of the audience.
The murder was executed by the most meticulous administration behind the scope that upon the very bullet that raptured her soul, not even herself could deny its providence and hark injustice; her body held no contempt and instead—with enthusiastic acquiescence, she bowed her head to the crowd and fell into the most sublime and profitable of sleeps not withstanding a drop of her voice to be heard before Vanessa exploded.
Except for two who—with much in common, stood above the carcass of Vanessa now not before each male companion of Vanessa had lifted their heads to glimpse at one another; within the confines of their glass eyes gleaned by their fury at the murder burnt away the scorn for their standing counterpart inside this derelict white monument; they spoke no word, for any dialogue would be amplified and would break this hypnotic communication; united suddenly with one another against a crime so plain and evident. Now steady and anew made themselves partisans against this, the carcass—who now was impotent flesh, the vile display had filled the room with such a rank organic odour it drew all the rest of her patron devils out of Gracie Mansion’s halls. Not withstanding a mere second later before the Mayor Fisk collapsed unto the bordered chequy floor; braced onto his knees that had not once degraded to such a position; he picked up his dear wife and embraced Vanessa.
It had seemed that just for a moment New York had defeated its most detrimental moguls to something nothing more now than a lowly widow. Mayor Fisk, now something akin to the lamenting vassal underneath great Fortune, he then lifted his wife like the flagellation whip with proportional devotion and composure when he brought their faces to each other; he pressed his nose into her flaccid neck and kissed her goodbye.
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Tonight in Manhattan you return home; first slicked between the edges of buildings and parallel to a planted tree, unto the grand white building erected with white pillars of all its panache architecture that curved, sloped, and concave degrees smoothed against itself—an inferior imitation of Roman design that only in your desolation were you thankful to see the entity so vast and broad; cloaked with salient darkness most triumphant against the meagre stage lights that tried to illuminate it underneath. But it looked nothing alike to its same daylight principle. Unlike your initial convention which ailed your simple and first passage thirteen hours earlier this morning when the city seemed to have breathed so very soft during the day; everything prepossessed and honest inn the sun’s delight that of course Gracie Mansion was a beautiful sight when it was sluiced by the sun. Now only resembling a lingering memory; but still where a memory-like entity could administer a new guidance for your safe passage back to your apartment. The path gradually descended and it seemed more laborious; briefly you were overcome with pride for your ontological quality that supplied your premium memory.
Accordance to this darkness was the frigid cold, there was this conduit of the linked concrete and bleak silhouettes situated in another slender alleyway between storefronts. It seemed to make your eyes wet; the wind actually streamlined towards you; so with hue from your own displeasure, it had disrupted your proffering annotations you made to make sense of your surroundings meanwhile you were inside this dark globe that was New York city. Only inside your own languished body did it reserve so very little warmth subsequently you could only afford to bite your tongue to stop the curses fall from your pallid lips. The wind pressed down on you further until your profile creased your eyebrows so unlike their usual beautiful crested arches. If anyone had been present and lifted their heads to you they would only afford themselves the sight of a woman so overgrown with her disturbing habits; they would quickly turn their heads and proffer a single silent dime of pity.
Onward when you surpassed another alleyway and drew into another open boulevard—things on this street where far more domestic, blissful with so many of the buildings being places of residences; you did tread slower and ordained to notice the abundances of entries to parallel streets by brick stairs that pervaded the neighbourhoods of Manhattan. You had passed another brick staircase close by to you—though did not dare to explore further. You did gaze at that descended path; where there was one lone street lamp above it but it was so old that the bulb had been tinged pink with time; once such a sight would have not struck you until now; no people, none at all, and it would have made sense to have see someone here underneath the light. You only considered why tonight had been so lonely and whether it had been true that Mayor Fisk had honestly executed his stipulations against crime—so much so in the process he had infringed New York’s once free ingress and egress of common life to offensive captivity.
There were no souls and no evidence of human life which you would assume that their great numbers should of had abundant residue even now; where shop windows reflected the souls of people who passed by, the night shuttered these portals with black or grey metal bars. From these shutters displayed causerie art and graffiti piled on mass culmination a wide evening desolate. And the persons missing made everything here so unnatural that the silence, you assumed, was the last suffocated breath inside its lungs that it brought such silence so unlike New York’s vivacious history. Now bleached and in its consequences a collective despondency. Only now in the derelict evening like these opportunities presented themselves—permeating the very air—until the smell of oil still warm enough to have piqued your neglected appetite as it left a very agreeable streak in its path that it wasn’t until you passed one of the only remaining shops that was still buzzing with the lights on, shaking with the music on, that you discovered it being the source for the nice smell; inside this pulsating cul-de-sac.
Presently, upon your curiosities, until having walked right up to this unfamiliar shop did you discover the petite and stout falafel bar, occupied by an abject worker obscured by the kitchen counter; meanwhile he washed his hands, or meddled with the deep fryer.
He had blonde hair that had sustained a lot by the way it stuck out so unnaturally, it had been obviously bleached, but curled like a french bouquet harmoniously into itself whilst the young man below himself had fashioned a green apron and was otherwise preoccupied by the loud music playing from the speakers to have been disturbed by your lingering presence—all the windows had all been folded amongst themselves and opened this quaint bar like a flower that radiated positively with every golden fatty quality. It only made sense these black scissor gates that loomed parallel to you so. The gates themselves were inoffensive but in this circumstance the manner that they presaged above your silhouette with such remarkable prowess that when you tried to look at the young man, a severe dearth sat between you two. For a moment you had filled your chest with air to call out to him between the bars, only caught between the sounds of those bars rattling from the music, or the wind almost—as if it was a dream. You held your breath as the music continued, and he moved freely not because he was unlaboured; but some would say happy to be caught away from every person that did you notice the small tv screen by his left profile. In your own body, it was as if you were looking at a private stage with a lone actor and you as his only witness; you did not want to disturb the creature and watched all the meanwhile he moved and fidgeted. Sometime he collected himself and tipped his head back to flip his hair; still worked behind that counter with his hands away—not withstanding to ever once see you.
You had turned away form him, forgiving that surely not every camera had revealed themselves and from the angle you were standing as you still watched him, but otherwise; you were none dismayed and in fact possessed with fascination which was gleaned from your observations of the man—seeing himself so rushed to leave when he dashed the aluminium containers with a clash; he did not save time to fix his countenance. You turned away, confident he would not ever see you, you glanced to the bicycles propped up by gates and beside the handrails outside the bar right now, wondered which one would belong to him, you made yourself tempted to take one. or finding just how quiet the environment was and how a poor soul could easily be surprised by your lingering presence, or maybe see just the extent you could go unnoticed.
You had passed by a Clinton church, since this was the way you had first left this morning you had the chance to score the name down of this little resident before you had gone into the city centre; Clinton church as it stood made you felt more comfortable until you to let your head swing back and listen to your surroundings much more liberally; without having to nod and wink at every building or any remind yourself of any possible fractured image you had initially observed.
First you were aware of your own plosive footfalls that you heard, then your laborious breathing caught your mind’s eye; then surely enough it was the hunger that you had still not satisfied and swept your mind and other amusements into a sombre pondering.
But of all things of complexities and preternatural circumstance tonight you had not expected to hear the sound you almost had dreaded to hear, in the distance there was a tweeting so remarkably late, you raised your head to make sure you heard things correctly, and sure enough when the melody from their plosive beaks vibrated from their prosody; their diligent squawks become so loud when they fluttered above you so lively—it wouldn’t have been odd to say that you could even hear them pause to breathe—they chirped and snapped and flew overhead above you like Spartans; black as the evening sky and synchronised in all manner they conducted themselves with perfect rhythm when they swooped underneath a green bridge and with dark panache they flipped their bellies to the sky and the imagine was so nostalgic for a brief moment you smelt not the polluted air from New York but an old world secluded in a forest. It wasn’t until they surpassed you that the swifts had suddenly become so dejected from their freedom, as if sensing the nature of the night too they also broke off from their friends, and from their families before lodging themselves with full force inside the gaps of some roof tiles.
Despite that the air lingered with their presence. What you had heard had pushed you elsewhere in-between somewhere like sinew that tethered the current present in the bask of Manhattan but deeply felt within yourself entire someplace else. Inside where you would not want to go, to those sentimental tender and formative years. You didn’t expect to see such a familiar presence here, it captured your heart a hostage and warmed it with weird affection that did not belong to you. The memories too distinct and stringent, you furrowed your eyebrows and shook them off.
But as the if the Chimney swifts were your Svengali and you their Trilby; they were fuelled by your stubbornness and they proffered once more to you with another sweet birdsong to really hurt you, until it shaded your inhibitions once again and reminded you of your own companion. The one who you had, once upon a time, that One. The One you spent so many tender yet brumal Atlantic nights together when there was a time as coeval children who had one their own someone else, and with him, likewise when you had watched the birds pass you by, those times were languishing now but still so sharp as to ignore them made them hurt tenfold; that time when you were once young and sober; on those early-mornings not-nights anymore where you both would stand away from every other stagnant or abusive soul to the horizon and smoke yourselves until the weary sun would come over; you’d turn your cold plump face and see him there. You didn’t think those tepid mornings were dark at all.
Spoke to one another on his bed, lying afterwards; Marlboro Silvers, you liked those they were the ones your mom once smoked too. Sometimes after a smoke you’d sleep beside him, which he felt more inclined to with the window open and having his palm—not aged enough to be rough, slipped between your naked thighs to touch and feel how soft you were; for the sake of having all the smoke be gone and refresh the room. It was too painful to remember, being so young. Sometimes on those nights you’d hope he could see in the dark. Just so that you could be the last thing he sees before he falls away from you to someplace you cannot go. A little feeling of magical sentimentality that teenage you once had and miraculous that you vividly remember those feelings, still preserved despite it all.
But your mind—so disturbed at the volume of this need to go back that the instruction so sudden, it refused. Time which made your heart race, now inescapable and you couldn’t manage to reconstruct his face over that sound of an irregular beat, and soon the sound of whirring engines salient to your ears and it all suddenly vexed you. All over again the swifts all sang on and again between memory and lucidity—yourself trapped inside your own fracture; you heard his name—felt your lips move and the bird asked you once more where was your dear company?
But you did not know, your rogue was forever gone; the only creature you ever cared for. Just like the plumage of the chimney swifts he would too abscond from your company and too—fly away. He hadn’t really ever talked to you of his affairs. Except when you were together by the locked windows of his bedroom after Common hour; then only by midnight would you break open the window and crawl to the shallow roof underneath. Perhaps not with that most unnatural sound of rumbling in the background, strange memory.
And when that changed, and those rebellions seemed too unnerving for him—you got more capricious, still when you were in at Lyndhurst’s Middle School where you remember once before seeing him one day in particular. You couldn’t hold the temptation and that juvenile libido stirred something fierce that you could not wait to be without him that you spent the whole day refusing to do anything.
Naturally it was quite expected for people to be gone for hours at a time, but even then the idea that he had left; that he somehow was able to get out of this place and he didn’t even tell you was enough to agitate you to recklessness.
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That day you had awaken in your room, normal; then ate, then again by the bell’s command—which followed only a rigidness you despised, at the sun’s zenith at midday designated. And then by time unconstrained in the warm and bouncy late summer afternoon he should have been free, but time that wasn’t your own you merely sat at the corner of the basketball court meanwhile waiting for him to show up; bored by that same rigorous regiment.
In the gymnasium your head perked up unnaturally when you heard your name being called out by a stranger, though it didn’t sound like Dex, your heart had still sank with disappointment watching as this other man began to continue walking in your direction—since spotting you across the hall, he dropped the whistle from between his lips and huffed a breath, “Hey. What’s going on?” it was coach Matthew.
“What?” you said.
He dropped his head with obeisance and briefly closed his eyes as if sending a prayer to his feet or his greater will; it was early in the morning and prayers were typical, but not towards your shoes you thought. Matthew sighed and said your name, again, but the breath was heavy and full of lassitude, “Listen, you have to either participate with everyone else; or you can go to the Common Area for mindfulness they’re doing, it’s your choice.”
You fingered between your heel and your trainer, “Already was—‘was sent here.” You sighed and looked up—past Matthew—at the others who had already stopped playing, and like desperate stranglers were watching you now intently as they stood all around from window-to-door; you suppressed a groan, you’re eyes switched back to Matthew, just as you had begun to sense his platitudes of false encouragement; you sat still and stopped yourself from immediately getting up right then. Establishing a false comfort on your face forcing your body to relax disposition despite so obviously trapped inside the little-ease; you laid back and tilted your head. “I feel sick, my stomach hurts so I can’t play.”
“If that were true you would be in medical.” Matthew said. “C’mon, get up.”
“Yeah, well. ’Can’t do anything to stop being pregnant.”
Matthew jutted his jaw out and took a moment to stop his eyes from fluttering away, his chest still inflated and his eyes dropped down to your stomach and back up again to your smile, “Excuse me?”
“I’m pregnant.” You shrugged.
Matthew squinted at you and stroked his fleece pocket up and down, “No…you’re not.” He mumbled to himself and he grabbed the whistle hanging by his stomach, and as he was almost about to lift it to his lips to call recess—it was the perfect time—to which you didn’t spare another second before you jumped up with renewed effulgence and energy coursing through you body from your little venial display. Now you had prayed that no one else was within earshot to hear the nonsense you said and start to frolic transgressive rumours about you.
With your legs summoned you walked away from the hall right outside; laughing in the meanwhile to yourself.
If coach Matthew had been calling you—bizarre as it, believe that it had sounded like was it sounded like the turmoil of mechanics. You carried yourself to the window by reception, which took a moment of walking which was nice considering it was all so empty; you saw a load of trucks, the ones used see not on the streets but on the grass-plains of some destitute and unfortunate country that America pricked.
No matter, you were not interested in throwing your life away and plus you had other priorities; you continued onward with growing excitement to see Dex.
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What would coach Matthew think of you now? walking around your life like the water that pools and swirls around before the sink drain. Would Matthew still be alive? Surely, though as life was, it could be so different from how it was once or no different at all; it was hard to imagine a man like him grey and cold; old in what would be his living room sitting on the couch with no greater purpose, with no one to come see him. Maybe you should be sharing the pity between each other.
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Still you couldn’t hold the temptation that juvenile libido stirred something fierce that you could not wait anymore and left the bench bare are you begun to walk off; just as you had about lost both your company and patience. Instead, you brisked into the hallway and through the Garden that housed the dormitories for the boys on the Left wing of the premises, beside one or two other guys who didn’t pay you any attention, you entered unencumbered with questions or idle distractions. Up the stairs and through a couple heavy fire doors; there finally, his bedroom door. Subsequently thereafter opening it and closing it almost too quickly—to conceal yourself—you collapsed unto his floor and under his bed, his duvet briefly caressing your face upon crawling under there; if anyone had seen you they would have thought you had succumbed to sudden rheumatism, but inside his conclave it was like a timid sanctuary so plain and grey and cold; you were alone.
In this silence and you had taken a breath—taken inside his stagnant scent that accumulated underneath his single-size bed, your stomach vibrating from the human commotion below; again and exactly then, you pressed your nose down to the floor and huffed more—the floorboards were sweet from the aroma of the wood that still escaped the liquid varnish even still after it was here for so long. It was free from any his dust or hairs that any person would have imagined should have been there, who would have expected it? An environment so free from the dust that naturally fell from every person, accumulations that should have been swept up by your system and kept in there. Instead all matter were absent; but it was plenitude with the homecoming victuals of his scent. You turned your face and pressed your cheek to it and sighed.
Next your memory moved with quick focus, still underneath his bed of course, but moments after you were left there in time to contemplate; when reminded of why you were initially here spurred you to life; now recalling when you had already began to unfold the paper box laid next to you still. Inside the box—to no surprise—it was filled with Dr. Mercer’s pogs and it had made sense after all, she had no use for them. Not then, nor forever again. With gentle administration you touched the pogs as not to disturb them.
Would he too take something from you?
Dex enjoyed playing with pogs for leisure, that was already certain; if not by his tendencies for playing, then sentimental ritual. But with you Dex would seem subdued in your presence mostly; at that age you probably would have believed it to be a feeling so grandiose, but age made you weary and the moments when you were too young to have portend how life would come to be so much more savage. Dex liked you, sure but even then he would look at you with tenderness but not the actual resolve to entertain something most coeval children did when they grew up together; because they only had each other; actually Dex was too good for you.
But in your presence he would learn to take a cigarette when you would offer it, but only with a loose expression; Dex would never smoke—that was true, if he was governed by his own devices, (the devices every adult around him tried to establish throughout), yet flirtation was as inevitable as it was unerring even from a rigid boy like himself; you two would have coquettish dialogue together, maybe even a touch; on the roof when the whole school was shut down for the night, he would bend down and take a fag from the box; beside you he’d smoke and try for your sake to enjoy some commonplace with your interesting appetite, you guess you were an base epicure, perhaps your unabashed nature was what made Dex so fascinated with you; maybe once he understood, for him there was no other good reason to stay. And in the process he absconded from ever being in your company again. You looked down again to see the pogs; since you had no recollection of what you were looking at moments before, the pogs were muted, a little brown from the edges and softened by being touched so many times, you wondered…
Suppose that Dex had a clear interest with curating surely, there would be something in this room that had Dex had come from you.
But before you could surmise any line of action subsequently thereafter; he had somehow appeared before you, the door ajar and revealed just how quickly he had summoned into his room; he curtly dislodged the box from your hands with his boot and then dragged you to your feet where you were no longer an abject on his fresh floors. Amidst being gripped between his lovely hands that you felt were so warm, and saw to be so rich of lively complexion; you also saw the emotions that contorted his face downwards; unlike his perpetually dearth expression which was unusually neutral or sardonic, his supple face which you could glean from memory. A sweet smooth handsome face, whose countenance in this circumstance shifted and chafed until it fell to a displeased, but not abusive angle when he stared down at you and then he then shook you to confess what else you had seen.
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It was hard to be sentimental, after-all Dex did leave you. In hindsight now Dex wasn’t ever truly compatible with you and you knew that. Nevertheless the memories had trickled down and coaxed every sensible and old distant memory to the centrefold of your mind and captured so much more than you thought, naturally it would conclude to this.
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On other days, particularly the ones more languid in the evenings; only in the summer because you would sit in The Garden. Not withstanding to do anything grandiose nor productive during the final days of the final year of aptyical-Lyndhurst high school. He had already finished a year early; to your much amusement; seeing how eager he was to impress everyone around him so much so that unlike the rest of the eighteen year old’s he had taken a part-time job for the Arms.
Back then, on one beautiful garden day, (the court had sounded better with your remote de facto rename as ‘The Garden.’) He brought himself to you, sat upon your commanding gaze, and asked you, softly, and gently; insomuch that you hasn’t noticed the placement of the shavers on the table between you two; when he looked at you with the most solemn of eyes that seemed to have ruptured upon your sight; sanguine and wet before he opened his mouth and paused—taking a moment to collect himself—before he asked if you would be willing to shave all his hair off.
You had been sat on The Gardens’ chair, when both of you of were shaded grey by that Home behind; you had blinked and forbid your heart to cry.
You had said his name but you already knew what it had meant, but it was no matter whether he found you that day or the next; strange that though he sat beside you he still didn’t even look at you.
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Now you had stopped walking. Wherever it was that you where now—in some disconnected place where the pain was just as fresh, but inside a space with no sweet Garden breath, not being a teenager anymore, nor the crop of the swifts guiding song anymore. Seemingly you drifted along the concrete from your swift-ministered amnesia that now led you here; in this even darker place.
New York had seemed, so unlike your expectations, you wondered why it seemed that all these promises for something better were so futile, had you even wanted to be here, did you want to be here? Did you even want to go ‘home’ at all?
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‘Where are you going?’
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You kept walking, some road ahead was completely barricaded, and you saw the flashing police cars, you moved on.
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‘Are you serious? Florida. You waited to—I can’t believe you did this to me, you can’t do this to me. You know this is bullshit—what is wrong with you?’
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It just was like the day he left you, and he lifted himself into those armoured cars that manifested so real now in front of you; for a second it all seemed that lucidity and fiction were a perfect madrigal; to which you stood there in contemplation at how bizarre it had been, to remember him leave you so clearly; his immigration that perfectly meant leaving you—had it truly upset you to this degree that your mind had brought the image again? yet once more your sentimentalities were once more shredded from you.
A sound so harrowing came from the cars that it make your heart skip and your skin prick; when you blinked and saw the world no longer shaded with memory; your eyes worked again within the bounds simpleness again to which over there, those cars became saliently real as they moved closer towards you until they were truly in front of you burgeoning red and orange from the streets-lights.
They had just looked like a conflagration; which they were the stakes that were ablaze and thrown directly at your pallid heart.
Only then did you truly see—until it had long seen you—what was an army that had a reflective glossy complexion—encumbered the street behind you so, moving in advance to salient you, and with so much vigour that the vibrations assaulted you and shook your heart between your ribs as if it was nothing but meagre garbage; the vans switched on their clandestine sirens and bleated every sensible reprieve into oblivion, and every sanguine opinion that began to grow from you was trammelled and they died.
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‘I can’t believe it.’
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With despair inside the derelict city, what consequence was this? To which they finally managed to find you and managed so easily to corner you there just after you; only then were your thoughts once again spun around when you heard glass shattering and the footfalls—that landed on your left flank—from a man’s body.
The man and his staccato breathing caught your attention now over the engine’s hellish ululations.
When the criminal counterpart stood beside you; beyond normal operations; clearly suffering from his encumbered and abused body he almost clamoured to the ground once again when bent over; retrieved his black object from the floor; then ran—scattered to the alley beside you. And to your detriment you watched so terrified by the sudden appearance of all these threats—only then did you realise in your frozen state you watched him book it; which he did without sparing a glance at your ignorant countenance that awkwardly stood there.
And for your misfortune you had un-knowingly kept precisely within the cars line-of-sight they got closer to you; until they began to blare their lights and flash them repeatedly and sped closer and so much very faster it was like you were struck with mortification and every wish and every promise you had made in the hope that New York would give some semblance of a better life just pointless; just as the vans came close to you—the injustice of it all was so wrong.
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‘Please, Dex.’
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Only then did they too surpass you; in mass the black vans drove ahead on into the open boulevard across from you and into the street lane that seemed to crawl parallel to that blackguard's escape into the alleyway…
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‘I’m sorry.’
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Already your body moved and took a weary step which your foot did not crack the glass underneath but it glided it freely like white chalk on the sidewalk and felt your mind growing even heavier and your limbs being stretched to such an extreme that to stop yourself from collapsing from your nerves (and body that grew especially tiresome after being in bound to your maladaptive habits with endlessly wondering,) knocked yourself to the brick wall and pried your phone out. Black and dead. You sighed and returned it back into the pocket before dropping your head and walked onward in-between the city’s whereabouts you were in the focal of; the return home was now a fruitless endeavour now that you were afflicted with no sense of direction, no pretence that could guide back on your passage. With no other option and the desperation for some human contact, to have some proof at all that you existed at all, you turned around, hand on your chest for any ablation—spared yourself from the sights of those horrible vans instead,
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‘You can’t go.’
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You turned and slowly scampered until you reached into the mouth of that black fringe, and into the cities most delinquent corners. Guided by that coistrel silhouette so very far away, you took another step and before you could even manage—
“It’s in your best interest not to follow him, mate.”
You stopped.
The voice was real, and for a second you were single-handedly reminded that almost started following after a complete stranger and most likely criminal into an alleyway; shame and embarrassment were plausibly coursing through your entire body, so much so that you had ceased to move—not to even accommodate a lie to come past your lips.
“Sorry ‘bout that mess,” he said, knocking him head back at nothing but pointing, briefly, towards the street behind him.
You straightened your back before turning around to face him.
“’Names Buck,” he said. A polite smile followed after he spoke, “I understand I’m coming at you at a random time, but I’m actually a private investigator and I was wondering if we could have a chat?” He paused to let you hear him, but not saving a fraction longer to speak, he curtly bowed his head. “How are you?” Buck said.
You swallowed and decided what would be the best decision in this moment; running was impossible in these conditions and considering your options to runaway were rendered penniless, you smiled in exchange, “I’m fine.”
He nodded meanwhile his head bobbed he looked across his periphery feigning nonchalance, “Unfortunately it seems like tonight has been particularly unfavourable for everyone.” He sighed. “There has been a serious offense that’s happened concerning Gracie Mansion—“
Your eyes perked and you squinted at him,
“—and considering that you were indirectly seen leaving the scene where the crime had taken place; I would like to ask you some questions? if that’s alright?”
“I didn’t see anything happen.” You shook your head, feeling uncomfortable by the preternatural circumstances of his presence that perfectly aligned with your own. “I’m sorry, but tonight’s been really hard for me and I don’t think I could be of any use to you right now, ” you said.
Buck’s smile widened and even a modest dimple revealed itself when he almost creased into a laugh, “’Hear that all the time.” He lamented and he looked up to one of the rooftops before he landed back down at you with ease only magnified by his loftiness in appearance and voice. By stark contrast to yourself and considering your uncouth administration; Buck was a ordered man and showed no displeasure despite seeing you as disheveled as you were. “I understand your reservations, but unfortunately, considering that there was a serious offense—murder—has occurred; we have to have as many eyes and ears that were there to give a statement, that’s all.” He paused for you. “How about we have a sit down together? maybe over some coffee; or tea perhaps? on me.”
You paused, wanting to say no, but neither wanting to rouse false-suspicion.
Buck spoke again, “I assure you confidentiality. I know you’re not involved in this.”
“But it does involve me—if I speak to you, I mean.”
“It’ll be written as an anonymous tip. Look,” he said and seemed closer to you when his head leaned towards you, “I won’t have your name on the record, and for the rest of us; we work with complete security—I can guarantee you. We want as little people involved with the case as possible,” he said so much softer and quieter either the chill of the wind or his voice his a shiver pass through you.
With a better countenance you nodded in agreement, “I see. But you didn’t hear me the first time; I didn’t see—or hear anything.”
He dipped his head and looked down, but even from that shaded angle his expression had not changed at all despite the suggestion for maybe some reconsideration or otherwise some sympathy.
“Forgive me, I probably came at you at a bad time. It’s Friday night—and it’s hardly the time for conversations like this—I’m sure you want the evening to end as much as I do; so I’ll make it sweet for you, if we can share any details—if not tonight, whenever suits you best, alright? anything else that you see happening, or anything you hear about. And as payment, you come to our attorneys—“ he procured a white card between his middle and index finger before cocking them and sliding his arm to your periphery, he seemed so much closer now his hand was already right under your nose, “with whatever troubles legally you come across, you’ll have some of the best operators in the city to help you. It’s your fancy.”
Buck was a disgusting person you decided differently; he was a man smearing palm oil across your sorry self yet you lifted your hand for snatching—,
Yet Buck was providential and twisted his wrist back before you could, “only if we can work together, right?” he edged.
Your eyes moved back to look at his own and then down away before you took the card and pocketed it.
“Thank you.” He smiled, courtly backing off, and he walked away.
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You spared yourself a moment and hid behind a brick wall, it accommodated enough shadow that when panting and trying to catch your breath between your sore tongue that had gone stiff like metal, you peeped your head out to find yourself alone again.
A turquoise cafe that had been filled with people sitting down casually drinking, situated on metal chairs in-front of the window plane glass every person sitting outside that had enough dim light reflected off of them to accommodated for the even larger mass of blackness from which pervaded the rest of the street; if it had been day-break the sight would have only forgetful with no particular quality of renown, but you sat before you could consider otherwise and placed your ruddy palm underneath your jacket, then the hoodie; until finally you pressed your palm to your naked breast to cool you down among the sweat that had already began to profusely accumulate. You had given your self a minute until you could process once more see the menial but intimate environment.
Over there was a stout man in an orange hazard jacket who was situated further down the dark alley that had been illuminated by the aquamarine reflections of the yellow bulbs overhead between the Cafe and its canvas awning that had had blue and yellow stripes which reminded you of a propeller, with his pinky and thumb he was bent over one of the sewage holes with his phone oriented inside and with the flash on—the sight would be safe if not by the unusual accompany of another man dressed in normal civilian clothes and in black beanie stood beside him, you could not determine his origin for being there; until looking down and catching the sight in his palm gently warmed by the welcome of a napkin in his hand and the fresh pastry desert that seemed so infantile the cold outside made it deflate right in front of your eyes, the beanie man had come from the cafe inside and only stopped to bother the workman only having been a curious onlooker, like yourself you supposed. But unlike yourself, the non-afflicted man lifted his head form the sewage hole and turned to speak softly to the workman still taking photos.
It was unusual to see human life so normally condensed here; how had it not been noticed by you? Three young men were sitting next to you on your left flank, and from there you saw them eating with mouths loaded with treasures from the cafe pastry window plane.
You looked into your superficial cuneal jean pocket lied inside a lone coin; fetched it eagerly only to see the emblem on it; then when a black hand clapped over your own and pulled you forward until lurched you into the some wooden structure before the sound of gunfire began to assault the idea neighbourhood’s street of the cafe—practically all, save for this one, abandoned and shut out to fretting dispositions until the safety of the morning came; however, came the floor and knocked your body. This was twice now.
Then more glass. It seemed a hand rummaged beside or on top of you; you whispered to the blemished figure over you that you were fine; rambling more to yourself that you just, you only felt that you needed to spare another moment with your heart still rattling. Your bearings came back tenfold. Now hearing the dialogue between faces you already saw when initially arriving; now carved into something else entirely. You ducked you head and shuffled even deeper inside until withstanding the commotion outside brought yourself to your feet and pummelled your body into the back door and caught yourself by the garbage before you had the chance to fall once more.
“Hey—! There’s one right here”
Against your better judgement, since it wasn’t exactly an ideal time not circumstance, you failed to see whoever that it was talking—took another step to look to the corner of the alley—
“Hey Miss—!” He spurred to life like the conduit of erratic human instinct. His hand rose to point at you and by the manner of the which light that shone so brightly behind him and made him not look like any human figure, still the hand that was connected to it’s very body nonetheless evidently conveyed to you a base forthrightness that heeded no further soothing resolution on your end; for it was helpless now. He was holding a gun,
“Ay, don’t move! Don’t move! Stay right there.” He said not before stopping metres before you, though you could still see him jerk his shoulder up and talk into it with an the same abrasive voice but only quiet enough to that you could not have discerned what he had said.
You steadied yourself without sensible manoeuvre but still you needed to have better contact on the ground it you wished to stand and try to discern some gentile temperament as to not further startle him, but still your very bones were so easily weak you nearly lifted your hand to console your headache, you only just stopped yourself from doing that which would have been a perfect disaster—it was almost humorous if your life wasn’t in danger, nevertheless the officer perked up like a dog at the simple gesture and barked at you with absolute ferocity as he began to walk towards you lamely,
“I said don’t move! Do not move; stay right there and have your hands behind your head exactly where I can see them.”
You could feel your heart beating in your tongue, now having a second life-scare right after the previous you could tell your heart beating weaker and you could distinguish his words from the screams inside still.
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“You promise you’ll write to me or email me, or whatever bullshit they let you do, promise—? promise me Dex.”
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You lifted your head and saw something black move above you, completely devoid of any sound at all.
“Keep your hands by your head—! What did I say about not moving, huh?”
You held in your breath and thought about your body, the pain in ever muscle inside you begging to give up and lie down; your arms burning being kept awkwardly in such a position.
Without sensing the air shift behind you, you were knocked down to the ground again despite your cheek being bruised indefinitely, having been put down, the rest was necessary for your body and you yielded to this degrading position with new found comfort despite your lassitude—:unaware of your senseless ramblings to yourself, you murmured relief and whispered how nice it was; the sounds deafening and your soft voice was almost an unnatural super-stratum over the screams; only when he had heard them so.
The officer had his gun on the floor, his helmet was somehow completely rolled over from the body; the corpse had a coin slotted between its eyes and it was left discarded unto the floor too.
Your eyes saw a man with the most disturbed complexion, not shaded by your nostalgia; and truly saw him not for the creature he once was—but what he had become of himself now. This malefic acrobat that he was, stood before you; and you saw, with a little pain, how abused had was by his own roguishness it had made him borderline unrecognisable. His body larger and meaner in every manner much like his speech too; which was so defiant from his previous meek exterior as a young man it even made his voice sound raw and unfiltered. It was a dirty mouth and it upset you greatly. He had left you for nothing at all it seemed. But from his disheveled appearance—even despite that the baseball cap, nor the flipped collars of the wind-bracer that both attempted to obstruct his face, did not hide how cold he had become. Evidently transformed by such dramatic circumstances which seemed to have been from his own pertinacity. Such a life that was governed by that principle; but so poorly administrated that it seemed to have eaten the meat and sinew from his own face.
The sight had changed your resolve immediately and ignored your tendressè passions earlier for him now discarded just he had done to himself. At the same time you had looked away from the sight of him and expected him not to recognise you, or hoped that so. His own supple face replaced with lines from weary age, exposed his cheekbones and the horrible scar on his cheek. But it did not evoke any sense of sorrow from you. Every manner not accounting for his physical body which—some dubious activity—such you supposed—it alone nourished him with salient muscles that burgeoned from his black shirt; which displayed a new threatening body of incredible unerring skill.
In the meanwhile you saw, when he was busy fighting off the other men and it knocked the baseball from from his head did it reveal that he did have the exact same haircut he had it; perhaps replenished some nostalgia, but when he came before you and grabbed you with a down-turned smile that coloured him all gray, you could not allow a moment for the feeling to come by and instead spoke wildly.
“Dex is that really you?” You had taken a step back without realising so.
Nevertheless the adrenaline inside your body being entirely exhausted and burnt out from your body, you panted and acquiesced so long ago, but it had finally taken shape in your face, in your body and on the very clothes that were drentched with sweat; in due process your weakness allowed you to have been dragged by Dex, when he did eventually come up to you addressed with a pointed glare that would sent anyone else’s body back into over-drive. You had no strength left to run, yet Dex grabbed you and never once relaxed. In fact despite it being hard to see, he remained bristled—not from the wind which had left his hair still dishevelled and messy—he did not think to touch it. But it your presence that truly disturbed him so; he leaned close and held you close, then he ordered you back to your apartment quickly telling you to be quiet when you were already silent, and periodically between both of your footsteps Dex had asked you which way to turn—you told him you were lost; and he sighed. It was only when you murmured the avenue of your block that he begun to move for the both of you; brisk and uncomfortably laborious, Dex still led you with his footsteps’ weight to the fore of yours. At no point had he stopped to look at the environment at all while touching you and looking at you like that. His arm inter-linked with yours with bruising control from the lingering stress of mere moments ago made his grip merciless.
None would have been as forthright to have expected him now to speak; his mouth almost as dry as his humour,
“’Well I didn’t fancy seeing you here; to be honest.” He shook his head and he had no procedure to conceal his effulgence at this entire situation; a night that worked so harmoniously he could only glean it’s treasures and he turned to look at you,
“’You feelin’ up for some coffee, later?”
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Inside your kitchen you watched the gas stove; watching the brickie—the sound of coffee brewing had echoed between you, bouncing off of your mellow body meanwhile your mind was otherwise preoccupied with the remnants of this night; the coffee expanded.
First the compass grew a disrupting froth which coagulated at the briki’s sides, pressing until it reached too high to sustain itself you watched as it waited until the froth had spread all around the surface only then did the drink project itself again—completely overflowing with imminent disaster until it was lifted away by your fine arm from the gas where it was suspended, poured, and split apart into two separate twin bodies inside their respected vessels that were perfect white china.
Beneath you both cups swirled until a the coffee’s surface was blanketed over by the froth’s plateau over it, you pressed your finger to touch the cups edge and it was exceptionally hot, in fact your whole body felt quite stuffy, and all the layers you had earlier put on for the torrid weather has gotten you all swollen, and a little sweaty. Your heart beat. At some point without any recollection of your own. you had tucked away your ruddy palms from sight, for some reason, you squeezed your stomach and moments before turning around, you squeezed again it as hard as you could—his sight on your body was absolutely relentless; like cold marbles rolling across you.
you were oriented with your face away from Dex’s profile, your back was unobstructed.
Dex had fashioned himself by the kitchen island, just as you last saw him, carrying with himself a sweet demeanour, his baseball cap was removed with a lingering impression that was the evidence of it being pressed by his fist so that it was folded—though the cap had resisted being entirely flattened—it rested on the counter edge; additionally you had noticed only then that his jacket had also been removed; tucked between the chair and his backside revealing his pliant body clothed by a simple black tee shirt which creased pleasantly underneath his armpits, and stretched taught over his bull-wide neck as he sat there with his arms crossed. Watching you.
Most of all were his eyes which stared at you unabashed without any contreise for his earlier transgressions; rather he looked up with airy fondness in his countenance where his he too lingered his eyes on you too, and with such a disarming, bashful smile, you had almost forgotten why he was even here in the first place. You had sat yourself beside him; not before placing the cup down in front of him to which he thanked you quietly, as if to not be heard by anyone at all.
He paused and quirked his right eyebrow when he turned to look at you better, “usually this late I have decaf,” he said.
“Really?” you laugh at his succinctness. ”Well unfortunately—as you can see—there’s not many options.”
You said and he merely hummed in response.
“I heard them, the birds.”
You sat straighter, “Yes, I did too.”
He nodded.
“You know; all things considered I should be happy to see you.” Dex sighs, but his body doesn’t move, not one inch. “But seeing you here now, in front of me, after you’d gone and left—then just show up like nothing? It’s bizarre.” He said plainly—but his shoulders jerked from his words, failing a casual demeanour.
As dishevelling it was for him, equally his presence was too for you; strange. Confusion flared across your chest at the accusation and your mind tried to understand what would make Dex so bothered that he’d switch up. In retrospect back when he had first joined the military; shortly after the death of Mercer; Dex did become aloof; when he took that PPM to Florida. And he sat beside you. And had insisted over and over to you that it was all for some career development. Dex truly never opened shared any sentimentality for bringing his problems to you. But if he had really not changed at all in these years—then it truly was no grand surprise Dex was off-kilter and perhaps had been for a long, long time. Worse than you could ever expect. But how was is that Dex was so perturbed since seeing a ghost like you again?
You paused before gently reminding him of the fact that neither of you left on bad terms; there was no possible way this reunion could have resurfaced any lingering emotions so deeply within him considering that he had been more than happy to cut all his communications, yet Dex was silent and shook his head, you asked him what was wrong and he bit his lower lip and shook his head.
“But you left me first, remember?” You said, not with any meanness.
“What about it?” He turned to look at you and you watched on, hoping for some recognition to break his countenance; meanwhile bracing your own emotions—but none of it came, and disappointment completely ruptured across your own face; not giving yourself the chance to self-reflect that someone who was once your best friend is truly gone. You swiped your cup to burn your fingers when they pressed down for longer.
His mouth clicked open, catching your mind once more, “Respectfully, I had no other choice; you know that,” He said your name with a sigh before he remembered himself—braced his back to rest once more.
“Dex—”
Dex ducked his head, and couldn’t stop himself from stopping a coarse grin and reared his head to the side, displeased to hear you trying to speak, “Yeah. OK listen, I understand. But back then things were different; who I was… ‘Feels like now afterwards it wasn’t all the same but I know myself better. S‘making me remember now, when I go; when I went to Sunshine, remember—? and there were these beaches, really nice beaches in Florida. Very nice, good waves, good for surfing. But when I was with the other playboys—? All of them having fun? I only thought…” His eyes glossed over and he looked down at you; stuttering by the way his lips move but his words stalling, he raised his palm and wiped his mouth, “I had no other choice. What did you expect me to do?” There was no possible relieving rely you could have possibly said to prove otherwise, after all you had completely and utterly moved on from him and had nothing to honestly say that would reflect any deeper. At the same time, with his own confusing perspective, he turned to look at your mug. His hands still passively decorated on the table you felt compelled with only the reserved passions from your former self.
“Yeah, but you know what?” Dex then spoke only with his voice lowered and his jaw looser, “I am so much more than that now.”
With grief you shook your head, knowingly. “That’s unfortunate Dex, really,” You said, not daring to venture any further; but formidable to stop the temptation you looked at his scar once more, “I just wish it didn’t have to be this way, for you. You know?”
“Yeah. I’m sorry too.” He said, and said it with so much of an anodyne cadence your chest heaved with recognition and replaced the sorrow you had felt for him for nostalgia; which had given you hope for this much more reminiscent temperament of Dex.
As Dex grew older; he would swallow and nod at when you had upset him though he would never say anything to you, but when you addressed him face-to-face he’d shrug and hoodwink a gentle smile and whispered your name; you’re cold, oh you’re real cold before turning away from you and then ignore you for the rest of the week.
And if you didn’t come to ask him if was okay, despite his efforts to circumvent any interactions with you—if both of you had mandatory physical education? He’d rather do it alone, perhaps talk to someone he never acknowledged before. Sometimes he’d cause a ruckus and even one time, Dex, well he would say the worst things to you that administration had Dex put in isolation for two weeks and he had never looked so pallid and with eyes so pink they looked rug-burnt.
“But things have been better for me this way; I just wish I saw things differently when I was younger,” he said.
“Mm, I fancy you had alot of time to make think about what you did.” You smiled at him as if he was your neighbour, but he just sits there unsure with what exactly to say to your pithy jape; so to fill the silence you proceeded with a curious but hollow laugh, “Wow. You’re not going to tell me I’m low-balling you or whatever?”
He sat there, his eyes feigning disinterest meanwhile his attention was coupled with his own tapping finger on the china, “If I’ve got a problem with you; I’ll let you know, OK?” he said.
Something about his nature made it hard for you to suppress your own attitude, and you rolled your eyes at him, “Right. Of course.” But you immediately felt bad saying that, and wanted to not ruin the moment, “I hope you’re okay now.”
Dex whispered yeah and nourished the silence when he took another drink of the coffee to think with his eyes closed.
“’Feels like I’ve finally got a pulse on the world,” he said, his face now strangely calm now that his eyes were off of you and closed, his profile upturned to the light bulb above him—which was off, yet still it seemed to reflect temerity of his own rapid self-realisation. He swallowed and his jaw twitched,
“sometimes the best thing you can do for yourself is accept yourself, hm? I’ve realised that the worst things that we’re capable of doing,” Dex turned to you and stared at you, his manner was so cold again when he blinked at you, “they don’t belong to us, some things bare down on those who abused us,” Dex said coolly.
You eyes shifted until the evidence of his suggestions bore to heavy on your brows and creased them, admittedly you’re heart beat harder now than it had even done earlier, such was night was tonight that it had broken you.
“S’not our burden to wear.” He said again, coaxing you to say something; at least pick up on his subliminal messages and agree.
Though you could only manage to sigh and avoid falling into nostalgia and somnolence as to be persuaded by Dex, “you speak like a holy man. Did you recently meet someone?” You paused to think, “I had actually walked past Clinton Church—before I saw you—and it’s very beautiful; the garden especially I would imagine living here would make it a hard place to ignore a building such as that.” You said humorlessly all the meanwhile he merely looked onward onto the gas stove-top, his mind completely lost to memory.
Looking back at the sight, it was almost perfect coincidence and you shook your head. “When I saw it it, it reminded me so much of Lyndhurst.” You spoke again and tilted your head. ”Right?”
He nodded, eventually. When he yielded with his eyes closed.
“I’m curious, Dex, what are your virtues now?”
If he dared to speak at all—he’s crack right there, so he shook his head ever so softly, as if to not disturb the very air around him.
“Dammit Dex, why do you do this to yourself?” You snapped and before you could reconsider your words indignation pricked your stomach and it clouded your self-preservation that you forgot that he didn’t really know this man who Dex had become.
Instinct overtook him and Dex curled his top lip. “It wasn’t supposed to go like this.”
“And what did you suppose?”
“That I deserved a better life. And I did that.” He raised his eyebrows all erratic and stricken, and he looked to the way-side.
The muscles inside you eased once more until you had realised too late. “Of course you did.” You sighed and scratched your scalp; you should have felt frightened of the man sitting beside you, but in the meanwhile his words echoed inside your mind a canard but between nostalgia and recognition for someone that he once was—you felt pity for Dex, just as you simultaneously felt disdain for this outgrown foreigner of his former self.
Vacantly Dex laboured through his nostrils with both his arm braced on the counter top—staring down at you between shifty eyes; they proffered a deep sense of unease at your silence, he gleaned every micro-expression on your face like typical relentless New York reportage and he restlessly got angrier and angrier each moment that had passed, “I won’t go back,” he said, unsure if it was to you or himself.
But hearing him talk again surprised you—you raised your china to drink dutifully, not accounting for its taste at all,
“Then what are you doing here?”, You sweep your eyes across, “In New York, I mean. I would imagine—” you stuttered; having failed to conceal your brooding administration against Dex’s unnerving social husbandry. With a blink and a fake cough you attempted to correct yourself and conceal some hesitancy; embarrassed by being so caught-off guard that you had stopped talking—expecting him to have already started to talk over you, but he did not. It left you unsure if it was Dex’s gaze on you—or how little you how about the military to had made it difficult for you to confront him like this.
Eventually Dex had shuffled on his seat and taken in another contemplative breath, almost enjoying the silence that was torturing you. “S’just strange because I could say the exact same thing.” Dex’s head bobbed once on one side, finally emboldened to address what was pressing his mind ever since he saw you tonight, “you—,” again nodding on the other side—“here,” before he gave you a cold Cheshire grin to ruffle your composure.
“I don’t understand. Whatever you’re trying to say.”
“Why are you here.” One hand of his moved.
By instinct alone your body censored your vitals with your hands, your eyes looking up at him helplessly when he all but looked down without any shred of familiarity; “…Dex what is going on with you?” you said and you truly thought for a moment he would swing at you. “I’m here as legal rep. I just relocated from Washington—“
“Bullshit.”
“Excuse me?”
He scoffed at you, “C’mon—”
“How can you talk to me in this way—? I—Dex, I saw you fight some men not too long ago; for God’s sake you killed them and they—“
“I was protecting myself.”
“No. No, not at all.” You said with your head shaking and it truly just started to settle into your mind that Dex might have truly killed people tonight.
He said your name firm almost reaching out to grab you, “Listen to me, calm down. Your head isn’t on right, right now.”
“Stop. Please just—I’m sorry, but I shouldn’t have invited you, I—”
“They were Fisk's clean-up crew;” he said your name. ”Fisk ordered them, and he had those pigs lined up after me. Did you not see them? Did you not see how they acted around collateral—?”
“Dex.”
“They were going to kill me.”
“Dex, I am sorry; but you have to go.”
“They would have killed you.”
“I—“
“If I hadn’t been there; at that exact moment they would have killed you.” Your heart seized because it was true, not baring to hear him anymore you lowered your head into your arms when the reality of how close you were to dying and it all felt so inexplicably simple. Dead. Just like that. “Do you know what they do with the bodies? The one’s that Fisk can’t hang in front of the people who give a shit about them? You would have been thrown over to the Hudson,” he said. “Bullet in the head and turned over for some convenience; you, dead, is convenient for them—you should’ve never of come here,” he said your name again.
Hearing it now felt too flaccid and transient in his mouth that moved too animated from the eagerness of his sporting activity but too little of any sincerity; if he said your name once more you sensed that it might never leave his lungs, but stay inside him never to be heard from anyone else again.
Silence wedged between you two, yourself opting a moment of reprise to recollect your composure when you were certain that he had no intentions of jumping you; sensibly that was when he had closed his eyes, and you brushed your nerves back into an orderly conduct once more.
Dex said nothing for a moment and flexed his hand open and closed— Dex had also waited until you came to your senses and calmed down again… “Do you have any idea of what’s rolling the streets? This silence?” He asked with every bit of composure. Making sure to speak slowly to you, “I don’t think you even have any idea with whatever you’ve put yourself in—against your better judgement or otherwise. Listen to me,” He urged your name.
“Once you’ve lived in the boondocks—and you see what creatures tread beside ‘man with their soft feet it’s only when they lie right beside you that its got you. So you think that what—? ‘cause you once knew me—you got ratings to play second-guesser and waltz into my life like this? it’s insulting.” He shook his head, and ducked his head, lastly his warm voice lowered so quietly that he spoke for your ears only. “What the hell kind of Florida big brass did he grease up to find you—? to drag you right here—? did he pay you—? does he think you mean anything to me?
For a moment you tried to imagine what he could mean until it whipped you straight, “For Christ’s sake.” You said; alarm sullied the word once more and you had started to mutter too to yourself, “you think—,” you laugh all erratic and strung out. “You think I’ve been crimped—? By who …?” The nonsense of it all felt like another cold hit of reality and you sobered up as best you could before you asked pithily, as to get at least one answer out of him. “You think I’m here for you?”
Dex shoved his face in yours, “he shouldn’t know who you are; there’s just no way.” His voice was barely recognisable as you reeled yourself away from him.
The silence was terrible and even when you took it in to try and speak straight to him, it felt as if you were being drowned by Dex.
“What do you want from me?” you whispered.
Dex laughed softly, shaking his head at you, “I just want—just talk to me.” He stressed with his palms open and shaking above the counter and a second later he managed to take in a breath to steady himself so he could be calm. Yet his words were nothing but a platitude so full of baselessness once it left his mouth and landed afoot from you; you turned your head from him. If it had been anyone else in your position; they would have mistaken Dex’s palliative efforts to amend his erroneous display as a symptom of good conscience.
But Dex often forgotton himself—and anon his capriciousness would reveal just how sensitive he was, and still doing so now—he always languished any operation to properly understand himself; naturally this was Dex’s own ignorance here. You knew it, this display of gracefulness, perhaps Dex after being alone for so many years had gotten to a point of believing that he could placate you with such a juvenile act; it upset you. Even yet, you almost couldn’t fault him either, when he was so displaced by anxiety the stagnant symptom of his own officiousness he would conceal himself of his true emotions in nothing other than abrasive fustian cloth—not like something more causerie and soft like smooth silk; or honest mindlessness which he had—which if neglected would grow into a fierce imagination. Here still, it seems, Dex awaits for your approbation with his looking gaze on you.
It made you cringe and for once you truly did not know what to say; having swallowed every calm breath, and yet felt how your oesophagus still shook from the spasticity coming from your heart; you couldn’t bring yourself to ask him who he was even referring to; this man that was so terrible that he could bring someone like you from another life—a friend from so many years ago, into now, and Dex of all believe believed it to be true; then he was surely fucked. Instead you had surrendered yourself and yielded with no verbal rely which seemed to further agitate him.
In this dry spell it was from this angle the blackness hung off of him; but was not enough to censor his salient scar across his cheekbone, Dex took in a breath, his shoulders outspread like wings and until he could not take it any longer and exhaled every last drop of adrenaline from his lungs and re-contemplation permeated like a tremor across his body, his left arm relaxed onto the kitchen island, his other hand which still held the cup, hoisted it to his lips, and swallowed. All the while he keenly watched with full rapture for your response; he rolled his palm across his jaw, chin—and rubbed it. So full of emotion barely concealed his crescent expression fell; he brought his hand once to more to tidy it; he stroked the broad of his forehead and eyebrows and compressing some of the hair under his palm; he swiped any residual sweat that accumulated on himself which was not produced from his activity outside; but from your silence inside.
Unlike being outside in the streets, the difference that cast over him now confined in your small apartment made you reconsidered inviting this creature in at all. Dex shifted in his seat, his breath became laboured and his smile obsolete,
You eyed the telephone that hung by the door’s wall. Maybe it would be funny; to think that not even half a day previously you were sitting but the same counter, looking at the phone and its wires and wondering when you have established yourself enough before you’d expect company and hear the Door downstairs would have been pressed and the buzzer would be triggered.
You stood up—Dex latched his hand onto your forearm with an oppressive grip that it took your entire attention, “All I'm asking for is the night; and I’ll be gone—you will never see me again.” He said.
“Please.” His eyes seemed so sweet for a creature so capable of so much destruction.
“Dex.” You whisper, cursing the nostalgia in your sensitive heart; you pried with genuine concern in your eyes and your tender palm pressing onto his lap and then lifted it to balance with your words, “Dex what the hell have you done? What is going on?”
Dex bowed his head and sighed so heavily that he almost broke mere moments before he reached to tenderly hold the cup in his palm, each of his fingers pressing for warmth since his hands were evidently pallid and purple from being outside for many hours they looked bruised from the abuse outside meanwhile his expression had reconnaissanced over the coffee’s surface in favour of ignoring your dialogue. But all you saw in the meantime was a man so lost in his own mind that all this display of casualty was uncanny; from which only the light from the gas hood curved on his eyes and reflected the swirling fire within him.
“What are you thinking?” you whispered.
Dex lifted his head to speak, but his jaw flexed; he stalled with his head still obediently raised before he blinked to do another once-over at your apartment; compiled with packing boxes of all sorts and variety laid about, your kitchen was rudimentary but still somehow dirty from littered plastic wraps and packing peanuts. No suitcase’s innards exposed. No evidence of your slovenliness yet revealed. Not even the presence of a charging cable. Electronics unpacked. Save only for the little brown box where you had earlier pursed out for the bricki—which you did use early in the morning, since the smell of coffee lingered when he initially shuffled alongside you into the apartment.
Eventually his eyes roll back onto you, you who had been watching him half-sitting on the perch of your wooden chair undivorced from your hoodie nor from the jacket that had your foreign constitution just as equally packaged—much to his sardonic amusement he let out a sunken laugh and shook his head once more.
“’Cant escape the past, can we—? partner?” He lamented; practically talking to himself in delirium. Dex then began to bob his head up then down with a pronounced solemn smile that split open across his cheeks—simultaneously serrating them against your poorly clandestine prodding; before he started to laugh softly at you again, not forgetting his virtue and he blinked back into his own past and finally recognised it.
When he acknowledged you being here for what it was. Something honest and true, but also a reunion fated by magical coincidence orchestrated by Fortune herself. This time Dex gazed on you with a little more acceptance. Surely the honesty of your countenance alongside the personal askew belongings unblemished by any blades would seem that it was something still whole and pure; it had awoken some sensibility into him, again and he brought his drink close to his heart before turning himself wholly in your direction—
“Talk to me, Dex”
Dex said your name. His face creased with newfound clarity and so much so his face had hung now with a revitalised principle that his face stroked back to look at you and revealed just how pliant he could still be, “I can’t,” he whispered.
“I’ve pissed a few people special day today, and—,” he takes in a breath again his head fell back like the revelation had hit him all at once that he couldn’t stop his lamentations; it just profusely bled now, “God—he’s good; he’s real good.” Dex licked his lips and nodded bitterly before biting the same lip and you sat there and you only watched between the gap of him and you when he whispered to himself it’s not done, it’s not done, it is not done…
Whatever had been going on in his life—and reminded you how exhausting it had been to surround yourself beside such a complicated man. You shivered with guilt and yet still felt blue from the cold about it all. Only a couple hours ago did the landlord say he’d switch the boiler on for your apartment…
Perhaps now was a good time for you to just leave, go down to the basement, hope that he takes the hint and just leaves.
Slowly you talked to him, hoping for more reconciliation before the end of the night could possibly draw a close; before this moment could end,
“You’re leaving tomorrow,” You parrot, unsure how to feel about the sudden revelation. His warning.
“Tomorrow.” He said.
“I see.” And you sigh and rub your arm with uncertainty for the future, it all seemed so blurry and you felt to good beside Dex to really think about tomorrow.
Amidst your anxieties and honest wanton to establish more from Dex you hum softly out of habit and the nagging for food came back tenfold so with some confidence in the direction of the conversation raised yourself; you walked to one of the cabinets and dragged some food out. A brightly painted red container with the blemish of cursive gold stamped on the cylindrical body rested now on the counter, in a bowl you place a hand-shredded piece of Panettone you had only gotten before you left for New York. Bitterly, you hesitated to actually eat it and you looked at it for a second more; you wanted to save this maybe for a special occasion, but Panettone and coffee did ease your simple heart.
.
.
.
.
Only the remnants of the coffee was the sludge that half dashed across the counter and the contents of the coffee cup were scattered and the drops bled across of your persons. The Panettone was safe, but the turmoil that led to your coffee cup shattering displaced it to the middle of the counter between Dex and yourself when you accidentally pushed it.
You cursed yourself and wiped the counters edge with your palm to catch any drops of coffee before anymore could hit the ground. Soon after being raised from the chair you had already moved across and stood by the sink to wash your hands. Meanwhile Dex had taken the initiative without your consolidation to grab the newspaper roll you had left out—rolled and untouched from when you had taken it away from the cafe that had been lodged little-ease on the 9th street. Though you weren’t unfamiliar with the politics of domestic New York anyway, the urge to grab the paper seemed intuitive—if not a provision in case of dire boredom. But since leaving again and somehow by conduct of forces greater than your own, Dex was here so you hadn’t opened it, and you watched, behind the sink; he had started to shred it; watched as he shredded it some more until it was wholly defaced and he sprinked it liberally on the wet coffee floor, it honesty didn’t upset you to see it disposed across the kitchen floor rather felt yourself grew further agitated that had you been wet from the coffee and definately needed to shower before bed; you bit your lip to stop yourself from taking it out on Dex.
He had cupped the wet mush as one big ball in his big hand and looked at you before picking up the dripping paper, “I would hope you have a garbage can or something?”
“I do, it’s just in the bathroom.”
He nodded and got up without complaint meanwhile having left your side and your sights—since it seemed only when he was gone that you realised how much you had been watching him so, you sighed and tried to recollect what had just happened—before bracing yourself on the counter—it was replaced and overwhelmed by an urgency to recollect the state of which you had left your bathroom now that Dex was inside; wondered if it was at all messy, if the shower had already collected limescale at all or if there any hairs are on the bathroom floor or if the little rug was too shabby since it was one you had gotten and kept since college. Dex didn’t really like that sort thing once upon a time, but has also spent any adult years once as a military boy; it was clear that change had become a quaint, quite destructive companion of Dex. But you had hope for that young boy to still be okay. That boy that had so little and wanted so much, but refused so much even more. Not to be seen for so long and any longer he would have been extinguished from experiencing all the regular and human pleasures of life if Dex continued his self-destruction. Keep him away. Keep him up.
Dex wasn’t the judgemental sort, not outwardly—you quietly heard your tap squeak over there; the sound of a plume of air escaping the garbage can’s lip—you sat back on your perch and acted normal again without a fidget or tick to your relief; nor did you did turn around when you heard his footsteps approach. It was easier to concentrate with him in the room, not so easy to go off with your crafty imagination; your mind’s eye returned to yourself once more. You blinked and looked in front of you for what everything truly was.
Despite that you were a little miffed to have to face Dex’s questioning—if not for his acute attention to detail that he always had, currently re-decorated not with much delicateness but an antagonistic diction; in fact you hadn’t wanted to eat the Panettone at all anymore. The thought of it too much effort, frankly you just wanted Dex to leave; maybe come back another day, not when you felt so sensitive. All you wanted was to lie in bed and try, desperately, to get some sleep.
“Klutz.”
You bristled and then slowly laughed at his dribble before you shook your head not expecting to him be so blaze, but it made you reconsider your anxieties; Dex had smiled a gentile condensation and spoke softly with you now, “well I didn’t fancy you an apple-knocker, but I gotta admit—I don’t think you’ve got to worry about the big leagues anyway,” he said with a practised wink.
“No; but it’s definitely some kind of bad luck. Right?” You said and you pictured the scene portending some forthright promises perhaps.
But unlike you, Dex merely shrugged a maybe then smiled diplomatically and said once more, “Yeah? who knows; maybe it’s because I’m here.”
Though you didn’t have the heart to agree; you jolted and snapped your fingers, “Dammit—and it’s Chinese New Year! Did I just curse the rest of my year now?” With solemn sigh—of a theatrical sort—you shook your head again though your head felt lighter since the cup shattering of a unique revitalising principle that once lifted this strange interaction; you had turned to look at Dex hoping for some silent give or wink that he had sure felt it too, the synchronicity that had brought the conversation to something terribly sentimental.
It was weirdly reminiscent, albeit like the one time; when you got yourself in trouble, admittedly when you were a problematic child, and Dex just stood there and smirked behind the administrator’s back—eager to see you get in trouble—this time with newfound consonance he smirked at you again, once more, after being so removed from his presence for over a decade you almost let out a laugh too sombre that it could crack into something much more unforgiving.
He sat back and jutted his chin at the bowl; looking at it then you.
You shrugged. “Eh i usually eat it with my coffee, Ill just have it tomorrow, plus i shouldn’t eat so late it’s not good for me.” You watched the Panettone with a lingering taste of it on your mouth.
“Difficult food still.”
“Moving across the country does that to you usually, ya know?”
“No way.” He said and he scoffed at the ceiling. “I know you’re bullshitting me. C’mon, you really think you can pretend—? you think I don’t know…?” he asked and cocked his head almost with disbelief at your behaviour.
When he broke eye-contact, and he nodded too, not as it had been done before. You battered your eyelashes and only realised your raised shoulders that were pricked with that same flame of indignation like Dex—which he managed to stroke so well—but in the process you had not recognised your voice and he took in a breath, and stretched his back and you heard the shirt’s threads splinter. Dex was always palliative but awkward and this direction had simply been avoided in the past; regardless of this latest capricious nature of his, which it seemed to have still knocked him a little uncomfortable which made your eyes sparkle and your chest heaved with premium Schadenfreude, you reclined into your seat.
“I don't know what to tell you, Dex,” you sigh.
Dex then remembered; which came overcast as this robotic shade to his expression, it was something you didn't particularly like looking at.
Dex looked down at his hands and gripped them together meanwhile he tried to get some bearings over his emotions and thoughts, “Having to still deal with those kind of thoughts—” He huffed and tilted his head—as if pretending to be overwhelmed with contemplation, “Must be hard. To still have them after so many years.” He brought his arm down and hugged the china now with both hands. Then slid his—still hot—mug towards your empty stomach but reserved his hand against the side handle still. “But eventually, you know, these habits…they crack,” he said your name like the most privatest secret.
You looked at him and down to his coffee you made him, still in his hand and it looked inviting. You did not wait for any instruction; you picked the spoon from the bowl and plunged the concave into the coffee cup, you heard nothing from him but his soft breathing that you hadn’t caught before. Then with your arm you lifted the little ocean and dropped it on the corner of the Panettone then you watched as its appetite sucked the coffee completely and it needed more.
Without looking at him you obliged your preferences and you reared your hand back, Dex held his hand exactly as it was on the cup handle not shifting when yours came overcast and took more from him faster. Not accounted for the expression on his face, his demeanour seemed more relaxed in this present moment than ever before.
“Yeah, you’re right.”