and bend over, clutching my stomach. Just when I feel I’ve purged everything, I throw up at the thought of throwing up. Excruciating, bitter, sour convulsions clench my stomach.
Jesus, what a night! What a night.
Back in the car. There, I see the exit to our street. There’s the street sign I’m so sick of, beyond it, the traffic light I’m so sick of. What am I doing? What am I doing, what am I doing, what am I doing?
I pass the exit sign and press the gas pedal.
Farewell, street sign.
Farewell, traffic light.
Farewell, canyon.
Farewell to you, too, empty house.
*
I thought about her constantly my last few weeks in the military. We saw each other a couple more times before my discharge. When I got off the train with a green army surplus bag slung over my shoulder, instead of going straight home to see Mom and my little sister, I grabbed a cab and gave the driver her address. In the rickety elevator, I pressed number seven and rehearsed my opening lines. I rang the doorbell. She opened the door and smiled. I wondered whether I should hug her or shake hands. I forgot what I was planning to say. She kissed me on the cheek and invited me in. Her room was white, clean, minimalistic. Stereo on the floor, bookshelves with lots of books, some paintings on the walls, low bed, little glass table, a vase with freesias. We sat on the floor sipping gin and tonics. We listened to music all night long. We did it for the first time at dawn, on the carpet in her room. We did nothing, actually. I was so excited, tired, and crazy about her that I lasted only a few seconds. She understood. She understood everything. She passed me the T-shirt she had just taken off to wipe myself, and told me to lay down for a while. Then I saw her open the window and, like a cat, jump up on the windowsill. I leaned back on my elbows, amazed at this sight. She turned to me and calmly sat on the ledge as if there were something beautiful and safe on the other side. It was chilly out. Late September. The last thing I saw before falling asleep was her silhouette against the light-bluish dawn. Hard nipples, the flash of a lighter, a cigarette. Why was this beautiful girl here with me? Wasn’t she afraid of heights?
*
I stop in a surfer town between San Clementino and Los Angeles. I find a shabby beach hotel, check in, and lie down.
The sound of a vacuum next door wakes me up. I look at my watch; I’ve slept for four whole hours. My head is throbbing. I take a shower. I wash off the Tijuana filth, but the hangover clings to me. I look at myself in the mirror. Indigo bruises have started darkening under my eyes. My scalp hurts. I’m missing some hair, but that’s all right—better bald than dead.
I decide to go out, get some fresh air, and do some thinking. I haven’t thought straight for ten days. I go down to the lobby and ask the girl at the front desk about the closest coffee shop. There’s a Starbucks three blocks away. I find it and get in line behind several other customers. Now it’s my turn. At the register, a redhead with a tongue piercing asks me what I’d like. What? I turn around and look toward the door. Why doesn’t Stella just appear right here, right now? Why doesn’t she just come to this little town and have coffee with me like we used to, and we’d talk until . . .
“You waiting for someone?” The redhead with the tongue piercing asks calmly.
“Pardon?”
“Would you like anything, sir?” I don’t respond. Behind my back, an orderly line of men and women has formed. I look at the girl with red-streaked hair but no words form in my throat.
“Sir?”
Stella, Stella, Stella, if you show up at the door right now, I promise:
I will take the garbage out without you reminding me, I will give you massages anytime you want, I will learn not to slam the doors, I will buy you flowers, fields of flowers, I will be quiet when I get up in the middle of the night, I will make the bed on Sundays, I will water the plants, I will vacuum, I will lift the toilet seat before I pee (and put it back down afterward), I will stop being a jerk to your mom, I will take you on a paddleboat ride, I will teach you three guitar cords, I will explain what the F-stops mean on my Nikon without yelling, I will give up drinking two beers at dinner, I will quit being a small fish, I will leave my terrible job and we’ll still have money, money, money, lots of fucking money, we will finally sell this house, we will go to . . . India?
Stella. I also promise:
I will not correct you when you’re telling jokes, I will not interrupt you when you’re excited about something, I will not sing over your favorite songs, I will not be a smartass when we watch sentimental movies, I will not share my opinion about every single thing, we will not have Josh and Katya over for dinner ever again, we will never ever go to Vegas again, ever, I will not rent Hitchcock films, I will not order Chinese, I will not leave the room when we fight (what am I saying? we won’t ever fight!), you will never see me picking my nose, I will not burp loudly (or strain to fart on purpose), I will never be silent with you for so long, never, I will never watch CNN, I will never promise you the moon—you are a star, Stella.
“Long night?” The redhead tries one last time to get an order from me before turning to the next person in line. I rub my temples, shrug, take a deep breath, and try smiling.
“Triple espresso, please. Actually,” I reconsider, “two triples.” I sit outside and gulp them down. The caffeine kicks me in the heart. Good. I sum things up—I am an hour and a half away from home. It’s still Thursday. It’s still before noon. If I get on the San Diego freeway immediately and drive south, I can show up at work just after lunch and make up some excuse. Because I’ve never done this before, Scott, the manager, will understand and won’t give me a hard time. I’ll wait until nighttime and get rid of the dangerous load in my trunk. Then I’ll go home. I’ll return all my phone calls, I’ll read a book until I fall asleep. The next day I’ll go to work earlier, then go home again, pull the blinds open at last, and try to go on without her.
I leave the coffee shop in a better mood, get in the car, and head north.
*
From the beginning of our relationship, we realized that we could either talk or be quiet for hours without ever getting bored. Our interests were absurdly similar, the same music, the same books, the same films. We were both fascinated to see how our paths gradually converged, overlapped, and eventually became one. The old magic of love was brand new for us. Our unconsummated high school crushes had nothing to do with what we were experiencing: a passionate, beautiful, intelligent, restless, dazzling sensation. During our first months together, I didn’t miss a single chance to make love to her, no matter where we were—at some of the many parties we went to, in dark, cold bedrooms while everyone else was screaming and dancing in the other rooms, at her parents’ house, in hotels, on trains, in a car, in the park, in the sea. I’m not sure she experienced any pleasure whatsoever then. I was so insistent and wild in my hunger for her. There must’ve been a way for her to tame me. Or maybe there wasn’t. Maybe she wasn’t looking for one.
I remember the first time she came—tight, tasty, firm. I remember the way she began pulsating, then her accelerated breathing, her confused look (what’s happening? is this it?), her moaning, the short scream, the silence afterwards. It was late afternoon. I remember the smell of roasted red peppers coming from somewhere in the neighborhood.
*
At the last second, I notice the Venice Beach sign and take the exit west. On a weekday in November, parking is not such a hassle.
