The Drawn Pavement of October Nights

The Drawn Pavement of October Nights

Briefly, you question why he’s even sent you to such a place. Without an interpreter to aid or guide you, you silently pray that your instincts have proved you right. The coffee table remains cluttered from previous travelers. Your hand sticks to the counter, picking up the residue of day old ketchup stains, and Lord knows whatever else could possibly land on the counter of an abandoned diner in the middle of no-man’s land.

          It doesn’t make sense to you. It shouldn’t. You’ve managed to make it thus far in the game. But still, no leads to what you’ve been called for- why they’ve sent you here. They came rushing, with an army of green men and walky-talkies; the smell of rust and dried apricots trailing behind them that one October night. Already confused as to how these men have found you, you let go of the intriguing trace of apricots wafting into the room of your still and odorless city loft, and focus on the present scare. With swift and heavy feet, they assemble you into the bolts of green jacket. This, of course, is installed for their security from yet another outburst. Your heart beats, fluttering beneath the skin of your chest.

          Why have they done this, you ask reader? Well, perhaps the proper question would be, for what do they have to gain as a result of your kidnapping?

          You pass by an old warehouse. You remember its dingy doors, heavier than its appearance should allow. And yet, this very passage, where deals and transactions were executed; where dealers, courted by your wittingly priceless charm, landed you in the very position you presently face. You’re at the mercy of a handler you’ve never met, and perhaps will never meet.

          This memory is brushed away by a torn hand stained by day-old condiments. Sweeping it across the back of your head, you’re hoping that your memory fails you. It doesn’t. You stretch your hand in hopes of the pain escaping sharp cuts and bruises; you continue wondering if the plotted memory of its abuse will ever escape your haggard mind. Sure, you hit him hard, but he hit you even harder- and still, it feels good to conjure that sudden scene of personal retaliation, an outburst that should’ve been prevented by brass nuts and bolts of a stray jacket.

 The diner clock reads 11:56 pm. She’s always late. She should’ve been here 56 minutes ago- and still, you wait. Do you love her? Possibly. Noooo. You would never wait for anyone this long. Does she love you? I don’t know. Reader, I’m not sure. Should she love him? What kind of love purposefully allows the one you adore waiting center stage in a danger zone?

She does, I have decided. She makes you wait for the purpose of testing you. Do you love her? Then you’ll continue waiting. If not, you would have left an hour ago, or perhaps would have never even showed up. She watches from the cold window of a ‘72 rusty green Camero. She rubs her hands on her thighs, warming them, she hopes; out of anticipation even, she rubs them. But fear keeps her caged in even longer.

The car mirror flips open. Painted lips become even deeper. The heavy door slams. Green paint from the car flickers off of the wet pavement, as her black boots march beneath her.  “Hi ma’am, do ya’ need a seat?” You’ve spotted her.

She’s always so mysterious- that’s what annoys you about her. But then again, that’s what mystifies you, intrigues you, even, to stay. As she takes the seat across from you, you get a whiff of her perfume- she’s wearing your favorite. “So what- you take three showas again?” She doesn’t answer, but moves her head right to left. She smiles and you smile back. Wow, you really love her. “Why did you want me here?” she asks. Her hands are pink from rubbing them. They’ve been mounted on the table, mocking the same rubbing motion committed during stake-out. It’s a sign— she’s nervous. “Want you here!… I was ordered to meet here at 11… I follow orders Cammi……. I just—-follow—–orders.”

What you don’t interpret is the sarcastic tone in her voice. Unaware, you’ve also failed to realize that this mysterious handler you’ll never meet, the very handler, that has assumed the position of decisively turning your quaint life of journalism completely upside down, tangles you in a web of deceit through the scent of her body and neck- your favorite perfume on a woman.