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When the door closed after me, it was over.
I walked down the long flight of stairs alone, basking for a few precious moments in the tenderness and sexuality of the night; but as each step led me away from my enchanting Jane, and from all that I’d remember her by, the loneliness increased. With each step the empty feeling inside me only seemed more dismal. I picked up speed going out the door of the apartment building. The cold chilled me to the bone. “Damn her!” I shouted to myself, why did she have to go away, why couldn’t she be here forever, or even just another night? One more night with her would have been all I needed—so I thought.
Tears streamed down my cheeks as I drove block after block, street after street, eleven o’clock at the night and nowhere to go. I thought perhaps I’d roam the city forever in my hurt. It was a rich hurt. Far more feeling than I’d felt in years. Better than the insidious gnawing pain of just being alone. This was a sharp and angry pain; and that mixed well with the aching in my heart.
How I found my way back to my Lincoln Shores Apartment, I don’t remember. I don’t remember how I found the hallway door or the stairs to the second floor. I remembered nothing except the jumbling thoughts that whirled inside my head and the hurt deep in my gut. I remembered nothing until my foot suddenly caught the loose stair – the one I’d begged my landlord to repair. My knee came crashing down on the metal edge of the stair above and a searing pain shocked me into recalling who I was, and where I was, and why I was so hurt.
Everything seemed to spill out all at once – the tension of the past months with Jane so near, my fantasies coming to life, the bar, the tavern, the men and the wild high, and the shock of Jane’s sudden departure. All of it, all of it came crashing down on me with a force I simply couldn’t handle. Tears flowed freely from my eyes, dark mascara ran into my hands. I felt so trapped in my sweet little world. With Jane I’d had some courage. Without her, I didn’t know how I’d find my way. I still needed someone to take me by the hand, someone to push me, someone to rescue me. I simply couldn’t do this alone, but I had nowhere to turn.
As my tears finally subsided, I fingered the old gritty stairs. They’d been made of wood, reinforced with metal at the edges, then strips of non-skid paper had been tacked across them to prevent slipping. Funny, I thought to myself, I’d slipped anyway. The confident woman I was trying to become dangled before me, mocking me and then disappearing. Damn!
Someone in the building was playing jazz, and that lazy rhythm only reminded me of my night with Jane. She was the outrageous siren. Me? Still the naïve innocent. But there was a siren in me, too, although at the moment, I felt like a puppet caught between two fucking bitches!
The seedy stairway, the crumbling linoleum of the corridor, the threadbare carpet, all had that tacky sort of class that had attracted me to this place and gave it such character. That night, I belonged in that threadbare world. Things couldn’t have been more bleak. I wished there could be some angel to pull me out of the humbled mess. Another Jane. What a silly thought!
The ancient steps that rudely jolted me from the horror comforted me in a small way. I probably wasn’t any different than a thousand, no a million other woman who cried over lost loves during lonely nights. I knew my life would continue, that I’d survive the night, and the next, and the one after that.
I looked up to the crude bare bulb that lit the staircase. Its glaring light was blinding as I stared straight into its white, glowing orb. However, the light didn’t go far beyond that bare bulb…the space around me was dim and drab and overwhelmed with shadows.
Maybe in the morning things would look better. Maybe I’d understand it all then. But for the moment, I was frozen where I sat.
I imagined myself getting up, walking to my apartment, closing the door and leaving the night and the hurt and confusion behind. I imagined myself undressing in silence and slipping into bed, falling asleep and waking in the morning, happier. It seemed easy in my thoughts, but I couldn’t move. I was afraid to go to bed, to lay my head on my pillow. I was afraid of the half waking world where I created visions and fantasy and dreams that made my body come alive. Even if I could find some pleasure in that, if I could masturbate over and over again to raunchy fantasies, I couldn’t ignore the fact that I was alone. And, damn it! I didn’t want to be alone.
I couldn’t cry anymore. There was nothing more to ponder. It seemed silly to stay in that forlorn stairwell, but I simply couldn’t move. I didn’t expect any answers, but I just couldn’t move. My mind was off in my fantasy again – if my imaginings could conjure up The Tropics and the Red Rose, perhaps it could conjure up a champion. Maybe fate or some mysterious force was conspiring to bring me my deepest longings, and this mysterious force, realizing my need for companionship, was at that moment bringing me someone who could help me through the next hours. Oh, if only I were so lucky! And yet, strangely, in the heavy shadows of those apartment stairs, as I was at last prepared to pull myself away and return to my apartment, a voice spoke. For just an instant it sounded like an angel, its existence so utterly unexpected. I wasn’t sure it was even real.
“Is it one of the benefits of having an apartment in this building, that I find you crying your eyes out on the stairs?”
I turned around, half expecting to find no one at all. But looking up, there quite human, I gazed at a man…flesh and blood, with slender legs and a tight waist and muscles bulging from underneath a t-shirt. Magnificent was the first word that entered my mind. His hair was brown and just slightly graying. His soft eyes were filled with energy, with light, with joy and lust and youth.
I must have looked like a clown with my bloodshot eyes and puffed up nose. Damn! What a fool I was, weeping on the stairs like a baby. How long had he been there? What had he heard? Why could he not have been a sweet little old man, or the bespectacled woman next door, or even one of the silly buffoons of men that I managed to attract to me? I could have handled that kind of angel.
But he was not an angel; the eyes that stared at me so intently, with no less compassion than anyone’s, were eyes that belonged to a body that assaulted my sexual desires. He only reminded me that I was alone and guys like him were not the kind that were attracted to a naïve, uptight, slightly damaged woman like me.
Chapter Six
He wasn’t quite like any guy I’d ever met – artist, musician, actor, that sort of vibe. Although he could have sold securities for all I knew. He was simply dressed in baggy black trousers, open sandals and an armless red t-shirt. A tiny gold earring gleamed in the light from the overhead bulb. He was magnetic, far beyond the calculated sexuality of most men I knew. In fact, he reminded me of Jane, the way he was so physically well proportioned, so sensually confident, his body the male version, melting into the atmosphere around him, one with everything, displaying a fluid fire that caused an immediate response in my body.
“You caught me at a bad time,” I said.
“I guess so,” he answered with just a hint of amusement.
“I’ve had a bad day,” I added. “And now I’ve jammed my knee against this rotten step.” I realized then how much my knee was throbbing with a dull ache that went throughout my entire leg. “Frankly, if I died right here, right now, I wouldn’t mind.”
“So let me see,” he said, moving down the half flight of stairs to where I was still humbly crouched. “You’ve certainly broken the skin,” he said, then he bent down and using what looked like a clean bandana from his pocket, he mopped the slow trickle of blood that was already beginning to dry on my leg. I was only mildly concerned with the denim skirt riding up my thigh.
“How about coming with me and I’ll clean it for you?”
“Oh, I
can take care of it. I live just one flight up.”
“No,” he insisted. “Anyone who’s had your kind of day needs a little kindness. I’m not always so sensitive, so you had better take advantage of my good mood.”
He grabbed my hand and drew me to my feet, not allowing any further protest. Leading me into his apartment just a few feet from the stairs, he pulled out a chair and sat me down at his kitchen table with an authoritative but gentle push.
I loved everything about his place, from the 1950’s dinette to the neon airplane that flickered above a red sofa. The floors were red and white checked linoleum, a few throw rugs here and there. Everything colorful filled the room with a spectrum of light that sent a shiver though me, just as he had done.
And yes, there was an easel in the corner by the wall windows. On it sat an empty canvas. There was a tray beneath it, I assumed filled with paint. I gazed around at the colorful art thinking that it must be his. He definitely had talent. My eyes were drawn to inspect every painting, every knick-knack, every framed photograph filled with bright smiling faces. But instead of continuing my inspection, I looked into my savior’s face as he kneeled in front of me to clean my leg.
