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A waitress flitters over to us, greeting Crina warmly, and we order a couple of drinks. After she leaves, Crina turns to me and says, “Thank you for coming here with an open mind. I was prepared for you to see this place as nothing but a run-down, dingy dive bar. A dangerous one, at that. And for you to be angry.”
“If I get angry, it’s only because I don’t want anything to happen to you.” I lean over and confess softly in her ear, “I do think it’s all those things. It’s definitely edgy, but there’s no denying the magic of the place. It reminds me of old New York when graffiti and CBGBs ruled the Bowery, not high-end designer bag stores.”
She takes my hand in hers and clasps it tightly, her irises almost engulfed in a swirl of green, blue, and gold. The waitress plunks down two drinks on our table, breaking the spell.
The lights flash momentarily and the crowd’s noise level falls to a hush. A woman, dressed in black and wearing a beret that tilts dramatically to one side—very tongue-in-cheek—introduces Open Night Mic. The next hour and a half is a parade of the brilliant, the bad, and the ugly of Lower East Side poetry. There’s the repetition of the same sound in different words or the recurrence of a vowel or the recycling of a consonant throughout a poem. There’s clever play on words. There are shouts and shrill screams. There’s singing and rapping. There are poets talking about their traumas, their identity, their pride.
It’s nothing short of thrilling.
Afterward, when the lights blink on and the crowd starts to thin out, I’m awestruck. “Is this what you do?”
She laughs, and that beautiful sound settles right into my soul.
“Spoken word, no. Not yet, anyway.” She gazes down, almost bashful, which has got to be the first time I’ve ever witnessed that expression on her. I’m riveted by it. “But I write similar stuff, yeah.”
“Well, fuck…”
My wife has left me speechless. A woman with the heart of a poet. I would’ve never guessed that there was so much power and creativity behind that hard, stubborn exterior. She’s given me a precious gift indeed, in sharing this part of herself. It’s a privilege I’ll never take for granted.
I cup her face in my hands, obliging her to make eye contact. Then I plant a kiss on her lips. It’s a sweet one and I release her before she has the chance to pull away.
“My wife’s a poet,” I say loudly, ready to beat my chest with pride.
Maybe I’m so impressed because I love words, too. I was known as the easy one, the relaxed, fun-loving, sociable one—the big talker, the people person, the extrovert, the schmoozer. That was, until my world went into a tailspin.
After Cristian’s death, I pushed Crina away out of grief and shame, but also because I was griped with this irrational fear that I couldn’t keep her safe. I couldn’t save him so I would surely fail her. See, they were so alike, those two. Both headstrong, impulsive, and brilliant. And now, I find out that she has the soul of an artist. Just like Cristian.
That old, familiar spike of terror hits me, flooding my bloodstream with adrenaline. My heart races, pounding uncontrollably. I can’t seem to get enough air inside my lungs. I breathe fast, then faster, but my throat cinches up as if a rope’s been looped around it. My gut heaves.
Startled, Crina jumps up and crouches at my side. I shake my head to tell her it’s nothing, that I’m nothing. I’m not worthy of her. I’m not worthy of anything. But I can’t get out a word. My throat has closed up completely. I claw at my neck. My stomach cramps and bile rises up my esophagus.
My vision turns black at the edges, narrowing like a tunnel until the tables and the stage and the chandelier vanish. The space transforms into a cold, dark alley on the wrong side of Koreatown.
A fist comes at me out of nowhere.
I duck it in the nick of time. Only, someone’s shoved me from behind in the fray of boys brawling with fists and brass knuckles. I crash forward and barely save myself from colliding against the dirty pavement, littered with trash and recycling from a nearby restaurant.
I grab the ankle of the Russian I’m fighting and flip him onto the ground. He goes down with a thud. I jump to my feet and tear off the grasping hands clamped around my calf. By chance, I glance across the sea of fighting boys and lock in on Cristian. A burly thug has his hands wrapped around his throat. Roaring, I charge through the roiling crowd, trying to get to him. Lucian and Anton toss their opponents away to join me, but by the time we tear through the brawl, it’s too late.
“Marku. Marku! MARKU!”
I flick my head at the sound of my name, at the voice. Why is Crina here? Panic surges through me.Get her out of here!I shoot to my feet, wobbling as the back-alley spins around me.
“Come back to me, baby, come back.”
I hear Crina. The distress in her voice. The pleading. The tears.
“I can’t,” I beseech. I can’t leave him here to die. I must get to him. I must save him.
“Leave them and come back to me.” Her voice is firm.
The tall building with the billowing steam from the sweatshops follows her siren voice and wavers in my vision.No, no!
“You can and you will,” she demands in that no-nonsense tone she’s used with me since she learned how to speak.
Voom.
I hear laughing, the clinking of glasses, the scraping of chairs. The rococo Parisian stage rises above me and the chandelier shimmers on the ceiling once again. Crina’s once multi-colored eyes are only blue, a cobalt blue. Her forehead is creased with worry.
