Still Beat

"Don't act like your relationship was so innocent," Aaron spat.

His voice was like vinegar: strong and bitter. He was being spiteful and arrogant. He was always a know-it-all.

"Innocent?" I replied with a smile.

It was funny, because the relationship between Kent and I had been just that. Innocent, in the most obscure form of the word. To the outside world, the things we did may have seemed wrong, but I would never agree. Even Aaron's words could do nothing to taint the picture I had in my head. Kent always had the purest of intentions. The soul that rested in his body was the soul of a young man: trusting, accepting, ready for the world. He was older than me, yes. And, yes, he was strange. And maybe the things we did weren't right by a law book's written standards, but I never really cared much for law, and I wasn't about to now.
So I laughed in Aaron's face.

I laughed and laughed, because it was funny. Because without Kent, even laughing wouldn't be possible.

*

There's something to be said about the nights in Dayvale. What that is, exactly, I'm not sure, but if anyone had anything to say, it would be me. Part of me resented how well I knew how dark the streets looked at night. I wasn't proud that I knew which alleys held the blackest shadows, which corners you could work, and the places you should never play.

I imagined once, when I was younger, that I would run a tour of the city. Dayvale, After Dark. I would picture myself in a light blue polo shirt, tucked into a pair of conservative, khaki pants. An older version of me would ride atop a double-decker bus through the dirty streets, with various night-lurkers riding along with me. I would point to all the places I had seen that I never wished to go back to again. I would make sure I kept all my favorite places secret.

In my fantasies, I always imagined that my boobs would be much bigger than they are now. I never got the bus, though, and I never got the bust. So much for fantasies.

Instead, I grew up pounding the pavement with the soles of my shoes, not zooming around London-style, dressed like a fast food worker.

I could feel the wind play around my bare thighs, raising goosebumps on my arms. Summer was coming to an end, but tonight was thick with humidity, weighing down like a weight on my chest. The humidity held some of the heat from earlier in the day, but the wind was picking up and I could feel the chill. I sucked in a deep, heavy breath and tried to remember the date. I knew that September had just began, but I couldn't place a number. The second, the third, the fourteenth? All I knew was that fall would be coming soon, and the temperature would drop as it does every year in the Northeast.

The thoughts of the coming winter seeped into my mind, and I wanted to hug my arms close to my chest, and curl up in a ball, right there on the sidewalk. I wanted to sit there and cover up every inch of skin that showed, and cry a long, whiny cry, like a kid throwing a temper tantrum.

I didn't want winter to come. I didn't want to be forced inside. I didn't want to have to find a home or money tonight, or tomorrow night, or in the bone-chilling nights to come.

I just wanted to sit and cry and maybe even put on some damn clothes.

Instead, however, I continued to walk with my arms swinging lightly at my side, and silently prayed to nothing for an Indian summer.

I sat down on a bench, sighing as I positioned myself on the hard wood. I picked at the bench and stared at the faces in the cars that drove by, willing one to stop. The paint came off the bench in dry, dark-blue little chips and embedded themselves under my nails, which were nearly the same shade. No one stopped.

I tilted my head back toward the black, starless sky and contemplated what would happen if someone did stop. Maybe they'd just be kind, and wonder why I was out so late at night, and offer me a ride home. Maybe they would offer me a job. "How much do you charge?" they'd ask. Why, I charge just one Benji, sir. In reality, I could really use the money.

Or maybe they'd just try to kill me.

Sighing, I tried to make myself get up off the bench, but my body couldn't find the energy. The weight of everything was keeping me there. The weight of the air, thick with vapors and pollution. The weight of the decision I would have to make - either find a place to stay, freeze to death, or go back home. None of them were what I wanted.

So I just sat and watched, trying my hardest to think without thinking at all. I didn't worry about how much time had passed. None of it mattered, really. The sun would come up over the city as it did every morning, whether I was there to see it or not. It would set, too, and maybe I would still just be sitting on the same bench, surrounded by a big, paint-less patch.

Eventually, I was drawn out of my thoughts by the sound of heavy footsteps padding along the street in shoes that sounded flat. I didn't turn to look, because I couldn't have cared less about who this person was, or what kind of shoes they were wearing.

I found out, though, because the man sat down on the bench next to me, placing a suitcase down at his side. I looked down to see that his shoes were that of a business man, black and polished so that they shown with the reflection of the streetlights.

"It's going to rain soon," the man said.

I looked up at him, but I did not reply to what he said. The man was dressed nicely, with a starched blue button-up shirt tucked into black dress pants. His brown hair, which was tied back, looked curly and fine, like the hair of porcelain doll. His face was a mural of shadows and pale skin, and I could tell he was much older than me. Late twenties, early thirties. I never considered myself very good at guessing ages.

A tiny danger flagged was already raised in my mind, but I didn't move. This happened sometimes. Sometimes my mind worked greater than my body. Sometimes my mind became so bogged down, it didn't have room for the survival instinct. Sometimes it just didn't care much about life.

After the man sat silent for a moment, he shifted his body towards me and asked "I wonder, do you know when the next bus comes?"

"Couldn't tell you," I replied, my voice tired.

"That's too bad. There's times when I can't wait to leave a place. This is one of those times. Surely you understand."

He stared at me as he said this, looking at me as if waiting for a reply. When he didn't get one, he let out a small laugh.

"I'm very good at leaving, you know. Maybe someday you can learn how, too."

"I doubt it," I sighed, wondering if maybe I really should leave this guy alone. "I'm good at staying. Even if I shouldn't."

"Well, my dear," he said, standing up and brushing off his pants, "I hope one day that'll change for you."