My Wild Love

Something off in the distance slowly lulled me out of my sleep. I couldn’t tell if I was still foating in dreamland or awake now. I was straddling the border of consciousness.

Someone was singing softly. In fact, it was so soft that I wasn’t sure if it was only my imagination playing tricks on me. But I didn’t think imagination could have created such a beautiful sound without some inspiration.

I focused in on the words:

Bird of prey, bird of prey
Flying high, flying high
In the summer sky

Bird of prey, bird of prey
Flying high, flying high
Gently pass on by

Bird of prey bird of prey
Flying high, flying high
Am I going to die?

Bird of prey, bird of prey
Flying high, flying high
Take me on your flight

Waking up slightly more, I realized the captivating voice I was hearing was Jim’s. It was beautiful. Not wanting him to stop, I didn’t stir or move a muscle.

I just let the words sink in.

Unexpectedly, he ended his poetic song on a hanging edge. It was almost as if he was about to say something more, but the poem was cut short. The anticipation of the ending made it all the more angelic. Once Jim was silent again I opened my eyes to the world.

Unsurprisingly, we were still up on the rooftop. The sun was beating down directly overhead so it was some time around noon. Abstract shapes above, I watched the fluffy cotton clouds roll on their way for a few seconds.

Jim was sitting on the edge of the building top again. He had a calm, almost thoughtful look on his face. Instead of looking out at the horizon he was looking at me.

“The birds like you.” Jim finally spoke motioning, over to the buildings edge behind me.

A dozen or so birds were perched there watching us. There were different varieties and some that looked the same. They didn’t fly away; they sat chirping and sending their songs into the warm breeze. I stared at them, enchanted for a minute.

Turnning my attention to Jim, I shook my head. “No, they like you.”

***

“You know, I never did catch your name.” Jim told me as we walked down the street. I had to squint in the sun to catch his smile.

Laughing, I realized I had never told him. It slipped my mind completely. Names were such an ordinary thing compared to what we were busy talking about. It just didn't seem important.

“It’s Emma.”

“Emma.” He repeated, chewing over the name in his mind. “That's surprising. I thought you’d be named Helen.”

“Why’s that?” I asked curiously.

“You know, Helen of Troy… the face that launched a thousand ships.” Jim told me looking off in another direction. Before I had a chance to reply he said, “Where are we headed?”

“My apartment.”

We were now in the bad part of town. The part nomad tourists would never see and never know about. It was a tough neighborhood. Crime was on the rise with more homicides than the last two years combined. Scantily clad women hung around street corners hoping to earn a buck in exchange for a treat. If you paid close enough attention often drug deals could be witnessed in sketchy parking lots.

“It’s quite fancy, I assure you.” I joked while my keys jingled together as I unlocked my apartment door. Swinging the door open to the tiny apartment, a wall of humidity hit Jim and I as we entered.

Immediately locking the door, I hooked the chain across the frame. At night I picked up the habits of my grandmother who was just as intent on protection in her Philadelphia home. She would lock the doors, prop a chair up against the handle, and set a broom in the doorway all to block intruders. I just hoped I wouldn’t be around long enough to see if any of that actually worked.

My place was a little cramped. There was a sitting room with a TV in the corner against the wall; it was only used for stacking books. Pistachio green floor-to-ceiling curtains hung on the windows. Light filtered in onto a beat-up flowered sitting chair and a mismatched striped sofa.

Magnolias were in a vase on the tile kitchen counter and artwork hung in the hallway connecting to my bedroom. The smell of burnt incense was still swirling around. I was beginning to think it would never go away. My vinyl was stacked ever which-way all over the apartment. There was no rhyme or reason to my sorting.

Jim, as I knew he would, immediately went to look at my book collection. “Whitman, Thoreau, Dickinson, Kerouac, Huxley…” I could hear him repeating the author’s names from across the room. The admiration in his voice was easy to spot. “Nietzsche, Freud, Kesey, Tolkien…”

On and on he went. I had a feeling that he knew each author's work too, almost intimately. It was very unusual for someone to be so educated. Usually I found myself talking to stone walls with people these days. It went through their mind like slush and they were unable to comprehend any form of a discussion.

It wasn’t like that with Jim. Not at all.

And, however selfish, I was greedy for more of him.