Earlobes

     At the time I was thinking about his earlobes. That’s what I really miss, his god damn earlobes.  And I actually caught myself fingering the hem of my dress, like I used to do his ears. Especially late at night when he’d lay on his side facing me, even though he always complained about how uncomfortable it was for him to lie like that. And I’d try to compensate for his posture by stroking the bottoms of his ears. As if the gesture gave him some kind of complacency. When really, the pinch and release of malleable tissue caught in my fingertips, soothed the compulsion to repeat over and over, God I love you, Christ I love you, Abel I love you... I was thinking about how selfish that is. How greedy I am for that boy’s earlobes.

               

     I was thinking about this while I braced myself against the window pane outside the bar; one hand on thick glass, the other in the fabric of my dress. Pan out. On the inside a boy leaned against the same window, one hand on a full glass the other in the pocket of his jeans. We both closed our eyes and knocked our heads back. Crowns juxtaposed. Cue the violins.

                

     It wasn’t alcohol teasing blood cells, or thick curling smoke unfolding from my lungs and throat; and it wasn’t the boys who approached me with lines they had been reciting on a cerebral broken record. It was this nocturnal cologne that I found pervading the streets and bars; a combination of cigarette smoke, brick wall, and September. It was this semblance of drunken youth and perfect temperature that constructed an atmosphere that was uniquely heartwreckage. I was drunk on the absence of Abel. I had intoxicated myself with phantoms of us, strolling along the same sidewalk I stood on.  I stumbled inside, worried I’d black out if I kept watching us holding hands, crossing the bridge over the trains, and daring each other to jump.

                

     Wasted on melancholy, I entered the bar.  Bypassed costumed stand-ins, and took space near the boy who let the window support his weight, like he had given up on standing. I sat on a marooned barstool because I couldn’t quite make it all the way to the actual bar. I was too inebriated from the silent films playing out on the sidewalk. I just needed to sit down, catch some poise, cross my pins, and crave.

                

     I guess that’s what initiated the interaction, between me and this boy who hated standing. He lifted his glass and asked for the story of me. I thought about apologizing, the “me” he was inquiring for, didn’t live here anymore. She abandoned this place and left a husk in a black dress. But he was cute, tall, and I was curious as to why he needed the crutch.

               

     Hushhh fell over the bar, all the extras turned their torsos towards our tack. I told him every boy I know is Icarus, and you can see where I’ve been because there’s always a mess of feathers and wax. Told him how I’m the most confident girl in the world (cut to scene with my fingers at the back of my throat, coughing up sick and Diet Coke) I’m the happiest girl in the world (cut to this morning where breakfast consists of coffee and anti-depressants) and unlike all the other women you’ll meet, I’m not jaded and spoiled for fervor (the entire time I had been staring at his earlobes).

                

     He nodded and said “You’re the reason we’re all here. Morose boys who crawl into pubs and wait for sunshine gift wrapped in a cocktail dress. Wait for girls starved for affection, who may share a few similar interests. Boys waiting at the bar with an extra twenty bucks in their pockets, hoping they can get you liquored up enough to tug at your ribbons. Not that I’m any different, tell you the truth, you remind me of Christmas. I wouldn’t mind unlocking the buttons, twisting open your bra, and discovering the supple trinkets you’ve got packaged. But you just so happen to have caught me on the same night my girlfriend left me. And I’m all too aware that these men are just sick with sun poisoning. They think the cure’s in between your breasts, that you’ve got an antidote hidden in some wet cavity. But the morning after you’ll rise from their beds, run off with their button up shirts, and leave nothing but arduous sunburn.”

                

     He pressed himself harder into the window frame. I twisted the cotton of my dress so hard I thought of ripping cartilage. It was then I felt my diaphragm build and collapse from laughing [applaud. applaud. applaud.] I said “And tell me kid, did she leave your knees so weak you can’t stand up? That you need to use this window as an auxiliary? Her intimacy, so crude in its absence that the floor seems to tip while you walk from one side of the bar to the other? When she left you, did she avoid eye contact, and with a sick audacity refer to you using a pet name like a tactless joke? Because Abel did, and I had to tell him to use my real name while he broke up with me. No, I’m not the reason all these boys are here. I’m not starved for affection, but rather bandages and balm. If you were to liberate my dress from me, you’d find that same sore red skin. But the difference is, I’m not going caress a window pane all night and bitch about it.”

                

     He shook his head “no” and replied “It’s not that I can’t stand. Although I won’t lie to you, I find stability in prescribed SSRI’s and serenity caught between the glass and tap. Genetically the anti-superman, yes I got a crutch. But it’s not this window.  I’m just trying to keep it shut, because out on that sidewalk I keep seeing ghosts that refuse to leave me alone.”

                

I asked “What’s you’re script?”

                

“Wellbutrin 300mg”

                

“So I guess we do share a few similar interests.”