Mercy

Phoebe’s Diner was on the north side of the city, surrounded by boarded-up storefronts and junkies. Its outer façade was more or less as dilapidated as the rest of the abandoned buildings around it. It was, Mercy had long ago noted, only recognizable as a business by the single, half burnt-out neon sign that burned a soft, flickering green light into the surrounding city blocks at all hours of the day. That same green light that Mercy could see seeping through her bedside window each night, beckoning like a soft harbor light from some cold and unforgiving ocean.

The only light that’s real.

Mercy happened to be a regular at Phoebe’s, though the client had recommended it as. That morning she had slept in late. In her dreams she had heard the soft and steady tapping of the rain against her window. Imbued with a dream logic, it became a constant chirping of cicadas across the golden field, beneath a red, setting sun. She held someone’s hand…

Inside, the diner only had two customers. Therese, the aging sex worker, smoking a cigarette at the counter even though it had been banned in the city years ago. And a man, sitting at one of the corner booths, his head covered by a black hoodie.

Mercy ate her dry waffles and watched the patterns of wood polish on the tables twist alongside the sudden, shifting colors inside the diner. The motion was so subtle that, initially, she didn’t notice it, assuming that the lights behind her eyes were seeping into the real world in her midday sleepiness. But after a few minutes, feeling the effects of two coffees, she noticed that she was in fact listening to a slight humming from across from her, a soft, uneven melody filtered through a raspy throat and parched lips. She glanced up—the man at the booth was still hunched over his food, but his shoulders were swaying up and down, working in time with the hidden rhythm of the song he was humming.

His song turned the world deep blue, then purple, then silky black, like a river made of the night. Her memory scrolled to the message she had gotten from him the previous evening.

“We can meet at Phoebe’s Diner, if that works for you. I’ll be wearing a dark blue Princeton hoodie.”

The music formed neon images in front of her eyes.

The first time, ever I saw your face

“Hey Mercy!”

Philip the fry cook’s voice sent crude strings of brown and milky green through the layers of song she was watching.

I thought the sun rose in your eyes

“Yes?”

“I accidentally burned your waffles, hope you don’t mind.”

And the moon and the stars were the gifts you gave

“Maybe you could make waffle crepes, if you have enough sugar,” she said.

“Huh?”

To the dark and endless skies, my love

“It’s a French thing,” she said.

“Like French toast?”

To the dark and endless skies

“Sure. In fact, why don’t you just make French toast instead.”

The man in the corner booth turned to look around. He was half-shaven and pale, thin, black hair streaming down his face, fattened cheeks marred by acne scars and moles. She listened to his wheezy breathing, and watched jade-green stars flare across the ceiling reflecting the green light of the neon sign outside, and a low, emerald moon elucidating the sapphire sea, the sudden, diamond-white tips of the waves cresting against the soft evening breeze, the last whispers of marigold sunlight sinking in red and orange shimmers against the horizon. Watched his warm, silky skin touching her hand, the sweet incense of his breath, caught on the breeze and melting into the smell of the warm grass and citrus and flower and ocean. Watched him walking along the beach, their hands interlocked, watched his head turn, caught the high gleam of his eyes as he smiled…

“Hey Mercy!”

Brown clusters breaking against empty rhythms.

“Yes?”

“What was the name of that thing you have, again? That thing where you can see colors?”

“Synesthesia,” she said quietly.

“Yeah,” he said. “That sounds weird.”

Beneath the noise, the man’s breath threaded an image in the air. Phantom faces. Warm smiles. Finite potentials.

She slipped from her booth to the corner table. The man watched her, emerald eyes framed against the half-completed image. She sat down across from him, moved the hair away from her face.

“Hi there,” she said. He made a half-smile. “Are you, by any chance, Joseph?”

“Yes!” he said. His voice hit a high-pitched squeal before it descended at the final s. “Are you Mercy?”

“Uh-huh!” She wrapped her hand around his right forearm. She had been planning on calling him a few hours before their appointment to confirm the details, but she was already in too far. “Tell me about yourself!”

“Well,” he said. His voice was soft and silent. “My name’s Joseph. Or Joe, if you prefer.”

Softly, she began to caress one finger along the skin of south of his wrist. His voice lay waiting in the air, a cat, torsional and spring-loaded, like a watch, reading to pounce into fertile ground and explode.

“What do you do, Joe?” she asked. She took care to finely carve those words before they left her mouth. The image of her, cloaked in a thin, blue dress, swirling in the breeze, smiling back and reaching her hands towards his to lead him into the warm evening.

“Uh, I’m kind of a writer,” he said.

“Kind of?”

“I mean, I write, in my spare time.”

“Professionally?”

His eyes found something else in front of them, something that hadn’t been there a moment earlier.

“Yes,” he said.

“What do you write?”

“All kinds of things,” he said.

"Have you written me anything?"

He paused, then nodded.

"Like what?"

"Love letters," he said. "Poetry."

"I remember," she said. "That's why I fell in love with you."

He smiled. The tension in his shoulders eased somewhat. For the first time his hand responded to her touch.

"We were walking along a beach,” he said. “I wrote a song for you."

He had signed a book deal recently, six figures (though he never liked to discuss money). He had taken her to a secret spot near the tropics. He had rented a private villa, surrounded by groves of palm trees and seaward lagoons. He was still young, and so was she. They walked together, against the sunset, barefoot in the sand. He breathed the cool, ocean waves against her feet and around her ankles.

This is the truest version of you, all that I can see.

Inside the diner, the clock finally struck noon and the gray morning slouched into a gray afternoon.

He regarded his hands, then, remembering himself, thrust a crushed flower in her direction.

“Oh, I uh, got this for you.”

She watched it for a few seconds. It didn’t move, even with the gentle rhythm of their mutual heartbeat.

“Why don’t you hold onto it,” she said. “For now.”

She took him back to the hotel room a little after five. Their appointment had been scheduled at 8, but with the cloud cover and approach of winter the day had turned dark, at least dark enough that she could pass it for twilight. The rain battered against the dark window of their room and threaded crystallized raindrops against the glass. They caught fragments of the lights from the city. In her mind, they floated inside the room, swayed in abrupt spirals and circled around the ceiling light.

Joe sat down on the bed. She removed his blue Calvin Klein shirt that was a size too big, then his stained undershirt.

"Take this," she said. He opened his mouth and she placed the MDMA pill into his tongue. She ran her hands through his hair. He closed his eyes, drifted his head along the motion of her arms. She glanced over at the counter to see if the money was there, as had been discussed. It was, a disorganized pile of hundreds, at least a thousand, by the look of it. Next to it lay the flower, its muted orange still stagnant. As if it searched for its mirror image in the evening sun, but found only the surrounding rain clouds.

She took out the Prochlorperazine pill from her bag, gently placed it between his lips. He swallowed without protest and smiled. She removed her shirt, folding it and placing it with care on the chair near the bedside table. She slipped her hands down to his waist and removed his belt.

"Has the sun set yet?" he asked,

"Almost," she said. She took her bra off and guided his left hand to her breast. "Lie back for a minute."

He did, and she pulled his pants down, then removed his bulky boxers. She removed her skirt and took her underwear off. With his eyes still closed, she reached over to her bag, removed the remaining pills, placed them in careful order on the table next to them. She ran hands over his bare chest.

"I'm going to give you a few pills now," she said. "They'll help us have a good time."

He nodded, never opening his eyes. She took the first pill bottle and measured the dosage out by sight. 8 grams of Amitriptyline. Then, 2.5 grams of Cimetidine. Then Midazolam and Diazepam, 300mg each. He swallowed and relaxed his muscles. She lay her head across his chest, kissed his naked skin, listened to his heartbeat. The tense, quick, panicked march from earlier was gone and his pulse had gone slow and steady, meandering down a lazy river on a warm afternoon. His breathing was light and slow. She drew her lips up to his necks, tasted the cheap cologne he had overapplied, the scent of his deodorant.

"Where did we meet?" he asked. His voice appeared in front of her, the handsome, mysterious, smiling man, standing in a crowded room, holding a drink, offering his hand to her.

"We were still in college," she said. "Seniors. At the party, you asked me to dance."

He hummed in agreement. The thumping of his heart slowed, as if it was sinking into a thick, milky sea. His breathing hit a lower tempo, his stomach climbing lower and lower with each inhalation. The drugs were working quickly. She squeezed his hand and he gave the slightest twitch in response.

"You told me you were there alone, and I didn't see how that was possible. You said you were afraid of dying alone."

"Uh-huh." Voice thin and failing. The images beginning to fade.

She brought her face next to his, lay down with her arm extended across her chest, her other arm wrapped around his head. She sang.

The first time ever I saw your face

His breathing sank even deeper, soft hands wrapping around his lungs.

I thought the sun rose in your eyes.

A cool wave washed across his body.

And the moon and the stars were the gifts you gave.

One last beat of his heart.

To the dark and endless skies, my love.

His lungs emptied.

To the dark and endless skies.

He was still.

She placed the flower over his body, still as his heart.

Outside the hotel the rain was clearing up. The soft humming of the water and the cars running through wet streets all blended into one pulse that ticked on and off into the evening. The flickering green light from the diner was still there, still omnipresent. She saw it break apart and reform with each passing second. It became a face, a smiling, handsome man, standing on a beach, walking in front of her, his hand extended. He joined the others, all of them looking back at her, passing into sunlight, passing towards the dark and silky onyx of the coming night.