A Faceless Future

Sometimes he was lucky enough not to dream of her. He dreamt of fiction; of a faceless future with which to fasten his faith. A form that held curls and soft skin but never managed eyes; the love of eventually that was just perfect enough to live for. She granted him the gift he dreamed of, the chance to unload his heart without consequence, a someone he could fall apart in front of in intimacy and tell just how much it had hurt, just how much he had loved her, and explain it wasn’t that other kind of love that teenagers gossip of in hallways it was this kind, and she’d know because she would, and because some kinds of love are like deep sea fish whose lights are blank in daylight. If she could give him this he could become hers, could become someone’s again. If she could be strong enough to bear the ice of jealousy, determined enough to listen to ten months of love she’d never feel he could be hers and give her ten years more; but who could do that. Could he? Could he if he really cared, if he'd dreamt of the girl like he’d dreamt of this one?

The routine kept him lurking. Lurking in the shadow, the bleachers behind the game, the dark halls beneath the arena. He saw the light outside, felt it, felt the days he’d waited for creeping towards him but he crept at the same pace, refusing to increase. It wasn’t fear, it was the shadow. The shadow kept him with it. It knew it had to let him go but it didn’t want to. He wanted it not to. Every day it was the same. He woke up, often tired, in the bed they had shared. How could he not be tired sleeping in it. How could he feel fresh waking up in the place where she had squirmed and swallowed him, the covers they’d laughed and thrown over each other, the soft dark that made them press their lips together like hands in reverence to it. That one time had been the best, when they’d done it in complete silence, and the silence had made it feel like love; had tricked him, maybe her too, into believing that the love he felt was felt by her too the way his body was. So he always left the bed slowly, and hobbled down the wood steps to the bathroom. His feet brushed over the clutter that blanketed the floor. How much of it was composed of sweatshirts that still held her smell, or notes that held some memory of her. His mind pushed through the silent cacophony of memory, his hands meeting the door to nudge it wide. He shambled to the bathroom, groaning like an old man as he sat down. Most mornings he’d fold the towel and lay it down under his head before finding the bath mat and slipping it under his back. The cool rigidity of the renovated floor felt good under his feet but was too cold to lay on. The open window was inviting, an effect compounded by the slightness of its size, and the Coney Island breeze it escorted into the room. So maybe this was why he didn’t lie down that day, the floor or the window, one of the two. He was often too tired to try to shower but the window light invigorated him and he turned the shower on, a sudden splash lapping at his calves. He felt the water pour over him; he had always treasured when they made love in the shower. He never knew how to penetrate her there but it felt like he didn’t have to, the magic of it was enough. Her lips soft and raw, her hair verdant and saturated. He’d loved the way its softness brushed his cheek and the way the wet poured over them and made them and their pleasure one. This water didn’t feel like that but at least it wasn’t cold. He came awake in it, sleep slipping off him with the drops that filled the tub. The water was fine but nothing to savor, not like how it felt on summer evenings, how it had felt when she joined him, or when he was waking up to meet her in the mornings. His nose filled with a pleasant smell, sweet but not alarmingly so, composed of comforting coconut and peppermint. He sniffed it out, the container with a coarse pink top and smooth plastic sides. The stuff smelled soft and warm and so he applied it, nurturing his scalp with lotion softened fingers. It was comforting. Was it comforting because his mother had done it throughout his childhood or because she had done it once; had walked with him into the bathroom on the second floor and granted him some of her oil. The one she liked, it would suit his curls because they were so loose she said, and he nodded, agreeing with her eyes and letting the words fall on him like the water. Where had she sat when she did it? Had it been on the toilet, by the shower, or had she just crouched down? Was there anything by the shower to sit on, he couldn’t remember. Her body pressed into him and when her hands fell on him and kneaded him there something inside him fell open. He had belonged to her then, had felt more seen in that moment than any other in his life. He could know people for decades and they would never see him like this. What did he look like in the bathroom when you did his hair; and found the right product for his curls because they were kind of loose, see. That’s what mattered. That’s who he was. So was it because of her that it was comforting? Or was it only comforting then because his mom had done it before her. And did it matter; had now they become one in the same in their kneading because his mom was still here and he loved her differently, and she was gone and would never knead his head like that again. In her absence it felt to him like she had always been kneading it, and he had just now figured it out. He stepped out of the shower and brushed aside the mist on the mirror. He always found himself attractive enough, more now that his face was sculpted nicely and a hint of muscle visible on his slim chest. His face was beautiful though, he thought, and his hair, the loose curls dripping with water. Had she ever found him beautiful? He had always been a more beautiful boy than a handsome one, and she’d known that like no one other girl. He’d loved being called beautiful by her. Had she endured his body or adored it, had it ever been perfect to her the way hers had been to him? What would she think looking at it now? He wrapped the towel snugly around his waist and walked into the larger apartment; the bubble of warm evaporating, overpowered by the colder tastes of the other rooms. He slipped on a shirt from the more favorable section of the drawer, it was the orange Desigual shirt with the mask. The one that looked like the one he made in art class in elementary school, so when he saw the shirt it had felt like it was destined for him. He remembered her eyes light up at it, not as much as he’d liked but enough, and remembered how her hands fell playfully on him trying to find the tag. She wanted to know where it was from but he refused to tell her so he could take her there. If she knew she might go one of the times while they were broken up, and then she wouldn’t need him. Maybe she’d go with another guy. They broke up before he took her. A shirt like this needed a good partner so he grabbed the Mission hoodie. The same one he’d bought her and brought to the lake house. He bought one for her but she took his as well. He didn’t care. He loved that she wanted both of them, he always loved when she did stuff like that. He slipped on the third copy of the hoodie and his leather jacket. He walked out the door and let the elevator carry him down, he was always too tired for stairs.