Cigarette

Ever since I got here I've been having a recurring dream. I find myself treading water alone off the shore of a large, warm lake shortly before sunset. There is no breeze, the water is a boundless expanse of tinted glass. Then I begin to sense something wrong – a disturbance in the surface of the water, although I can’t see or hear a cause. The water, no longer still, forms little peaks and troughs that grow imperceptibly with each iteration. Soon the deeper water is affected, too, and the cold water from far below begins to swirl and encircle my ankles and lower legs. Then I see it – a cigarette boat, moving at an unstoppable clip. The waves, ever larger, begin to pull me under, and as I fight my way back to the surface I realize that although the boat’s path zigzags back and forth, it is heading directly for me. With a violent swoop the cold water encircles my whole body, and I sink out of shock, to forget the terror of the ravaged surface even as thick, slimy seaweed grasps my legs and arms. Suddenly the depth becomes more than I can bear, and in spite of the boat I find myself shooting toward the air. But just before I can surface, the propeller catches my right side, steadily ripping through me for an endless second before throwing me, unconscious, to the shore. When I open my eyes, the lake is empty once again, and the waves are receding. Although the water is warm, I am shivering, but when I try to hold myself I recoil in burning pain from my wound. There is nothing I can do but stare at the reddening water.

The evening started fine. He picked me up wearing something from the back of last month’s Details and took me to some new Italian restaurant, nothing spectacular, but expensive, which was the best I expected from Topeka anyway. Then we saw a little rep company do something awful to American Buffalo - I was genuinely embarrassed for some of the actors, but he seemed to get something out of it, at least I imagined he did. When I told him that I'd only heard Damien Rice in Closer, he was appalled, and insisted we stop by his apartment so he could burn me a CD. So we did. And he did. And while the CD was burning, we sat in perpendicular thatched love seats and talked about nothing in particular. I finally felt like our first date awkwardness was melting away. He got up and poured us each a couple fingers of sweet herbal liqueur and brandy, then put an Elliot Smith album on in the background before sitting down again.

And then, for the first time that night, something seemed wrong. His face froze with a sip, and he as he swiftly placed the drink on the table he grimaced a little before covering his face with his face and beginning to softly shake. I was completely caught off guard. I quickly put down my drink and leaned forward in my chair, flattening my skirt, unsure of what to say or do.
"What's the matter?"
He scraped his hand across his face, pressing against one eyebrow while his eyes darted to me. He held a look I thought was angry at first, but soon decided was scared. I got up to go sit by him, but he darted out of his seat and into the corner, leaning against the outside wall with one hand and his bedroom door with the other. I considered walking myself home to give him some space, but I was genuinely worried about his wellbeing. I followed him to the corner, leaning as casually as possible against the doorframe, placing a tender hand on his right shoulder. He shivered from the contact, and then turned to look at me. His tear-streaked face opened slightly, and he embraced me. After a long period of silence, he finally let go.

Somewhat calmed, he let his arm fall casually on the doorknob and turned it. He opened the door to his bedroom, which was laid out much like the rest of his modest 4th story apartment – mainly faux-vintage furniture sitting beige walls sparsely decorated with framed modern art prints. When the door was opened, I noticed how intently he was gazing at me, and instinctively averted my eyes.
"Thank you so much for being here for me.”
"Is everything alright in your life? Do you want to talk about anything?”
He paused for a moment, then walked into his room.
"Come here a minute."

It's hard to explain my feelings at this moment. While I was certainly not wanting anything intimate that evening, I still had a great deal of innate trust in his decency, and feared that it would be a bigger insult to his pride to turn him away now rather than later, after I'd had a chance to show my hesitation in more subtle ways.
"What is it?" I asked, slowly walking into the room. His footsteps matched mine in the opposite direction, as he walked behind me to his bedroom door and shut it. By the time I was in the center of the room, he was sitting near the head of his bed, leaning on the wall with his legs draping off the side.
"I'm not ready to say goodnight yet. Stay with me a few more minutes."
He reached for my hand, and I took it, again not wanting to hurt his feelings. He gently pulled me to the bed, his arm around me as soon as I sat. I turned to look at him, and his eyes bore into mine, darting to my lips intermittently, until finally embracing me rather unenthusiastically. He kissed me, and I briefly kissed him back, but all energy quickly left his broad shoulders, and his kiss was restless and uninterested. I pulled away with polite and intentional punctuation, taking both his hands in mine and locking our fingers. He hung his head for a minute before trying to kiss me again, but stopped when he sensed my disinterest.

He dropped onto his back and stared enigmatically at the ceiling, red eyes beginning to water. I thought again about leaving. Suddenly his eyebrows began to quiver, and his hand clenched mine. I let out a little shriek as he violently pulled me on top of him, and before I had time to think he had rolled on top of me and begun to roughly navigate my neck with his dry mouth. I tried to move, but I couldn’t overcome the massive force of his lower body. I was hyperventilating. I felt his hand rip down my tank top, angry mouth following. I felt the breeze on my thigh. I was screaming louder than I have ever screamed. The rocking paused momentarily, but quickly resumed much more violently than before. Everything was wrong. I tried to concentrate on flexing my toes, or the pain from my twisted underwear cutting into my flesh, or the hair he was tugging at, but no matter what I tried to think about, my whole mind was filled with a tearing, a devastating, searing cut deep into the center of my flesh, ripping me apart from within.

And then it all stopped. He was leaning out his window, smoking. And then he wasn’t. I was following him out even before he hit the ground.