In Blue

I’m here for the fuel, babe.

I am here for the fucking fuel.

The waiter brings me another dirty martini. The room is impaired, the room is sinking. I’m wearing a blue gown. I’m the one in blue. I’m the blue one.

A big crystal chandelier, catered, event, Page 6. Photos. I’m ducking. I am the one in blue. The blue one, at the doorway, at the coat check, at the curb.

He is trying to hail a cab. He is pulling at his tuxedo tie. He is uncomfortable in his clothes, his skin, his surroundings. He is leaving. He is going.

He looks at me.

He makes his way toward me slowly. As if reluctant, as if forced. As if, he can't help it. I’m in blue, and waiting. He nods, not sure what to say. He used to tell me anyone that spoke to me in English was brave. He used to tell me many things. He stands next to me and we look out at the avenue. I notice his eyes don’t lift. They stay steady on the asphalt.

Full moon, I observe.

He nods, but doesn’t look. He won't lift his eyes to the moon. He won't lift.

The new album sounds promising, I try.

Thanks. Where did you hear it? He looks at me, lifts his eyes to mine. That's as high as they go. I’m in blue, and he has hope.

Radio.

His eyes drop again. He nods once. I see the hope go. He wanted to hear that I made an effort. He wanted to hear that I stretched and reached. But I hadn’t. It was just there. On the radio.

He shrugs.

I remember his broad beautiful shoulders, and his blueberry pancakes, and his dog. I remember his cheap scratchy sheets, that I used as drop cloths when I painted his hallway ivy green, making sure to ruin them, so I could buy him 500 thread count replacements. I remember the smell of ivory soap in his bathroom, and the little guitar on his keychain. I remember how he takes his coffee, and his whiskey, and his pizza. I remember those shoulders.

But I don’t pretend to know him.

He lets his eyes run off my dress like water. Blue is my favorite color.

I did not know that.

There’s a truckstop someplace off the Thruway, where we broke down in his drummer’s Nova, where we talked about vampires, where we had Doritos and Pepsi, where we fell asleep holding hands. Waiting.

A cab pulls over. He opens the back door and hesitates. Then he gestures for me. To go with him.

I shake my head no.

He tells the driver to start the meter, he will be just a minute.

I don’t remember his middle name. I don’t remember his birthday. I don’t remember where he was born. I don't remember if he snores. I’m the one in blue, on the curb, by the cab, saying good bye.

He moves close to me, I remember his shoulders. He exhales with nervousness. What went wrong?

Nothing. I smile. Nothing went wrong. It just … went.

He’s the one with the shoulders, head bowed, not looking at the moon.
I’m the one in blue.
He’s the one in the back of the cab that has just pulled away.

And I’m the one that goes.