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Pif Magazine
ISSN: 1094-2726
Published by:
Pif, LLC
PMB 248
4820 Yelm Hwy SE
Suite B
Lacey, WA 98503-4903
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| PAST MACRO-FICTION | MORE FICTION |
Wake often in the night in New York City, staring through the pre-war windows out across the shallow sky to where an owl sits, perched, a fixture meant to warn the pigeons off the roof. Then, even through your ear plugs, hear your fiancé beside you, snoring loudly, the faint scent of alcohol escaping from his pores.
Condense the tension in you to a point, then focus it across the street to will the owl to move, its silhouette reminding you of nights spent back at camp in Canada wrapped in your Girl Guide sleeping bag and listening to the sighs of insects or the rustling of a skunk or watching the moon creep through patterned leaves.
Concede New York is not like that. The city’s sounds seep deep into your nightmares, even through the foam wedged in your ears. Its noises haunt you differently.
Sit often on the closed lid of the toilet off the kitchen. Flush, and listen to the water rushing under you. Raise the frosted window panes to peer out at the bowling alley just across the avenue, then flush again. Feel soothed and softened by the sound of running water, picturing the waves on shores of where you’d rather be.
Remember Daniel, your fiancé, won’t call back before eleven even though he said he’d call by eight. Recall he’s working eighty-hour-weeks to build a future. Lovers cross the street and step into the bowling alley, arms around each other, laughing.
Hear your footsteps echo in the stairwell by the rubbish chute while you pretend to empty trash. Check to see that no one’s looking; press your cheek against the coolness of the marble floor and listen to the hollow quiet of the stone.
The phone — a distant tinny sound beyond the heavy door you’ve closed to the apartment — rings. Ignore it, knowing it is Daniel who’ll say, "Hey!" as if he’s caught you dashing in the door, but then will hold the phone aside and make plans for the evening with a guy beside him, then confide, "Frank’s up for kamikazes."
Count the rings, then test your hearing through the metal door to see if you can make out any words on the machine. Admit your ears can only pick up intermittent laughing and the click as his connection suddenly goes dead.
Compose yourself enough to call him back and elevate your voice to sound excited, happy to be on the phone with him. Note by his business tone that you have interrupted something serious, and back off, cooing intimately, "Sorry to disturb you." Listen while he gives his secretary lengthy details on a spread sheet, then apologizes to you, muttering, "Cecile and I are crunching numbers. Meet me at eleven. Charleys."
Squeeze your eyes closed tightly, conjuring the energy to say, "Okay," then wait for Daniel to return the phone to its receiver, recognizing how his voice picks up its tease-the-secretary tone, then Cecile’s high-pitched laugh.
Pull off the nightgown you’ve had on since getting home at six. Examine how your body looks, full length and naked in the mirror, then look past your pale reflection, through the window, out across the avenue, and see the owl still crouching, watching you.
Run scalding water in the tub. Shake lavender and baby oil in the water, noticing your body slowly turning red as you stir circles, swirling patterns in the oil with your feet. Allow the redness of your flesh to recall silent screams of lobsters that your father used to lower into steaming pots atop the stove in Nova Scotia over summer holiday. Then silently, submerge yourself.
Dress slowly in an outfit Daniel bought you: cashmere sweater, woolen slacks, silk scarf. Wear pumps that make you taller because Daniel’s tall. Apply your make-up in the way the clerk at Bloomingdale’s advised: use musk eye shadow, steering clear of blues or greens.
Emerge, transformed, into the lobby of your building, passing Sol, the doorman, crouched upon a corner stool, his shoulders hunched, his eyes in glazed relief. Will him to blink, and when he doesn’t, pull your silk scarf tighter, pressing your way through the door into the cold night air, the bracing blow of motion, city lights, and sound.
Lean forward, chin tucked to your chest, into the wind and work your way along the sidewalk. Mark your progress by the mounting sum of peoples’ boots you pass. Slip once and check to see if anyone has noticed, then walk faster to seem hurried, almost blending in.
