Gutter Rainbow

Gutter Rainbow

         The man stood at the door, keys in hand.  He thought for a moment and finally after a pause rapped upon the white frame.  Not with urgency but loud enough to be heard.  After a moment the door unlatched from the inside, the deadbolt echoing in space for an hour.  His feet took a step backward, holding back the urge to about face and walk back down the brick path.  She peaked around the door, only opening it a sliver, her hair wet, wrapped in a plush green towel.  She looked just as he remembered her, frozen in time like a porcelain doll, her eyes crowed slightly older, but it was just as he imagined she would have aged.  For an instant they simply stood and watched each other breathe.
         “Hi,” The word came forced.
         She nodded, the dimple on her chin captured in the sunlight, and a haunt of a smile.
         “I thought you would have come sooner.”
         “I,” The man looked down at the keys fumbling in his hands, shaking with tremors.
         “I’m sorry.” It wasn’t an apology.  “I wish you would have called first.”
         “May I come in.” His voice broke upon the last syllable.
         She opened the door and ushered him inside.  The house remained, some new furniture in the foyer, a lamp here a shelf there, and her paintings had doubled in number, but the record player still laid in the living room, the jukebox aged, covered in a layer of dust.  The book shelves filled with upturned and dog-eared literary volumes.  Steinbeck lay open next to a volume of plays by Samuel Beckett, the room smelled stale of memories, and the dying lilies rested in a vase of browning water upon the end table. 
         “Would you like a cup of coffee,” She turned towards the kitchen, the oversized T-Shirt hung from her damp shoulder, covering her nakedness slightly below waist.  She showed little concern for wearing near to nothing beneath.  The shirt was obviously not hers, but the man said nothing about it.
         “That would be great.”
         The coffee brewed, yet the world between them was icy and cold.
         “You look good,”
         The man wondered how she could have taken notice, she whirlwind around the kitchen hurrying the encounter along.  At first the small talk came easily for the man, he was settling back into the world again.  He could hardly take his eyes off of her, studying her every action as if her moves were an art, a tribal dance he desired to memorize, while she made only a glance, like a dog afraid to keep eye contact.  They talked of how the neighborhood had changed; who had moved and passed on, a forced conversation over spoonful’s of sugar. 
         “I’m sorry.  I really wished you would have called.” She stood from the table as if she was timing the seconds between awkward pause. “I have to get ready.”
         “Oh, are you going out.”
         “Yes.  If you had called I would have cleared something for you.”
         “Well maybe we could grab sushi sometime.”
         “Maybe.”
Her voice viciously noncommittal, she was edgy; he knew the signs all too well.  She rose from her chair and took the coffee mug to the sink, only a few sips taken.
         “I really must get going.  Enjoy the coffee.  The stuff is,” She paused coming to her sense. “Well you know where everything is. Some of your stuff is still here. Sports Illustrated magazines, some shirts and stuff.  I can box it if you wish to send for it.” Her voice is distant.
         She hurried up the stairs, practically raced, her hips sway as her feet move with the grace of a leaf dancing upon the wind.  Her feet were light upon the creaking hardwood floors leading to the bedroom.  The man wandered a little, his mind never one for remaining tethered in the now.  The clock upon the wall still ticked a second too slow, freezing for an instant before carrying on, a marriage gift from his In-Laws.  The room smelled stale of cigarettes, the astray filled to the brim.  He remembered when they used to dance around the kitchen, making dinners to Al Green, not using the music to dance but an excuse to simply embrace, they must have worn those records thin back then, now it was an artifact left unearthed and catching dust. She was no longer the Grad Student, she had matured grown into a lady, while she had accepted the future and change, he was left a relic cemented afraid to let go of the past.  Alone in the kitchen his calloused hands fumbled with the magnets upon the fridge, big bright letters of the alphabet, wide enough for a toddler to handle.  He touched them and for an instant he could feel their warmth, knowing it to be false.  And for an instant, he felt their love. Unable to bear the room any more, he stood from the table
         The man walked from the kitchen, taking a sip of his coffee, she always made it too bitter and strong.  He set the mug upon the stand, next to the highlighted copy of Waiting for Gadot.  The man looked at his reflection in the polished wood, his face looked sunken and pale, sagged around the eyes, his youth stolen and replaced by the skeleton before him.  He removed his shoes, carefully resting each Oxford upon the shag welcome mat, almost as if it was second nature.  He set his keys in the ceramic bowel with a hollow jingle, a habit of operandi.  Upstairs he heard the toilet flush, the water snaking through the pipes, loud enough to blot out his thoughts.  The man walked up the stairs, each step feeling heavier than the next until he reached the balcony of the second floor.  From the hall he could see her sitting in front of the antique mirror.  Together they had hunted auction halls and antique stores for weeks until they found the perfect one.  The vanity was surrounded by hand carved oak, stained to a tarnish of deep brown, soaked into the fibers of the wood, yet the varnish had peeled and chipped away from years of neglect, the surface niched and knocked with dints and splinters of careless handling, each splinter threatening to stab or impale any violator of its privacy.  But each scratch was a symbol of its imperfection, adding to its unique beauty, the glass was full sized and liquid cool, histories captured upon its reflection.  The families who watched generations pass before it, a daughter who learned to brush their hair, 43 strokes right, 43 strokes left a loving Mother untangled the knots from playing rough with the boys in the neighborhood; how a little girl finds her mother’s make-up bag and plays grown-up replicating actions that are innate; the giggles of first love; a daughter sobs wetting the oak from heartbreak as she first learns of death.  The man blinks and the memories fragment like a mosaic.  Now the man watches the lady as she lifts her arm and applies deodorant; her eyes meet his.
         “I didn’t want coffee.” He spoke weakly, emotions and memories sapping his strength.
         She looked at him through the reflection, the first steadfast look she had given him since he entered the house, and the man grasped that anything physical between them was perhaps a lost cause.
         “I’m not available,” She spoke plainly.
         The man didn’t push, his eyes glued to the strokes of combing her thin autumn hair.
         “We are still married.”
         “I’m sorry.  I don’t want you to stay.” She wanted it finished, between the buried, no genuine apology, but a simple brush off.
         “But,” He began his tongue swollen in his mouth. “I’ve thought about it so much.”
         “I have too.  But I stopped, and that was five years ago.  It won’t do any good. You know this as well as I do.”
         He did. But his hand was on her shoulder now, the tingle of her flesh, still warm from the shower radiated electric between them. Her nipples hardened, perhaps it was only the chill of the air, but inside he longed to believe it was the brush of his touch.
         “I’d like for you to go now,” She lowered her head tucking her chin jut between her collar bones, hunched forward looking at the top of the vanity. There was a tremor in her voice that could easily become tears in a turn of a broken clock.  She set the brush down upon the desktop; her slender fingers gently chafe the scars dug into the varnish. The word carved by a childish artiste, who at the time was scolded for her juvenile deed, now is only regret. I love you Mommy, the lady’s nail traced the words repeatedly. Her tears welled in shame, and if she’d cry the man would bend and kiss her to console her pain, her constitution would soften, his will would harden and they would end this silly endeavor in bed.  He knew it; she did too. That is why she showed nothing, determined not to allow herself to open again.  The wall was constructed too high.
         “Pleas…” She pulled her shoulder away in finality, as if his touch was poison.
         There was no spark between them.  Their love dissipates like smoke.
         “I’ll let myself out.”
         It is 2:45, when the man left 453 Grindal Street.  He merged into the hordes of released school children, picking fights or picking noses.  He paused and looked at the school doors; it would be about now that his daughter would be bouncing jovially into his arms, her Catholic uniform covered in dirt and grime from playing with the boys in recess.  She would have told him about how she booted the kickball farther than any boy in her gym class, and how she had each and every one of her spelling words correct.  They would walk hand and hand to the corner store and the man would say pick anything you wish, the world is yours, and to this she would reply one Twizzler please.  The man turned quickly from the street, his Oxfords rushed into the back alleyway and behind the dumpster he collapsed upon his knees.  The world couldn’t see his emotion, he wouldn’t allow it.  Yet it grew like a storm over taking him feverishly.  He balled his fist into his eye sockets and alone he cried.