We Are a Burning City

            We Are a Burning City

“Follow that car!” I yell, slamming the taxi door behind me. Without hesitation the driver hits the pedal. Sweat pools on my brow as we speed past a blur of gray people and black cars. Keeping my focus on the beat-up, red Toyota she drives, we chase her around the corner. The hard turn slams me to the side of the taxi. We speed up, running three red lights, and screech to a halt when the Toyota parks at the airport. I'm fumbling to unlock my car door, when I see Sam get out of her car and walk inside. 

 I run after her, bumping into a very annoyed looking grandma who scowls at me. I mumble an apology as I right myself. Her flight leaves at two and it's already one fifty seven. I don't know if I’ll make it. I barely find her gate. 

“Stop!” I scream just before she walks on to the terminal. She turns, her chestnut brown hair swaying around her as if the wind bends to her will. Her gem-green eyes illuminate as they meet mine. She looks like she's glowing. I run over to her, wrapping her in my arms.

“You can't go," I pleaded. “I need you.” 

“You came,” she whispers, ducking her head into the crook of my neck. My brain partly registers the crowd forming around us but I can't take my eyes off of her.

“I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry, for everything.” 

“Jess don't” she pauses, then cries “I love you.” 

“I love you too.” Tears well up in my eyes as I pick her up and spin her in a circle. I put her down and her lips meet mine, holding me, as the crowd bursts into applause. The perfect moment. 

Yeah, that doesn't happen. Instead, I just stand there, stupidly, watching her car drive off, trying not to cry as I imagine what could have happened if I had had the courage to go after her. If I wasn't so stubborn and pushed her away. I stay like that for what feels like an hour. I don't know the exact time since my phone is broken. I should probably get it fixed. 

I can't go home right now. I can't bear the thought of taking the rundown bus down to the small ratty apartment we filled with so much love. We were so happy. We were so goddamn happy; it kills me. I only started taking the bus because of her. I used to think it was dirty. But when she found out I didn't like buses she dragged me on one for our first date. We rode around our city, exploring, jumping between different buses and trying something from every food truck we saw.

I start walking. There is a sharp pain coming from my right foot where I stepped on broken window glass; it's a good reminder. Everything makes me think of her. We used to spend hours walking around our city, just talking. Every time I would step on a sidewalk crack she would stop to kiss me. God, I miss that. 

After my brother got arrested, Sam asked me if I wanted to take a walk with her around our city. I probably should have. It probably would have made me feel better about the bloodline of assholes I was born into. But instead, taking the opportunity to embrace my roots, I started yelling at her, fuming, I called her a bitch and threw a lamp at the wall next to her.

 I didn't want the lamp to hit her. I just wanted to scare her into leaving. If she left then, I knew I would be able to handle it, but I couldn't bear the thought of starting to love her and her leaving anyway. Sam didn't move, she looked hurt but she stood her ground. She told me she loved me anyway.

 I stormed out of the house. I couldn't be there knowing I hurt her. We didn't speak for two weeks after that. I refused to answer her calls; she called me every day. My friend Bailey let me stay with him until when hungover, I vomited all over his new carpet. Sam took me back without question. I guess there are only so many times I could expect her to do that.

 I turn the corner. The smell of ancient hot dogs and stale beer perfume the air. Normally I would gag at the overwhelming stench. But today, mixed with the beautiful, blended, skyline that looked almost like it was painted from watercolor, it was a sort of comfort. It was familiar. It felt like home.

 My mom practically did not exist in my world. The only time I ever really saw her was when she was broke and she rarely was, with all the rich guys she slept with. I don't think my dad and I ever had a proper conversation. His words were always too slurred to understand and the wet stench of beer on his breath stank so bad it was impossible to look him in the eyes.

After I moved in with Sam, I was constantly trying to break the bad habits I was born with. By the time I was old enough to think for myself, my mind was already stuck in a rut formed from years of the same patterns. But my brother was different. He was seven years older than I was and so bright. Despite the damage he took shielding me, he always had his life together. Part of me was waiting for him to be successful, so I had proof that it's possible. 

Sam was the one person who believed in me. She wanted me to go back to college. We argued about it a lot. It got bad two months ago. We were in the kitchen. I was drunk. I punched the wall, leaving a dent on not only its surface.

 “You think you're goddamn better than me just because you still go to school.” 

Looking back, I try to imagine what my face looked like, she seemed terrified.

“I don't think that, '' she pleaded. “I just want you to make something with your life.” She never looked at me with pity, only concern, but her cheeks were getting red and the vein on her temple throbbed.

“You can't save me. You don't understand, I'm not like you. I just mess everything up. I messed me up. I messed you up. It's my fault you're not happy." I never gave her time to respond, I just walked out and went to sulk in bed. 

Ten minutes later she walked in and lay down next to me. She comforted me. I should have been the one who apologized. But she lay there saying she was sorry trying to make me feel better. I hate the way I treated her.

 My paintings are the one thing I'm proud of; I knew Sam loved them too. I use my paintings like bandaids. Something pleasing to look at, to hide the bloody scarring underneath. The morning after our fight, I painted a dove, perched in an olive tree. I covered the dent with the painting.

I love traffic. It's comforting to me to know that everyone is together, on the same street, going through the same annoyance. It makes me feel less alone. When I got my first car, I picked Sam up early from work, and we drove until we found traffic to get stuck in. We sat quite listening to the hum of the cars and watching the birds fly around our city.

I have to look up the bus schedule. Normally I would just ask Sam. My cheeks start to burn and my breath turns shaky. I don't know how to live without her. I don't comprehend I'm crying until my chewed-up lips stings from the burn of salt. I lift my sleeve to my cheek wiping away tears that don't stop coming. Who memorizes the bus schedule anyway?

I get on the bus. Hoping that the warmth of our apartment would cheer me up, I decide to head home. But when I walk up to our apartment, it feels nothing like I remember. The window that Sam insisted on washing every week, so our view of the world wouldn't be obscured by smudges, was completely shattered. I spot my phone lying cracked amongst the broken glass. Why do I always throw things when I'm mad? The scratches on the floor are more visible during the day, splinters from the chair leg ingrained in the hardwood flooring.

There is water sprayed all over the kitchen. And the dinner I tried so hard to prepare sits cold, on fancy plates that mean nothing anymore. I thought I could face what had happened but apparently I can't. I feel like I'm stuck in a “Groundhog Day” time loop. 

 She didn't notice the dinner. She was tired after a long day of work. She wanted to go straight to bed. I was mad. She was tired. She didn't notice the dinner. I threw my phone at the window. The window shattered. She was mad. She was tired after a long day of work. She didn't notice the dinner. Then she lost it.

“Jess what the hell!” I heard the glass shatter and realized what I did.

  “Oh my god, Sam, I'm so sorry.” I tried to go to her, to hug her, but she turned away.

  “What is wrong with you!” she yelled. I still can't get the look of horror on her face out of my mind.

“I’ll fix it. I can fix it. I'm so sorry," I mumbled. 

“You can't fix it Jess.” Annoyance flashed across Sam’s face. “We're going to need to hire someone. God, what is wrong with you?” 

“What's wrong with me?” I yelled, angry again. I threw the chair, and it skidded on the floor, making a sickening screeching sound.

“I was trying to do something nice for you. It took me hours to make that chicken, you completely ignored it!” I started crying. Sam was pissed.

“You never think, do you? I'm tired. I'm sorry if I missed your stupid dinner. You need to calm down.” Wanting the fight to end, Sam went to the sink and got a glass of water. I ran after her.

“I wasn't done talking to you,” I shrieked. I had forced the glass from her hand and slammed it back into the sink. The impact sprayed water all over us.

“Jess, you need to leave!” she cried.

“What? No!” 

“I said leave!” She screamed, tears filling her eyes. I got in my car and drove, exhausted. I parked and slept in my car that night, last night.

Not wanting to look at the kitchen anymore, I go upstairs. I look at the clock and see that it’s almost eleven. I can't sit and feel sorry for myself. I get out my set of paints. The bright colors help dampen my dark mood. I begin blending colors on the canvas trying to erase my mind. Getting lost in the world of my creation.

Dipping my paint brush in the thick red paint, I think about this morning. Sam's bright red Toyota and striking purple dress had stood out amongst all the other gray people and black cars. She pulled up to where my car was parked and I went out to meet her. We had calmed down but there was a static in the air that held us apart.

“Hey,” she whispered.

“Hi,” I responded, looking down.

“I'm sorry about last night,” she said. There was a sad smile on her face, one that would only come from the relief of giving up.

“You have nothing to apologize for,” I started. “It was all my fault. I'm so sorry Sam. I promise I'll be better. This will never…”

“Jess, stop,” she insisted. “I’m leaving.”

“What do you mean you're leaving?” My voice got dry. “Look, I'm sorry. It won't happen again. I can change.” 

“I know. And I hope you do, but I can't keep sacrificing myself just waiting for you to realize you're hurting me.” She started crying. “I'm going back to my mom’s place; I already booked my flight.”

“Sam, can't we just talk about this. I love you.” 

“I know. I know and I'm sorry. But we're just too different. I have to go.” I wanted to respond but I couldn't get my mouth to move. My tongue was too heavy, my throat burned.

“Goodbye Jess,” she cried, then got back into her car and drove off. Leaving me. Alone.

The wet sheen of the canvas fades as the paint dries. It's the best work I've ever finished. I need to ship it to Sam. Maybe she’ll hang it up. Either way it belongs to her. I didn't put down colors of fire, I put down the feeling she ignited in me, the color of her smile. I didn't capture a sunrise, I captured her laugh and the hope that one day I will hear it again. I didn't paint a city, I painted her.