Starry Nights and Miso Soup

Your tender kiss upon my lips. Warm and smooth, like the Miso soup we share a love for. Smooth like your chocolatey skin, its rivulets of flowing terra-cotta drowning your lean frame in its brown waters. I dip my fingers into the rivers, tracing the epidermis as though my livelihood was conceived from the sensation. 

And when I peer into your eyes, a Van Gogh starry night dances within them. Swirls of colors and life peer back into my own spheres of sight, leaving my mouth in a gaping hole of awe. Each brushstroke curves and shimmies, glinting. Alluring me. 

~     ~     ~     ~     ~     ~     ~     ~     ~     ~     ~     ~     ~      

Rene awoke abruptly, cold sweat seeping through her nightclothes. She felt sticky, and her heart was palpitating madly. Throwing off the sea of tangled sheets about her, she lay limply in the dark, brows furrowed. The light of the half-moon crept through her blinds, clawing along her carpet with white light for nails. Or perhaps it was a street light. 

Exhaling the weight of seven suns it seemed, Rene arose and sauntered to her bathroom, wiping the perspiration from her brow. She splashed cool water onto her pale face, taking good measures to gently rub her purpled under eyes. She didn't have to check the time to know it was about three in the morning. To know that she had two hours before she had to get ready for work. Then one before she had to catch the subway. Then thirty minutes before she had to clock in at the Bistro. Then eight before she headed to her other job at the bookstore until 11:30 pm. Then she would catch the subway back. Then she would meander up the building steps, her tread echoing in concrete ecstasy. Then she would maybe get something to eat or watch reruns of The X-Files. Then she would sleep. Sleep because that is what you do after a long day. Sleep because being awake is too exhausting. Sleep because the prospect of thinking into the wee hours of the night terrified her into Melatonin gummies and counting sheep and swaddling herself in linen covers until she was bound like a restless child in its mother's gingerly embrace. 

She was the needle and thread, the passerbyers, bustling like busybody mother in-laws, were the fabric. The streets were alit with life and movement, an intricate pattern that Rene sewed through, her steps as uncertain as she was, though she fared these very streets on the daily. Unsteady seam work at best.

She strode onto the subway, peering about for a space to stand or crouch among the warm bodies. Sitting would be miraculous. But Rene was no Lazarus.

She grasped onto the cool metal bar, swayed to and fro by the thrusting of the train. A child babbled to her left, his yellowed fingers tracing unseen images in the air thick with the aroma of fermented weed and perfume too flowery for its own good. A man with a torn beanie snoozed in front of where she stood, and she traced the creases of his cardboard face with her eyes. Tickled the stubble on his chin with a subtle gaze. 

Exiting the gaping mouth of the subway, she strode through the dimly lit underground world, sneering at rat feces and almost running into a Pakistani mother urging her two young children ahead with hurried yelps and pushes. The Bistro was silent upon her entrance, the only sound that of the groaning door and singing bell, resounding throughout the air and ping-ponging off of the upturned chair legs and stacked glasses behind the counter. Rene began to unhinge the sleeping restaurant, and it yawned to life as she placed the chairs upright again, sweeping missed crumbs onto the tile. 

“An’ then I told ah, I won’t be takin that anymah. Ridiculous,” the bulk of Martin shattered the quiet of the Bistro. Porcelain teacup shards of the previous moment’s silence lay scattered about as the walls shuddered in light of his mighty voice and heavy-footed saunter. Rene couldn't be startled if she had tried, Martin’s voice was one she had grown accustomed to quickly, his being even louder than the typical New Yorken etiquette would presume. He was a burly man with gray tufts of mousy hair that protruded from his face in all arrays-from his head, his nose, his ears. His eyes were so brown one would deem them ebony-ebony like a night sky unscathed by the smoke and skyscrapers of cities. A night sky like those Rene abandoned in Tennessee, along with much more of her person than she cared to admit. Her father always said she was impulsive for leaving. She called it dream struck. 

“No, no. I gatah go, Dahlores, I gatah go. I know, I know. I told ah that, believe me, I made it clear to ah. Yeh, I know. I’ll call yah later, I gotta open shap. Uh-huh.” Martin tapped his screen with great fervor, his bratwurst fingers reddened and bulging in his various rings. 

“Martin, I just need to finish emptying the dishwasher, then we are set.” Rene dried off a mug, setting it atop the counter gently, being careful to avoid the edge, as she had learned from previous disasters in her first month working for Martin. 

“Those damn teens nevah do what I say eh? Always complainin’ about the workload, but they nevah do it right!” Rene smirked, shaking her head, her platinum hair falling in her eyes as she did. The mug rolled its eyes in the overhead lights Martin turned on. 

~     ~     ~     ~     ~     ~     ~     ~     ~     ~     ~     ~     ~      

Are my tired eyes deceiving me? The night is dark, your skin glowing in the lights of the Sushi restaurant. I find myself like a child outside the large windows, climbing over the tables of unsuspecting customers, mouths in perfectly round “O’s” as I push them aside, drawn to you. Their chopsticks plink as they fall to the table, watching me, a madwoman. I stumble, my knees giving way. 

It’s not you. A mirage of feature and face. My shirt is soaked in Miso soup. My face soaked in briny tears. God, I’m insane. Maybe I am dreaming. Delta waves.

~     ~     ~     ~     ~     ~     ~     ~     ~     ~     ~     ~     ~  

Stumbling up the steps to her apartment, the sound of her neck cracking pierces the silent stairway. She hears the muffled giggles of lovers when she closes the door, tossing her keys onto the kitchen countertop. A pulsing headache scours throughout Rene’s temples, wielding its fists angrily. 

~     ~     ~     ~     ~     ~     ~     ~     ~     ~     ~     ~     ~  

“Dom, please. We can fix this, I promise we can,” I feel the rushing water of adrenaline and curious terror wash over my entire being. My heart beats, it seems, in long drawls of pulse. Buzzing and static and frantic. 

“Rene, we thought this would work, it did for a time. I moved up here to chase your dreams with you. I’ve paid my dues to you-”

“Oh God, Dom...really? Paid dues to me, I didn't force you to move from Tennessee, you said you wanted to be with me and then you found work at the tax firm and we got a place together and everything was going great.” I cringe at the desperation in my tone. At how I sound like a child, begging its father for five more minutes of reading before bedtime. Please.

“You aren't even doing the job you came up here to do, Rene. You're relying on me because your dream didn't work out. It’s not fair to me. It just isn't right. We aren't kids anymore,” You shake your head, eyes dull, the starry night growing darker. You subconsciously twirl one of your curls, rubbing it between fingers that shake as you speak. 

“I’m trying, Dom. I applied yesterday for work downtown at this restaurant. I think it went well. It really went well. “

“I want a family, Rene. I have big dreams. Just because yours didn't work out doesn't mean I should be held back from mine.” Even as the magnitude of your words sit in the air between us two, as though unsure, your face lowers in shame. “Rene, I didn't mean-”

“I understand. I really do. I just wanted it to work. I really wanted it to work…”

~     ~     ~     ~     ~     ~     ~     ~     ~     ~     ~     ~     ~  

Her headache ignited into a forest fire of searing aches and heaviness. Dizzy heaviness. Heaviness that shied in comparison to the numb ache of her chest. The ache that no Advil or forced smile could ease. The ache that no night out or phone call with her father could subside. It was an ache that was superimposed in agony the more she repressed it. Hid from it. She needed to lie down. 

~     ~     ~     ~     ~     ~     ~     ~     ~     ~     ~     ~     ~  

“Rene, really I didn't mean to hit at you like that. I apologize, I shouldn't have made it seem like you burden me and don't let me accomplish things. I just meant that I think we have been through a lot together and that we have reached stagnation at this point.” The seams that held together my chest seemed to be tearing, each stringy thread thinning before the point of fissure. 

“Stagnation…” The word rested on my tongue that was so exceptionally dry. So dry. And it waited before whispering into your face, for you had drawn closer to me. You rest your hands on my thighs, eyes weary but intent on mine, peering through the tresses that shrouded a clear view of my expression. 

“Baby. Come on. We barely know each other like we used to, things aren't the same. We have come to a crossroads here. I think that you know it deep down.”

“Why do men always think that they know best? They are always the ones ending things. And, and giving some stupid excuse as to why things should be broken up. If you're bored of me, if there is someone else, you should just say that. Not make up this crap about crossroads and dreams and all of that.” I shove your palms from my legs, rising and brushing past you, tears leaping from my eyes, licking down my blotched cheeks like a slimy tongue.

~     ~     ~     ~     ~     ~     ~     ~     ~     ~     ~     ~     ~  

Rene was crumpled on the sofa, the creases of the couch protruded and shone in the moonlight that laughed through the window adjacent to it. Sighing, she ruminated on the dark shadowing of his jawline. How the bridge of his nose was crooked from when he broke it in a lacrosse game as a junior in high school. The gleam of the whites of his eyes when he rolled them at her sarcastic remarks. The hole in her chest reverberated, and the pit of her abdomen filled with warm pain. It singed her innards, hollow and hot and burning. She peered down, worrying the flames in her had reached her t-shirt and blacked in a singed opening. Fabric charcoal from the fire. 

~     ~     ~     ~     ~     ~     ~     ~     ~     ~     ~     ~     ~  

I sling our apartment door wide, it collides with the sage green walls. We painted them together. The palm tree hues had splattered on the hardwood, you’d panicked and scrubbed them with grease-stained towels as though the floor were wailing out. I had chortled, poking fun at your hurried movements. You didn't laugh. You scarcely laughed at my jokes anymore.

And now I find myself nearly stumbling out of the building, gagging as emotion overwhelms my every waking sense. Dinner’s Miso soup on the concrete. 

~     ~     ~     ~     ~     ~     ~     ~     ~     ~     ~     ~     ~  

Struggling to ease her rising panic, Rene talks aloud to herself. It’s ok. It’s over, you are ok. You moved past this. Breathe. Breathe. But the swell convulsed, rising upwards. She sobbed aloud, no tears staining her cheeks, just a release of defeat and frustration.

~     ~     ~     ~     ~     ~     ~     ~     ~     ~     ~     ~     ~  

You caress my back as I crouch, hunched over, the bile dragging its fingers like nails along my esophagus. 

“Baby, come back inside. You need rest.” You envelop me in your arms, the arms so many of my snotty noses have been rubbed upon, so many of my secrets whispered into. Mine no more. 

~     ~     ~     ~     ~     ~     ~     ~     ~     ~     ~     ~     ~  

Rene tired herself from her frenzy. Meek snores escaping her as she plummeted into REM. 

~     ~     ~     ~     ~     ~     ~     ~     ~     ~     ~     ~     ~  

You help me up the steps, and stroke my hair. It’s plastered to my tear-covered face. I peer into your eyes, and they shine like cool waters with wetness. The yellows of the starry night dimming and transmuting into navy blues that shroud your typically sunny disposition. I ache for you and your yellow. But it seems our dreams are portals into other worlds. Worlds where our lives are no longer threaded. Worlds in which we are strangers as though we didn't share years of laughter, crying, and love together. Worlds in which you are a sad memory. A face I see in every crowd and passing window. Every good and lovely thing is painted in the brushstrokes of you. The most vivid canvases are those when I sleep, those in which I am in your tender arms alas.