67th Street

I sat by the window facing the platform on the train tonite. The beige seats smiled at me but the grey silver steel surrounding everything else looked sad. The subway was crying and I was the only one who could see the tears. An old man with veins on his neck purple as deep rivers sat down 3 rows ahead of me. He and I were alone riding in silence for 3 stops. He had matted hair and looked like Ray Charles. I wondered if he, like me and Ray, played piano. But his fingers looked too fresh, too uncalloused. What is such an old man doing sitting on a train, all alone at 11:57 pm in NYC? Where are his children, where is the love? He comes over to me before getting off. I am stuck to my seat, in a daze from the silvery doldroms of the monotonous rails. He touches my shoulder. I remember the last time someone touched my shoulder was 4 hours ago. How long has it been since someone has touched him? He stares at me. He studies me. I don't mind it. He says nothing, smiles a wrinkly smile and gets off as the doors open. The doors shut. I feel something on my shoulder. A weight. I don't know why my mind immediately jumps to wondering if he has left a bomb on it. A ticking bomb about to blow up. It would be a glorious way to go. Orange red explosion. But it doesn't smell like a bomb. It overwhelms my senses. My right hand itches to reach up and discover what it is. My left hand grabs my right hand and instructs it with force to wait. Patience is worthwhile to irressistibly curious personages. The longer I wait the deeper my insanity grows. The nauseous paranoia takes over me. I draw this on the pad I have in my satchel:





I draw with a pen. With my left hand. All the while not moving my shoulder. It is a jellyfish with tentacles. It is an eye with a strong nose. The eye is crying and making a few splashes, creating an ocean. A tree blooms, its' roots become eyebrows. 8 stops. 3 young boys get on. They are drunk. They are boisterous. They advance towards me. They try to flirt with me. They ask me to come with them. They spew empty compliments. One sits down the row across mine. He stares at me. I mind. I do not welcome it. I imagine what his heart would look like outside of his chest, beating on the cold tile floor; the red spreading everywhere. The other two close in on me. I am a statue. I feel their breath on my hair. I want to vomit. He gets up and walks towards me. His cologne is a ghastly generic mix of Armani A/X and Blue Water. He is an idiot, I can tell. He thinks I want him. He walks closer. I can hear his teeth. He is bending over me. His hand reaches over my shoulder. I feel a weight lifted. Something in me snaps. It is too much. I am the tree exploding. Somehow I know the old man will understand. I black out. I smell blood. The boy is lying on the tiles. He is screaming. He is holding his right hand over his left eye. There is redness streaming down his face. My pen is jarred in his eye. His friends have shrunk. They are as tiny as gummy bears. They are scuttling around him on the floor. One of them looks green and chewy. I pop him in my mouth as I get up out of my seat. I stop over the young boy's body, I see a rose stem in his left hand. I see half a rosebud on top of it. The doors open. A flash of my reflection in the glass. There are rose petals on my shoulder.

I walk home in silence. The street is empty. I do not know why. I walk into the apartment. Gian is sitting on the steps in our foyer. He is even more beautiful than a jellyfish. His hair is scruffy. His eyes are tired. His shirt is unbuttoned and untucked. He sits and stares at me. His arms crossed. His lips in a straight line.
"Où avez-vous été?" (Where have you been)

"Cimetière Touflé's," (Tousle's cemetary) I say.

"J'étais enterrer mes cauchemars," (I was burying my nightmares) I say.

He gets up and walks towards me. All I smell are roses.