UCHENNA ONYISHI

A strange painting hangs above me, in an empty corner of the café. In it, several airplanes seem to be barreling down toward the same point in the sky. In mere moments there will be a collision. Its strangeness, its violent sun, its illusion of movement, of an inevitable progress toward doom, pulls me in. 

I attempt to separate its details, to make out the truth from what my mind insists on seeing. But as seconds begin to feel like minutes, and minutes, like hours, what separates the painting from my reality—the frames, the wall it hangs on, the paints, the lines, the shapes—slowly fade into each other.

There is no painting; there is no wall; and no café. Only fighter jets, bombers, cargo planes, passenger planes, and Babylonian buildings. 

I can see them all, at my eye’s level. 

I am on a skyscraper with no exterior walls, a tower made entirely of stairwells with no landings to connect them. I can see hell descending from the heavens, the children of men running from themselves, and into themselves, angels without wings, and sinners soaring.

I rest my hand on my chest, for a sign of life. I look for physical details—scars, birthmarks, unhealed wounds—on my body, for a tangible proof of my identity. And as I am searching my body, I find myself inside one of the doomed airplanes, and everyone around me is panicking. 

Through the open windows, I see a young woman that looks too much like me, leaping from one flight of stairs to another below it. I call out for her but she continues. Then my name, and she turns her head and our eyes meet, but she turns away and keeps jumping from one staircase to the next.

On the staircase, I scramble after her, desperate to catch up.

A deafening bang splits the air, and I turn toward the sound. The sky erupts in a fiery red and yellow that spreads outward toward the towers and the chaos intensifies. Then, through the chaos, I see them—burning bodies, silhouettes of people engulfed in fire, falling from the sky like space debris.

When I turn back toward her direction, she is gone. I bolt down the stairs, leaping from one flight to the next, twisting left and right, squeezing through the mad crowd, searching for her amidst the blur of frightened faces.

I see things like this all the time—the end of the world—and every time, there is nothing I can do to prevent it. Nothing I can do to save her. In the end, I am all alone. Perhaps she survives, but if she does, she is alone too.

Your gaze is a patient wind; it travels through my forest of defenses and bends me to its wishes. And I am happy when it does—you have never led me astray. I trust you with my life. Sometimes, more than I trust myself with it. And I understand that this is a regretful way to feel about oneself, and a burdensome truth for you to bear. Nonetheless, I am afraid I will become a timberland of felled trees if I lose what is left of me.

It is close to midnight, and I am tired and cold. The playlist you curated for your book reading has given way to live music, and the crowd is slowly beginning to unwind. You watch me from across the cafe, while a young woman, about my age, talks to you.

She takes off her coat and drapes it over her forearm. Her corset top is your favorite color on me—a muted pink—and her hair is styled as mine is. She shifts her weight from one leg to the other, adjusting her pleated mini skirt, but your eyes follow me as I walk toward the bar and order a glass of water.

She is more beautiful than me, two inches shorter, so that even in her heels, she still has to look up to you. She has all of the adjustments you said you would make to my body when I pressed you to tell me which parts of me you would rework. And I know you see all of her, though your eyes insist on accompanying me.

She cradles three signed copies of your book as she speaks. Her hand touches your arm and your eyes excuse themselves, and return to her. I turn to the bartender and smile. He walks toward me, and I almost order a bourbon, but I resist. I promised you—and myself—I would stop drinking. Instead, I ask for two glasses of ginger ale with ice.

When I turn back to you, hoping to catch your gaze, or to see you walking over to me, I see her hiding perfect teeth behind her one-week-old manicured nails. Her entire body is laughing at something you have said. You are laughing too, but only with your face.

I pick up my glass of ginger ale, and after three gulps, I set it down beside yours. Droplets of condensation have gathered around the glass, clustering like the books that line the shelves of the café. I rise and walk over to you, the second glass in hand. Before I reach you, you see me, and your entire body turns toward me.

You take the glass from me, wrap your palm around my head, and my hair spills through the gaps between your fingers like a waterfall. It stings a little, but I do not mind. Then you pull me into you for a hug, and the patchouli from the scent I begged you to wear earlier this evening fills my nose. I close my eyes, open them again, take a slow, deep breath, then you rub my head and pull me upright.

I ask if she wants anything to drink but she declines with a smile that does not reach her eyes.

I return to an empty corner of the café, and settle into the distraction of the live band’s cover of Miles Davis’s  So What. The music swirls around me, filling the space with the familiarity of your living room. I take out my phone and scroll through it, checking to see if my mother has called since she left the hospital with my lǎolao. 

She is laughing again. I do not know how much longer she will continue her performance, but I wait for your eyes to tell me when to head to the car.

The inside of my mother’s Mercedes is cold, dark, and unpleasant to my skin—like her heart. I do not need to hang a photo on my bedroom wall to remember its details because I cannot escape it. Nonetheless, when I go to see you, I bring my mother’s Mercedes with me, because it reminds you of home. 

I am careful not to break her precious things.

You are a beautiful man, my mother tells me—like my father. That I am better off with a faceless man. 

The inside of my father’s old G-Wagon is agave green. A photo of it hangs on my wall. In the photo, I am seven, sitting next to my father on the hood of the car. A naïve smile exposes my milk teeth. He is standing, smoking a cigarette, and he is beautiful, just as I remember him.

When I am with you, you drive my mother’s Mercedes—your left hand on top. The high peaks of your knuckles cast shadows on the deep valleys between them. Your veins push against your skin. The dial on your wristwatch is agave green, like my father’s G-Wagon. You rest your idle hand on my thigh.

My heart is safe until his calls barge in, and a silence the size of my father crashes into us. I want to switch off my phone, but you insist I leave it on for my mother’s calls. You are nothing like him, nothing like the men my mother insists on. With you, I pray never to disappoint, as I do with my mother.

You do not drive like him—cautiously, uncertainly, afraid to take up space, afraid to abandon it. I tell you about him, his unwillingness to let go. I tell you he is still in love with me, and you tell me his love is too little for me. I tell you he never ran when things were difficult, and you tell me he had nowhere to run to.

We approach a crossroad. The traffic light above us is red. It is the middle of the night, and my mother thinks I am home already. You do not like it when I tell lies, so you insist I let her know I am with you. 

I pretend to send her a message.

I am not worried about staying out longer than I should. She is with her mother tonight. Grandmother had insisted she visit her at the nursing home. My mother is burdened by duties. She resents her mother, and my father for leaving her. Once, she told me she did not love my father—that she only married him for his good family. I understand now that this helps her manage her loneliness. As I have always understood that I belonged to her, as she belongs to her mother.

The light turns green, and we continue toward your place. Outside, on the road, I notice a harmless dust devil, spiraling on the roadside like a small tornado, swirling sand and dry leaves in a free dance, disappearing into the abyss of the night sky.

There are words hanging loosely on your lower lip. You ask why I am still with him—why I keep him around. You do not understand how I could accept the affections of a man with a face as difficult as his. And if you do, you refuse to accept it.

You blame him for my heartache but say little about my mother. You want to save me from him, but I am afraid of what you will find when he is not there to hide everything you will hate when you get too close. You tell me I love ugly men. It disappoints you. I hate myself when you feel that way.

He calls again. 

I want to turn my phone off, but you squeeze my thigh, and I stop. Thirty slow seconds come and go because he is too shameless to end a call early. 

Once more, his call comes in.

This time, you want me to pick up. I refuse. You park the car on the side of the road, take a moment to study my face, then ask why he calls me as if there is still an understanding between us—why I am afraid of what he would say.

You can hear him. He wants a photo of me. He wants to know why I have not called back since he tried to reach me two nights ago. You do not want me to tell lies. I told you I had not spoken to him in weeks.

I tell him we both need to move on. 

He tells me he does not understand why I am saying that. 

I have to go. I tell him

Why do you have to go? He retorts.

Because I have to. 

Are you with someone now? I say nothing. 

Are you with someone? I’m just trying to protect you. I remain quiet.

You take my phone from me and switch it off. You do not say another word. Your hand on my skin feels like razor blades. And your eyes are unbearable.

When we get to your place, you park my mother’s Mercedes in the lot, and we take the elevator up. You make me type in your passcode, and we walk into your loft. You take my jacket and put it away. You make me sit, take off my shoes, and rub my feet. You kiss them, one at a time, gently, and our ritual begins.

Your eyes tell me I am beautiful. You want to undress me, to run your fingers down my skin, but I wish to remain clothed, sober. I am afraid of fading into you. But your gaze bends my will, and I let you do with me as you please.

You begin from the bottom, then move to the top. You turn me around, and press a kiss to the arch of my back. My eyes fix on a portrait of you on your wall. You are a little boy, bare-chested. You are alone, save for a toy airplane in your hand.

You spin me back, firmly, and I lose my footing. Your hands caress my skin, and I bleed. I am beautiful, I remind myself, in your voice. I am red all over, but I am beautiful.

You come into me, slowly, hesitating. Then you take yourself back. I pull you closer. Your hand reaches for my neck and tightens its grip. The other crashes against my face, like a car wreck, and tears escape my eyes. I do not want you to stop.

My face tightens and turns numb. I can barely breathe. I feel you grow and pulse inside me, and slowly, I fade into you.

When I wake up, you are lying next to me—asleep, naked, like a granite sculpture. You are thirty. I am twenty-five. I am with you, and you are beautiful.

In the shower, I think of him—his reckless calls. Water and blood run down my body, spiraling into the round hole in the shower, like a swelling tornado. One after the other, in a reluctant queue, I feel myself letting go of him.

I step forward and close my eyes. Water falls on my face, soothing the ache where your hand crashed into me. I feel you washing away too. I reach for you, but then I feel him trying to grab hold of my hand, and I shake him off. You too.

I reach again, for you. And I feel his grip. You are too close to him, and he is too close to you. I reach for your clenched fist, but your knuckles dig into my palm. I shift my weight from one leg to the other, doing my best to shake him off. But he holds on.

I try again, and again. But every time I reach for you, he grabs my hand. Exhausted, hopeless, my palms aching, I beg you to fight him off, to reach for me. But your fist remains clenched, like a rock.

I let go.

I wait for a while, for a miracle, for you to come back to me. But I hear my mother’s voice behind me and I spin around. I see her face, wrinkled with disappointment, looking at me. I reach for her, fragile and expectant, but she vanishes behind the bathroom mist, beyond the glass door. And my eyes catch an unpleasant rendering of my face.

I turn off the running water, open the shower door, and cold air rushes in from your living room. I look for your towel, but I do not see it.

I am naked, I am alone.