Portrait of a man
March 05, 2009
Her grip on the rail is tight like her shirt, and she's leaning over towards the sidewalk and spitting words just like she's getting sick. A mix of Spanish and English. Her frame is small and tight, and wrapped up in her flashy clothes and heels and hairspray brittle in the night and glittering in the yellow lamplight yawning down the street.
You wouldn't even know it was him she's talking to, some twenty feet away and walking in small tight circles. Abusing a cigarette and blowing out columns of smoke, his stiff collar rising up around his neck. And he's smiling and nodding his head in a fervent No and his shirt is as tight as hers and his pants are black and crisp and he's got that angry smile, that Puerto Rican smile, and that nodding hasn't stopped and she's still spitting the words at him like fire from behind the rail.
And when she's done yelling then she's crying and she's kicking the curb that the rail is growing out of, a period for every sentence. And the cars are going by indifferent with their red tail lights and blue headlights and yellow Taxi lights protruding up from their roof. And they're honking there in the street. And then she's repeating his name wet and sad with that anger hissing out like air from a tire.
Michael, she says. Michael. And her hairspray will only hold so long like this, and now realizing this she smooths one wiry hand over the crystallized strands of hair and presses her other against her eyes and then wipes them both on her skirt.
And he's breathing out the last of the smoke, thick and white in the cold night, holding on tight to the butt between his fingers. Then it's flicked with that last touch of spite, and then there's that nodding smile again and his face pointed down and defiant to the ground.
With her anger all spent and her tears wiped black against her face and her hair smoothed poorly with rogue strands standing out and to the side she looks to him soft with her melted frown and her eyes running bruised purples and blacks down her cheeks and she doesn't say a word. Her torso heaves in then out, shuddering with her ribs showing through her shirt and her face twisted up again just waiting for the tears and she looks at him, just waiting like that. Michael she says, first quiet and apologetic, then with her victory all deflated and lying on the ground. Michael. Then in a question, a pleading question with her face trembling. Michael?
Life with you is a motherfucker, he says, meeting her eyes for a moment and then walking away, across the street, now with brisk steps but still with his nodding and then he spits down onto the ground with a cloud of breath bursting out like the smoke after a bullet.
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