I know you are dancing. It’s Tuesday here, too.
What I do is, in the morning I put Rage Against the Machine on full blast, until my eardrums are bleeding, and I run. I sprint hard for an hour, until I’m about ready to vomit. Sometimes I do puke. Those are lucky runs. Puking takes my mind off of us, how we had a schedule of making love every Tuesday morning. We might do it later on that night, but Tuesday was an appointment we always kept.
It’s three hours later where you are. You’re dancing Brazilian. You’ll be wearing something in red, light fabrics, a tie string or two. The men there will have beautiful dates, but they’ll find themselves distracted. You won’t notice at first. The music will have seeped through you by then, that and the cabernet. Your teeth will be white cream in the strobe light wash of other colors. By closing time, you’ll pick a man, any man, like choosing some random card for a magic trick. It’s Tuesday after all.
I take two pillows and make a down body to rub against. I kiss the one on top. The cloth tastes like dust, like stuffing my mouth with moths. I know how pathetic I am, but it’s Tuesday.
It’s Tuesday and I’m flaccid and in a few hours the dial will slip into Wednesday.
I call my sister. “Derrick,” she says, “you’ve got to get a grip.”
I say I know.
“She wasn’t even good to you.”
I say I know that, too.
“She was actually a real bitch.”
I hang up.
At a bar, I sit at the counter. The women can smell the wounded and they hover and ask what all my necklaces are for, say am I some kind of rock star and laugh while fingering a pendant of their own, waiting for me to play.
I ask, “What time is it?”
“You going to turn into a pumpkin pretty soon?”
“Something like that,” I say.
“You’re so stinking cute, I could eat you up.”
“Right here,” her friend says, washing her lips with a meaty, blue-veined tongue.
I order five shots. I cock them down one after the other. They’re liquid bullets.
“You best not be driving,” the bartender says.
I shake my head.
When I turn on my stool, there are new girls. “What was her name?” the blonde asks.
“Lilly,” I say.
“That’s a stupid name.”
I push through them.
“We were going to let you take us home!” one calls.
I stumble down the streets lit no better than the bar. At an ATM machine I wait for the guy to finish. He gauges me warily. I say, “I’ll give you my card and pin number and you can have everything in my account. It should be about nineteen thousand dollars. All that for your car.”
“I am, but it’s a good deal. Look,” I say. I slot my card, punch in numbers, grab his hand and write the same four numbers, 2222, just over his knuckles. I give him the five hundred in twenties and the receipt showing my balance.
“Dude, my car’s a piece of junk.”
“You’re not going to screw me over somehow, close your account?”
I nod toward his wreck by the curb. “You’re already ahead.”
He tosses me the keys.
I get in, roll down the window and ask, “Hey, what time is it?”
He says, “Three minutes till midnight.”
I gun the engine. My foot slams the accelerator. There’s hardly any traffic on the West Side Highway.
When I get to pier, I’m counting seconds. I almost roll the car while cornering but I’m still zooming. The wheels rattle hard on the warped lumber tiles. I can see Lady Liberty in the distance. I keep my eyes focused on her as the car explodes through railing. Soaring over the Hudson, I wait for the woman to give me some kind of sign, to at least tell me she understands