A Just Cause

Sketches in Snow

She enters my apartment, quiet steps, only a slight hesitation in the car when I asked her to if she’d like to come inside for a splash of bourbon. She smiled, craned her neck to the side and peered at the wet, heavy snow falling on the pavement. Inside my apartment, we speak of music. She works two jobs, one with me, the other at a music store so the topic comes up naturally. I scan through my MP3 player switching songs, always looking for the right beat, melody, harmony to both relax and excite.
I’m not sure what’s on my mind and try to imagine what’s on hers. Her phone beeps often, text messages, a casual glance and she ignores the reply. She receives a phone call and indicates, her index finger, she has to take it. I tell her with a wave of my hand, shaking my head, it’s not a problem. I pick up my coat and hold up a pack of cigarettes. She nods and I step onto the front porch to smoke.
Outside snow falls, as if each flake is in competition with one another to reach the ground first. The lights on my porch, a string of two hundred white Christmas lights, illuminates the falling snow and provides a melodic haze as the light reaches for the empty mansion next door to my house. I hear plow trucks rumble up and down the roads, breaking the still force of the fallen snow, they pass, and all is silent again. The burn of my cigarette, inhale, the ash trickles to the ground like snow. Beneath me, boots weigh heavy on my feet. I step and the hollow porch rings out a palpable base note. The air tastes like nicotine and whiskey. I’m tired but not exhausted.
I step inside and she is playing with my dog. Living alone with him, he doesn’t warm easily to outsiders in our domain. It has been weeks since someone has stepped through the front door. The mailman came to tell me a car hit my mailbox, I was excited to hear the knock and disappointed to see whom it was.
I am pleased to see him warm to her, sitting next to her feet. She strokes his head and presses hard through the loose fur on his neck, he’s enthralled, only glances in my direction when I come in. She asks me about the cigarette and I say it was just like the one before. She smiles and I feel like I said something wrong. She puts her phone in her purse, zips it shut. I take that as a compliment, I’m excited to have her attention.
I play Horace Silver, it’s no surprise when she tells me she loves Art Blakey. I fill my glass twice before she finishes her first. I ask to top hers off, she hesitates and says she better only have a splash more if she is going to drive in the storm. When I bring the glass back to her she puffs air out her nose, lifts it to eye level and takes a sip. I filled it too much.
She doesn’t have to finish it if she doesn’t want to. She can have a beer if she pleases, she can have coffee or water or juice, I think I have juice. Just don’t stare at that glass at eye level and picture some ulterior motive. It is a liquid, nothing more; an arbitrary drink that gives us a chance to think of a clever line to avoid transitional silent pauses from one topic to the next.
We could eat popcorn, I don’t have popcorn but we could eat it if I had any. I don’t have much in the house; I need to go shopping. I should at least have some popcorn or chips and salsa. I don’t entertain often, or at all. Jesus, why did I fill the glass up so much? Maybe I drink too much. Maybe the level of “splash” I have in mind has been altered so much from the amount I drink that it has become absurd to everyone else. I shouldn’t have filled the drink that much.
“Thank you.” She said.
“You’re welcome.” I replied.
What was that puff, that breath through the nose? Maybe she was trying to tell me it’s going to be a long night. Maybe at that moment she decided that she was going to have to finish the drink and as a result stay later than she had in mind. What does she have in mind? Why did she even come here? Maybe she wants to stay the night? No. No, she doesn’t want that. I don’t want that. I know I’ve thought about her body and the way she walks. Her hips with each step and her breasts move only slightly. I’ve pictured the way she looks as she walks away from me naked and slow, with no shame, after we’ve made love. She would be aware of me watching her, knowing I know she knows that she’s aware of me watching her; such pride in her stride, such beauty in her gait.
But I don’t want that now.
I couldn’t have that now. It’s been so long since I’ve been with a woman it would be ultimately disappointing to her. Me, enthralled in such passion for only a few moments and her, only beginning to grow moist, would be disheartened and so dissatisfied I would only appear as a number in her head; another regrettable impulsive choice.
I want her to put the bourbon down. I tell her that if I poured too much than I would finish it. She tells me no, it’s fine. I change the music to an electronic funk band that was recently introduced to me. I make a clever joke about the first time I heard the song.
The head of the song comes in and fades after four bars, a few moments of silence when you think something is wrong with the player, a hard baseline hits and the heart is shook. She chuckles as I grab my chest like I’m having a heart attack. She leans down to her whiskey and takes a sip like it’s a cup of coffee; her hands gathered around the glass, I wish she were drinking coffee.
A long pause then she tells me a story she heard on public radio the other day. She goes into extreme detail and at times impersonates the DJ’s voice. I smile and focus on the topic. I’m not anywhere near drunk yet but I’m getting a buzz on an empty stomach. When she pauses, I ask her if she would like anything to eat. She tells me she’s okay and I asked her if she’s sure; I could run to the corner market and grab some popcorn? No. She’s okay.
She’s not hungry? We both worked for over eight hours tonight and I didn’t see her eat anything. I didn’t pay attention to her for every moment but nevertheless, I don’t think she had anything to eat. Does she want to get drunk? Maybe she was misleading me by telling me she still had to drive home. Maybe she doesn’t have to leave at all and in fact could stay the whole night. She couldn’t, she shouldn’t, I shouldn’t, I don’t want her to. I need some time. I need another cigarette, some space.
She stands and I think she’s going to leave. She asks where the bathroom is. I quickly rise and lead her through the kitchen and point down the hall, first on the left. She thanks me with her fingers interlocked in front of her. I rush to my jacket and with steady limbs fling it over my shoulders. I put the fire to the cigarette before I’m to the front door, open it and exhale the first puff of papery smoke towards the tiny lights as the door shuts hard behind me.
I smoke quickly. I don’t want her to think I’ve abandoned her; that I need to get away. I am tearing through the cigarette and I look on the railing where my drink should be. It’s not there. I’m off kilter this evening. I’m out of place in my own home. How must she feel? She gives a co-worker a ride home and is now drinking too much bourbon with him in his living room. He hasn’t even shown her around the house, she had to ask him where the bathroom was; he’s less than accommodating. She probably thinks he’s disgusting. His toilet is probably too dirty, the shower as well. Maybe she’s in his bathroom right now rifling through his shelves looking for some shred of evidence that he’s a loser, neurotic, a loner. She must think something awful, he’s pitiful.
The front door opens, panic, she’s leaving.
She coyly grins, folds her arms, rests her elbows on the wooden railing where my drink should be and says, “What a nice night.” She reaches towards me with two fingers, moves them like scissors. I manipulate the cigarette with one hand and place it between the blades, she lifts her chin and licks her lips. Slowly, she pulls from the cigarette, a long pause in the smoke; the air is cold and silent. She exhales with her eyes closed, “I only like a little bit.”
I take the cigarette back and put it to my mouth, the filter wet, my heartbeat. I can feel it in my neck, my veins swell with excitement. I do want her to stay. I do want her with me. She comments on a book she saw on my shelf, Yeats. She tells me she has a tattoo of Leda on her right shoulder blade and that she loves da Vinci. I tell her I would love to see it. She smiles, “I bet you would.”
Was that smile real? Was she bashfully flirting with me? Did I pour too much bourbon? God I wish I had my drink. But this is one of those moments, out here in the falling snow. Something magical is supposed to happen. She is supposed to turn and lean against the rail on her elbows, stare directly into my eyes, never wavering. I’m supposed to flick a whole cigarette to the trees, my neighbor’s lawn, and kiss her passionately. She shouldn’t take me in immediately but instead take a few moments and then be overcome by the softness in my lips, the strength in my grasp. Nothing happens.
She stares at the snow and I slow my breathing, unnoticeably. She tells me she’s cold and that we should go inside. I open the door and let her in first. What a gentleman, she says. I grin and imagine I’m blushing.
I pull Yeats off the shelf and turn to “Leda and the Swan”.
“Read it to me.” I read the poem.
“You have a nice voice.”
“Thank you.”
She looks at her glass, half full, “Do you think I could have a beer?”
“Of course. I thought I filled it a little much.”
“No, it’s not a problem. It’s just starting to sting a bit without something else.”
How unaccommodating. I stare at my own glass and say nothing.
“Do you have the internet here?” she asks, “I’m in the mood for a story.”
I lift my head, “Yeah but it’s back in the bedroom.
She rises, walks toward the kitchen, turns her head toward me, “This way?”
“Yes.”
She pushes open the door and finds the bed unmade, the clothes I wore that day before work on the floor. “I like this place,” she says. I thank her and turn on my computer. “How long have you lived here?”
“Six months,” I tell her, “It still feels like I’m moving in.” She tells me she knows how I feel, she just recently moved herself but isn’t happy with the place yet. Maybe it will grow on her.
The computer boots up and she slides into my chair. She types in a web address and finds a public radio station in Chicago that airs fiction readings after midnight. I haphazardly throw the bed together and take a seat at the end. She sits with her elbows on my desk, her feet far apart and her knees together. The program starts and she takes a seat by me and falls to her back on the bed.
“I love this program,” she says.
“I’ve never heard it before.”
‘You’ll love it.”
I already do. She sits up on one elbow and drinks from her beer. I take the same position, opposite her.
I feel very close to her eyes. I feel like she can see too much of me in detail. Everything is exposed and I can see my oily pours in the reflection of her eyes. I think I know what’s going to happen but I don’t want it to. I don’t want her to experience me and then leave, if she would just give me some time. She could come over tomorrow night, there would be things here for her to eat, the bathroom clean, a pot of coffee brewing and she could have the choice.
I asked her to come in for a glass of bourbon. How foolish of me. Right then she must have known what was on my mind. She must have made the decision then that she was going to stay the night. I doubt she’s as lonely as I am. Her small frame and dark brown eyes, she moves like electricity and in the wake, curiosity; every man wonders, I have heard them comment on it at work. Every man wonders. She could choose to satisfy any man’s curiosity, she could have chosen them, but she lies next to me now?
I drink from my bourbon, only a swallow. What have I done? Why didn’t I ask her for coffee? She doesn’t want to be here right now. I can feel her. I can feel her wet sex in the transition of disappointment to come. She is already ashamed. Those eyes, careful never to criticize but always observing. Those eyes will not cry but they will never be content, not with me, not tonight, not here.
She giggles periodically, in harmony with the studio audience. I smile and reveal nothing. I tell her I’ll be back in a moment. I take my bourbon and step onto the front porch again, no jacket, no cigarettes. At once the night feels chaotic. Neighbors I never knew smoked were out smoking, a light was on in the empty mansion, two plows simultaneously rumble up both sides of my block, parallel to one another. I make an abrupt decision. I will tell her I just saw the plows run down the road and if she wants to go home she should probably do it now. I will give her the opportunity to leave that I never gave her before.
I hurry to the bedroom, tell her about the plows, the snow falling harder. She remains silent, drinks from her beer. She pats the bed next to her and tells me to sit down; she wants to finish the story.

The story ends, “Can I have another beer?”
I go to the kitchen and get the last three of the six-pack.
“I like pale ales.”
“This is one of my favorites.” I place them on the desk.
I sit, she stands and approaches my computer, pushes the chair out of the way, bends at the waist and eagerly moves the mouse, scanning the screen. I can see the milky flesh of her back as her shirt creeps up, she makes no effort to cover herself, just itches her leg.
“You have a lot of stuff here.”
She pulls the seat out and sits down. I want her back on the bed with me. My head feels thick and I’m desperately alone with her six feet away from me. I look at the walls in my room, only one Warhol print adorns them and I feel repetitive but unfamiliar, like I’ve been here before, out of place and unfamiliar. I’m opposite of everything in this room, the olive green blanket, faded oak dresser, the open door of the closet stares at me like a mouth, I want to walk inside, her to come with me, to be transported to some place new and nostalgic, I want to fast forward to a hundred times later. I am cold coffee poured over wet snow; so obvious.
She asks about Mellow Miles and I tell her it’s a compilation of some of his stuff, I got it from a friend, I only put it on there out of sympathy. He was excited about it, thinking he found something new and when I told him it was just a compilation he felt ashamed.
She looks over her shoulder just as I say ashamed. Exposed and disgusting, I want her to leave. I want to be alone. My stomach growls, I’m drunk and stupid. I gratuitously ask her if she needs anything, she’s fine. I bounce my leg and bite at my lip, peeling away the soft pink flesh of my mouth. She watches me, I don’t look at her, I just stop. She sets her beer on the desk and walks to the head of the bed. She crawls and sits cross-legged on the olive green blanket. She takes one of my pillows and wraps her arms around it. She tells me she’s cold and I retrieve an old afghan from the closet. She asks about it, she’s never felt anything like it––it’s rough. I tell her I can get her a different one and she says she likes it, “It’s just different, that’s all.”
I move to the bed, closer, she throws part of the blanket over my legs. We sit cross-legged, facing one another. She put on “A Love Supreme”. I’d like to thank her for playing it but I don’t. Closer to me, her small scent, she overlaps our bent knees. She asks me if I’d like to see her tattoo of Leda, I tell her she doesn’t have to. “I don’t mind, tell me what you think.”
She pulls the afghan from her legs and turns her back to me. She crosses her arms and takes the bottom of her shirt, pulls it over her head like only a woman can do. She’s wearing a black spaghetti-string tank top that clings to her small body. I want to touch her. I do touch her. I touch the tattoo on her shoulder blade. Leda. It’s a study of the head da Vinci sketched. I recognize the picture as brand new. I’ve never seen it before, never like this.
I reach forward and kiss Leda on her shoulder blade. She straightens her back, reaches and touches my hair with her fingers.
She is overzealous, grasps too hard, too quick. At once we slow, I lead the dance, remembering the steps, resolving, a firm grasp on her back. She recognizes, succumbs for a moment, and I know––harmony. I fold my hand like a beak and press the flesh––nape of neck to collar bone, fine hairs and her hips flutter like gray wings. In the sad color of the night she is knowing, desiring to be ravished.