I saw him again. Or at least I thought so. But the train was moving so fast…No! No, it must have been him. I’d recognize that ass anywhere. God, why am I still thinking about his ass? Why am I still looking for him at all? He doesn’t deserve my searching eyes or my longing heart. After what he did, he deserves nothing but scorn. Actually, total indifference would be better, since that’s how he behaved toward me. But indifference met with indifference isn’t much of anything, is it? I want him to hurt. I want him to regret it. I want him to come back.
I’m not crazy for trying to find him, right? It has to be a natural response when someone leaves you without a word. Especially after being so close. I was so worried at first. Where could he have gone? I just wanted to die when his mother told me she had heard from him, that he was well. Well without me. I wonder how he thought I’d do without him. I wonder if he ever looks for me. I wouldn’t even know what to say if I ran into him.
He was waiting for the Red Line at Wilson. Is that where he lives now? Maybe he’s found someone else, and that’s where she lives. Maybe it wasn’t him.
Martin: Seen on the Purple Line to Linden at about 8:40 a.m., December 30th, 2011
Wisdom drips from the crevice of Martin’s brow, rolls along his hooked nose, and finally splatters on the pages of his book. His ears stick out, curved with experience; the sounds of many years—whispered affections, school lessons, announcements of war, factory gears, seagulls, opera, rock ‘n’ roll, news reports, children laughing, shrieks, narration—have made them grow big and thick. Whereas the mouths of some old men are pursed with discomfort and disdain for modernity, Martin’s are slack with acceptance. But his too-prominent cheekbones and the pillowy bags beneath his small, dark eyes betray his exhaustion.
Sorry for the long break! The holidays and a bout of stomach flu will do that to you. Not so much fun. Anyway, I'll hopefully be back in the swing of things from here on out.