Giving Up the Ghost by Hudson Aimless

I'm sick of finding myself trapped on the bus, rubbing polar fleece against polar fleece, against the sameness of the city, the lame grey people who block the doorways and cloud the windows. I'm tired of pushing by them at the bookstore, of standing with them as they check their grocery lists in the canned soup aisle (a special place for me -- where I first met Josh). I'm tired of waiting behind them in line as they make idle chit-chat with their equally lame friends, or as they scratch at that endless tuft of hard flesh to the left-of-center of the back of their necks, long ago a simple nick of the barber's blade now a systemic perversion of skin. I'm sick of standing in front of them as they maneuver to get at the glossy women's magazines by the checkout, as they scramble to endorse a check, as they fumble for their bus cards, as they blather into cellphones like the gurgling of a putrid fish tank, as they exclaim on the weather, on recent events, on that film, book, song, friend, enemy, lover who fucked them raw the night before.

I'm tired of the grey noise from their mouths that pollutes my thinking, the froth in the corners of their mouths that wrenches my stomach, the colors of their clothes, their factory-produced thoughts, expressions and opinions delivered in an ever-saddening expression of false independence. I'm tired of the mirror they hold up that exposes my slips and trips and blunders while I try to climb out of this mucky trench they wallow in like dogs. I'm tired of coming home and scrubbing my skin raw in the kitchen sink, desperate to find a moment of quiet that only comes when I'm crying, ashamed and exhausted that I want someone to make it stop, to cover my head in his hands, forehead in his chest, to shoo them away -- you stupid bastards! To lift me out of this dump.

Why did Josh leave? Or rather, when he left how could I have been so surprised? He was always fleeting, in what he did, in the time we spent together. And I yearned so much to just enjoy the stillness with him. When he left he took his cotton knit sweaters and threadbare shorts... he didn't even leave his chewed-up toothbrush or the rotted pair of socks I stuffed in the window frame. He didn't even leave the scent of stale cigarettes in the sheets that I cursed him for when he was still around. I search at the foot of the bed, at the warm cotton maw that hides slippers and slips of paper for a few stray hairs -- his thick, wiry head hair -- and he's taken it all. I can't even see him in the pictures I have, even though I know he's there, just to the side of me... it's somehow not him.

At work Juliet is bemoaning her car troubles and I silently curl my lip at her. I dream of tying her down and shaving her head and slapping her face until she says something unexpected and novel. I've been having a number of these kinds of fantasies lately. I only wish I had the balls to stand up and go through with them, to finally get the nagging thoughts out of my system. Maybe with a few drinks in me I could get hold of her and get a good open-handed lash across her face. But then I think of how she'd react: her lips gaping wide, her eyes shot through with shock, and something far from interesting coming out of her mouth.

"Do you even know what it costs to have a German car repaired? Maybe I should just sell it off and get rid of the burden…"

But Juliet can afford it and I feel my temples burn with a new rush of blood. She's handsomely paid for I know not what. She's in her mid thirties with meaty features that border on a fifties glamour. Like some kind of pinup, she has teardrop legs, which she shows off in captivatingly black stockings and tights that grab hold of the light and reel it in. When I first started here, a few months ago, I really dug her because the irises of her eyes are two different colors. I found that pretty interesting and I couldn't stop looking into them. I imagined, for a time, the hypnotic possibilities of such a situation and once, bored more than usual, day-dreamed that I had succumb to her control and that she levitated me among my colleagues and that my dress hung down off my elevated legs and that Derrek -- he's another one of the art buyers -- had copped a feel of my ass. That's when I woke up.

Of course, after I told him this, Josh thought I had a crush on Derrek. I don't. Josh thought I had a crush on everyone. I didn't, I had a crush on him. But he kept seeing these crushes everywhere he looked, which may have been an early indication that he didn't really want to be with me. In hindsight, everything looks like that kind of an indication. The toothbrush he couldn't leave behind spent more time next to his lips than I did.

I don't go out to lunch anymore because I can't stand the number of lame people I have to deal with in order to accomplish my goal. And dealing with the crush of lame people in the elevator and on the street and at the restaurant takes my appetite away. Instead I sneak into a stock room that I've discovered, and I eat anything I bring with me and read for an hour. The room seems to be for storage of old cartons of stuff that was boxed up during the last company move but never got unpacked and I've often thought of poking through them. So far, the boxes I have looked at seem to be discarded belongings of former employees -- notebooks, pen holders, calendars from a few years back, software manuals. It's clearly the perfect place to have sex on the job because I've eaten lunch there at least thirty times and not once has anyone walked in. As I can't seem to find anyone to fool around with, I've taken to fantasizing myself totally naked as I read, just for the thrill of imagining someone walking in. If I had a set of balls I'd at least strip down to a bra and panties. Maybe at the next pay period I'll buy a new set -- a flashy orange set -- and put my pride on the line.

I'm not going out tonight because I'm not ready to watch them laugh at jokes or smile and gesture at friends when all I want to do is splash them with turpentine. It's hard enough to bite my tongue as I fight to pick up a few simple groceries. Instead I'm going to buy some beer and see if I can get drunk alone. This isn't the kind of thing I'm known for, I'm a lightweight after-all. And furthermore, I don't care much for beer as a drink, but Josh was often fond of Michelob Dark and in an effort to sneak into the wisping smoke of his ghostly arms, I decided I'd buy a six-pack to see how many I can drink. I also bought a package of cigarettes.

"You're sure you don't want to come over? Or I could drop by there?"

Bray (her real name is Brenda) tried to convince me that I shouldn't be alone, that she'd drop by with some Thai food and a movie and we could both get drunk. I like Bray for the most part, I'm just not really fond of her name... but neither is she. You can't make everyone happy, I guess, so I call her Bray to her face. She's really sweet and we've known each other since high school. She taught me how to apply makeup but now she's very natural and frowns upon makeup (and deodorant). She's very funny and a true smoker, so in some ways I really should have accepted her invitation, but I still wanted another cold blue night to wash Josh from my mind. And Brenda is too cheery and too optimistic and too loud and sometimes I want to tell her that she's too simplistic and rosy-eyed, especially when we're out drinking. And frankly, even though I know Josh's scent is no longer in the bed, I don't want the memory of it hustled along by Brenda's.

I sit on my yoga mat and see if I can still reach the positions I did during college. Mostly, I can't. Dressed in a pair of cut down sweatpants and an old t-shirt, I feel how tight I am. How rigid and inflexible I've become. My fingers and toes are rough and even in the fading light I can see that time has passed. It doesn't relax me to push my limits when the limits are so damned close at hand. Instead I find myself doing a body check for new hair, scabs and discoloration I hadn't previously noticed. It's a dangerous game that seems to have an irresistible appeal. I can't think of a time when I've gone on the hunt and not found some physical evidence that adolescence was permanently behind me.

I finish off my second beer and the horrible taste is starting to fade. I have a stick of salami and the two go together quite well. I take a deep pull on the bottle and fish around the inside of my teeth, looking for chunks of meat that may be left in-between. I have fairly nice teeth. I never had braces and still they're fairly straight. They aren't large and obvious, but they aren't tiny and demure. When I tally up my 'feminine' qualities -- my laugh, my feet, my breasts, my nose, my hips and my teeth -- my teeth best fit the feminine ideal. If I could, I'd have each new guy I meet look first at my teeth (they're also quite white), inviting him to feel free to touch. In fact, my tongue is surprisingly nice as well. After he's taken a tour from incisors to molars and seen how neatly my top teeth rest atop my lower, then I'd suggest he gander at my hips (but not my ass), which do okay in the right pair of jeans and can excel in a long dress. Later we might have a look at my nose, assuming he doesn't get too close. My feet (which aren't floppy, but aren't timid either) would be fine as long as I was feeling comfortable with him -maybe after a drink or two. Somewhere in there I'd gently introduce my laugh, which can be loud and explosive (if he's genuinely funny) or soft and bubbly (if he's only good-looking). Lastly, after a number of drinks and only if we clear the laugh hurdle with room to spare, we could get to the breast issue.

"Thanks for calling, please leave a message."

That's Josh. You can't hear it, but it says everything you need to know about him. It's polite and there's a smile or two in there. But in the end, he's not there to pick up the phone. I wouldn't call but by the fourth beer I find myself excusing all kinds of actions.

It's hot in here and I throw the shorts in the corner with animal abandon. I tear the sheet off the bed and bring my table light over, looking for any evidence at all. The beer is still cold and my tongue plays in the neck of it as I try and imagine a nook of my apartment where I might find some proof that he was here, not one week ago. I open all the cabinets in the bathroom and in the kitchen and still I'm thwarted. I shut off all the lights and lay back on the bed, splayed like a giant 'X', feeling a light and delicious breeze from the window. I'm tempted to call him again, but he's in France somewhere and I know I'll only hear that same, lame message again. I would have expected something more interesting from wire-haired Josh.

Josh has a little mole between his nipples, almost dead center in the flat of his chest. He would bait me by saying that you could hear the ocean if you put your ear against it. I only did this in earnest once, late at night when he was quite asleep, and I didn't hear the ocean, just the sound of his breathing in an out softly, beautifully. And my arms reached around him and on the palm of my hand I felt his thin muscle and the rough skin of his nipple. I breathed in and out with him and I stared out into the streetlight-bathed room with its deep shadows and I reached up to feel his rough cheek, unshaven, and I reached down into the hair above his sex to feel incredible heat.

Beyond the window is the fire escape, and I finish my beer and push open the window and step out onto it. Besides the rotted hibachi grill there is little else other than a potted plant that has given up the ghost. It's dead quiet outside and seductively dark as the streetlamp is out, a small summer miracle. It's two in the morning, maybe, I don't even know. I take a pull from the last Michelob and clink the bottle against the sun-withered foil-wrapped ceramic plant pot. The breeze, which seems to ride in from every possible direction, kisses my skin and I feel myself drifting within myself.

I casually stand, feeling the gentle nip of the slotted fire escape terrace nibble my bare soles. I pull my thin cotton shirt above my head and hold it out, over the railing. My fingers slip it off and it helicopters down to the black street. Next I pull down my panties and do the same. Thy land a few feet away and together they suggest that someone may have melted away into the hot summer asphalt. The thought makes me smile.

I crouch down again and poke a finger into the rust of the forgotten hibachi. It flakes away beautifully, like perfectly prepared fish. I move the potted plant up into mouth of the hibachi and study it. On the side of the pot I see a faded card still attached and I pull it off with a dry snap of the aged elastic that has held it on some number of months. I open it up but can't read the remains of the note or tell who had sent it. But I know it wasn't Josh. I would remember such a gift and I wouldn't have left it outside, to expire so publicly. I would have held on to it, would have kept it alive no matter what. I would have taken cuttings to work. I wouldn't have ever let it die.