• Abstract and Figures
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CHRISTOPHER MURPHY 40 Copyright © 2020 by Christopher Murphy All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission. This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental. First edition This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy. Find out more at reedsy.com 3 He comes and goes like oceans rising and melting on the shore. He’saforcetobereckonedwithwhenthesunhitshisback,the sky scorches his silhouette - and I strain to see his despondent eyes glaring down at me from my seat on the crowded beach. This is supposed to be our day out. I packed a lunch, brought enough sunblock to drown in, and fought the mosquitoes that bit back through the thick, salty air. Cursing like a sailor. It’s humid as hell, and my skin is a rich butter bronze, warm-to- the-touch hue thatseemstobelonginaCrayolabox. Beach-burnt Gold, the label might exclaim. My swimsuit is new and dry as I situate myself and make a blanket out of sand, and bits of broken seashells, and glass. He tries to convince me that the water is perfect, but it looks like ice from where I’m sitting. I’m being difficult, but he loves this about me. The water hits the rocks behind him like fireworks, and I bathe in the afterglow. We make castles out of the clouds and dungeons in the sand, full of watery moats and treacherous turns we’re careful not to slip into. I finish reading my favorite book again as he watches the freckles color my shoulders and my farmer’s tan fade in the sun’s embrace. His own skin is brown and red and copper remnants fused into one glowing tapestry of color. His neck is a shade darker than before. Our love is just a little bit stronger than before as we pack the car to go back to our everyday grind. I find sand in his hair later that night as we unwind and count 4 the stars from our bed that we’re grateful to finally fall into. The raspy call of the ocean still plays in the back of my mind as my eyes become weighted with sleep. I pull him tighter to me… and wait for a wave to wash us away. 5 6 It’s like… Frostbitten memories and sleepless nights. Like blinking traffic lights and careless words. When I’m mad enough to spit bullets, and the record stops spinning. Screech. And it goes on. Like nothing ever happened. And it’s like tactless times when he’s frustrated that I won’t hold his hand. And allIcan seeisred when he’s acting like a child. Pulling at my arm with those big, brown eyes. Wanting me to kiss it and make it better. Like thoughtless Band-Aids and astringents. And I spaz when the thread breaks, too reckless to control my own trembling fingers. And what am I supposed to do when I’m restless and just want more? When his kiss is timeless, and I’d die without it. When he’s the one who crosses my T’s and dots my I’s. When the taste is gone, but it’s endless in my mind. 7 8 I sing low, moody tunes of grays and blues that sway like the trees at night. My lover is crass, gold-hued brass that blurts out the first thing that comes to his mind. I hold him close to me, kiss his cold lips, and fill him with warm thoughts and songs of yesterday. Yesterday, when my fingers betrayed me and words were flat shards of metal I’d spit onto the page without trepidation. Today, I eat those words with a pinch of salt to taste, crack my knuckles, and make preparations for the end. Soon our song will fade like color in the sunlight for too long… Melt like fear in the spotlight, fall like the stars at midnight… and then we’ll be our usual reckless selves on the stage, singing to anyone that will listen as if our lives depend on it. Because they do. Him and I, together, we two fuse hot metal and jazz like too many G&Ts at the your local, favorite bar. They whisper our names like a sticky, summer breeze just before the lights go out. Backstage is black, and you suddenly have nothing to say. You no longer wanna play your sweet, sad songs and seem determined to make me cry. I fight back hot tears and put you away – until tomorrow, when we’ll sing our song all over again. We’ll smile in the stage lights like the world is golden and perhaps tomorrow the tune will change. Perhaps tomorrow, the tune will change. 9 10 His breath is all jive and gin and honey that melts over me… Warm, seductive, and sticky. He reeks of bar smoke, cheap aftershave, and years that have been anything but kind to him. Yet, there’s this rusty, copper shine to him that catches my eye… Makes me look twice, although I can guess he must be taken or just full of it. His fast-talking, pimp-walking swagger lets me know it’s a dream he’s after. Foolish delusions people chase like fast women and fast cars. His home is the streets, neon nightlife, and seedy male bars - full of “punks” and “sissies” that he calls his brothers and lovers. Me? I’m neither one or the other. Just a stranger in his world. He licks his lips at me, as if threatening to sop me up with a biscuit. He slides over with bowed legs and a face so handsome I’m careful not to look into his eyes dead-on. Like the sun. He’s buzzing in my ear, whispering sweet melodies and poetry that breathe the Harlem Renaissance in my ear. It’s all I can do not to admire his game. Not to give in, shrug bashfully, and confess to him my name. Not to invite him home for a nightcap – old Whiskey over ice – which would surely be to blame for letting him get under my skin and into my sheets. And in the morning? Like the inevitable. He’s gone with my wallet, and I’m left miserable. The sheets wrap around my naked frame… as if the arms of an old friend, rolling their eyes and saying I told you so. But maybe I’d known. Maybe I’d seen the danger. Isn’t 11 that to be expected from aimless and wondrously handsome strangers? Perhaps, I’d asked for it. Wanted it. And gotten it. And maybe it just wasn’t him alone… who had gotten their kicks. Maybe it was me… who has spun the web to begin with. 12 13 A strange breeze whispers through the curtains of Vaughn Parker’s ninth-floor flat. It brings with it the smells and clamor of the outside world. The sweet yeasty odor of flour and sugar from a nearby French bakery along the promenade below. The roguish laughter of children running between tourists on the sidewalk. Forks and knives being dropped by a busboy at a sidewalk bistro. Foreign tongues and syllables of another language filling the air. It makes its way through an unsuspecting window open in the handsome, historic Viollet- le-Duc edifice above, filled with residents starting their day. It carries through the open window, fluttering past the silk curtains and stirring about the room. It comes like a warning. It comes like an omen. Adam’s eyes snap open as he jolts awake, covered in sweat. Hisarmsthrash againstthesilk sheetsuntilhe’spushed himself upright. He blinks away tears, wincing to find the bedroom full of light and the pillow next to him abandoned. He tries to catch his breath as he examines both sides of his hands, then curls them over to check his fingernails. No blood. It was just another dream. A noise from the open window calls his attention. What time is it? Adam sighs and leans against the cream tufted headboard that stretches to the ceiling. He glances at the empty pillow beside him, silently cursing himself for sleeping so late. The bedroom looks untouched. Like a staged showroom or a page from Insider Homes. The décor is a bit too Country-French-meets-Liberace-on- acid for his taste, with its pale Parisian-pink drapes and matching chaise in the sitting area. Fresh hydrangeas and 14 the latest French Vogue are on the coffee table. There are two matching lamps and chairs, a silk upholstered footstool, and a built-in bookshelf on the far wall with hundreds of books he’s figured out are mostly for show. A few gold frames sit before rows of hardcover books, anchored by plaques and awards Vaughn has collected during his career. Prized gold and silver statues of little bald men without eyes or expressions, given in his honor. They stand there, solid, like soldiers. Keepers of the books. The hardwood floors have been refinished, but just enough Adam correctly suspects to hold their original “rustic charm”. Then there’s the overly ornate crown molding that lines the walls like sugary piped icing, the gold leaf ceiling that makes the sun’s glare more intense during the day, and of course, an over-the-top chandelier that drips over the center of the bed.

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