THE LOVE THAT NEVER DIES: Erotic Encounters with the Undead

by Christian, M

"I-I don't know, man." My answer was, at least, honest.

  "I heard about them," he said, changing perspective to look right at me. "Didn't seem together myself. Heard they were always good together –- always holding hands and shit like that."

  "I've got to get–"

  "No wonder he couldn't take it. Special like that just don't go away. I don't think he even knows it happened. Just pretends and all so he doesn't have to, you know. Makes her up, imagines her there, because he can't take it that she's gone."

  "Yeah, I guess–"

  "For the best, I guess," his coffee-grounds eyes left mine finally. He blinked them away and towards somewhere I didn't know: between the hot sun above our heads and the street at our feet. "This way she's still with him. Sad. Damned sad."

  "Yeah, yeah, yeah," I mumbled. "Hey I gotta ... you know ... see you around!"

  "Yeah, see you around. Remember what you got! You hear me – never know when you might lose it. Really lose it..." he said behind me, his voice fading with each of my hurried steps.

  * * * *

  Dots Diner was a place, I knew, among many places in a very big city. But it had become safety, sanctuary: a linoleum and sizzling grease haven, an affordable warm blanket pulled up and over my head. It didn't used to be. Before it had just been just the closest place: the end result when location, location, location was the most important choice to make.

  But that was before. Now it was where I went when I had enough in the bank to be able to escape. Nothing had really changed: the food was still third rate, the waitress still smelled of cigarettes, the radio was always more static than music. Importantly, though, it was a place, among many places in a very big city where Theresa and Danny never went to ... and so Danny would never go to.

  The menthol queen eventually moved from behind the spotty counter, half dragging her thick ankles and, no doubt, swollen feet towards the booth where I sat. Every time I ordered the same thing – experience telling me what was safe and what wasn't – but each time she asked me what I wanted.

  "Okay, hon," she said, my imagination filling in thin wisps of ash, like curious snakes that lived down her throat, flicking out of her mouth. The only thing in the booth was the menu, and with it memories of what I'd found that was not safe, so I looked out the window while the cook slapped ground beef onto the grill.

  My heart tapped on the inside of my chest ... hard, my face burned. Maybe it wasn't him? A lot of people looked like that. A lot. Many. But then eyes, nose, mouth, dark brown stocking cap ... they all tumbled from my eyes and into my brain. No, no, no, no. I couldn't be. Not here.

  What was worse is that he wasn't just on his way somewhere else: among many places in a very big city, he had come to my safety, my sanctuary. The door swung open, allowing in a fat blow of warm morning air – fatter and hotter as Danny held the door open. On the wall, business cards pinned to the ancient corkboard fluttered. I immediately thought of butterflies, steel pins having trapped them in place.

  Arm gently out, eyes soft and half-lidded in quite bliss, he moved past the tables to another booth in the opposite side of Dots. Even though there was more than enough room, he still lively stepped forward to push the chrome-framed chairs out of the way.

  Ay the booth he sat, the same warm expression on his face: mouth melted into a gentle smile, hands and arms sensually flowing. Laughing at a joke or observation that only he could hear, and probably only thought was funny, he pulled two menus out from behind the mustard, salt, pepper, sugars and non-sugars, and passed one to the other side of the booth.

  Despite the clatter of knives, forks, and spoons from the kitchen, and the hiss-pop-hiss-pop-screech of the radio, I could still hear him say "What looks good, darlin'?"

  My food came, plate clattering onto the Formica, coffee rocking back and forth in a chipped cup. I looked up to see the waitress standing right there, close enough for my imagination to take a fraction of a second off: the reality of her smoking as clear and direct as her yellowed teeth. "Need anything else?" she said.

  "N-no," I stammered. I thought about getting up and leaving, throwing down my $8.60 and stepping ... running out into the too-warm morning. My legs cramped, muscles biting down on other muscles just waiting for my mind's starter pistol, but then she was gone and in front of me as a shimmering cheese burger, side of macaroni and cheese, and a cup of coffee.

  And I was hungry. And because throwing down by $8.60 might make a noise, might break the rules of Dots Diner, might make people notice, might make Danny look up from his menu, might make him see me ... notice me ... recognize me.

  So I ate: each bite slipping and sliding past my taste buds – almost too fast, my mind too distracted – to taste. Coffee then – sipped almost too hurriedly, my mind too distracted – to notice I was burning my tongue, lips, and gums.

  "...that does look good. Would you mind if I got the same thing?"

  I was eating too fast ... or maybe I wasn't eating fast enough? The radio coughed, like clearing itself of static, and I twisted my head around to see the cook bending up to change the channel. I wasn't the only one, as my eyes slid across Danny's – just for a moment.

  Did he see? Did he notice? Did he recognize? My heart beat even faster, my face got even hotter. Looking down at my plate I saw only two bites missing – not enough to claim to be done. Shaking, I lifted it up again, took another and then another and then another before realizing I hadn't begun to chew, or even swallow. So I did: forcing myself into mechanical actions of tongue, lips, and teeth until enough of it was gone to take more bites.

  "...I like that, too. I get a kick out of trying what you get and you getting a taste of me."

  His laugher wasn't loud, wasn't staged. Just completely natural and warm – but it still shot across Dots Diner and into my ears. In my hand, coffee rocked back and forth, eventually cresting the side of the cup and splashing down into the tabletop.

  "...you are such a flirt! Ah, where have you been all my life? Damn, be right back."

  Half a burger was gone, half a burger remained, all of the macaroni was left. I spooned up a too-large pale white complexity of elbows – cheese strings like ropes trying to keep it all anchored – towards my mouth.

  "Excuse me?" The voice was so loud, so unexpected I didn't have time to think or feel anything – just turn my head to see Danny standing right beside me.

  He looked right at me. Right at me. Me. There was a smile on his hard-lined but still youngish face – not the illuminated mask of pleasure and joy he'd had when he came in, or sat down, but a version of it: the kind of face you wear when you know that you may have left happiness but will be going right back to it very, very soon.

  "Cream?" he said, nodding gently to the other side of the table.

  It took me a year, in my mind, to realize what he was saying; another decade to understand what he was asking. "S-sure," I said, picking up the little steel kettle from where it had been resting against my own mustard, salt, pepper, sugars and non-sugars. "No problem."

  "Thanks," he said with a quick grin of thank you fellow big city comrade. Then he was gone: walking back across the diner, towards the booth that – I just saw – now had two cups of coffee in it.

  He might have seen, but he may not have noticed, may not have recognized. Hope thumped my chest, but this time with elevation and not panic. The waitress was close enough to catch her eye without needing to say anything: another miracle in a morning of bright, shiny miracles as I didn't think my voice would work again.

  "...God, yes. Nothing like diner coffee first thing in the morning."

  The check held no surprises. I put the money down on it. I'd be leaving behind a quarter of a hamburger and far too much macaroni and cheese – but I was leaving and that was all that really mattered.

  "...a walk sounds great! Maybe we could go to that bookstore on Broadway, the one you like so much?"

  Getting up, my shoulder collided with the waitress, on her way towards that far side of the diner, plump a
nd veiny arms barely strained by two large plates of breakfast. "S-sorry," I said, shocked more from my voice actually working than the impact.

  "Don't worry about it, hon." But then she saw that I wasn't looking at her, that my eyes instead had tracked towards her destination.

  That's when she said it, just before I opened the door and stepped as fast as I could out into the too-warm morning: "Aren't they just the cutest couple you ever did see?"

  * * * *

  A block away I finally stopped. I leaning against a sickly – and more than likely dying – stick of a city tree, sweat sticking my clothes to me in a very unwelcome embrace, and took in and whistled out breaths to calm down.

  Home wasn't safe but it was a place I knew – and a place where, for at least a few moments, he wouldn't be there – so after the hot morning didn't feel quite so hot and my breathing wasn't so whistling I pointed by feet back towards the apartment building and began to walk.

  Because it wouldn't have been home without him, Fix was still here sitting on beside the steps. I didn't want to talk to him ... I really didn't want to talk to him, but I doubted that he would just let me slide by. "Hey, man," he of course said when he recognized me as not just another strolling voyager on the sidewalk in front of the building. "How ya doing? Breakfast good way to start the day?"

  "I-it was good enough," I said, not slowing at all. After quickly swallowing I added for some reason: "How you?"

  "Can't complain, man. Can't complain. Sun rises, sun sets, I'm still here." I couldn't tell if he swallowed as well, because I kept moving towards the stairs – which would lead me to the door, which would open into the lobby, then the elevator, then the hall, then safety – but then added for some reason: "You see that fellow?"

  "I ... no, I didn't," I said as I put my right foot on the first step. No swallow for me as well, but another word for no reason at all: "Sorry."

  He waved a gaunt hand in the air – and for a moment I thought of a ancient dove trying to fly one last time – and said: "Nothing. Just been thinking about him. More than I probably should, I guess. Just ... well, you live your life, you know ... and then you see that and you wonder why you never had something like that in all your years on the earth."

  There were five steps to the front door. Most of the time they felt like they'd been built in a time when people's legs were longer or something because they always seemed steeper than they should be but then, in that instant they not just felt high but that there were more of them.

  "I know I shouldn't be jealous. But when I saw the two of them, the love just pouring off then in waves and shit like that, you wonder like when good like that is ever gonna come your way..." His eyes lost their focus for a moment, wandering off towards a personal Heaven.

  Many or few, high or low, I was up the stairs and to the doors. Behind me I heard him say " – just want to have what they have–" but if he was talking to me or just to himself I didn't know ... and I didn't turn back to find out.

  * * * *

  Compared to the warm morning, the lobby was cool and dark. My eyes worked for a brief moment, blinking on their own, to get used to the change. Normally I would have gone to my mailbox to see if anyone had written but this time I didn't. The only thing on my mind was retreat, escape, to my apartment – to put everything that had happened behind me, far back into the past.

  But then, finger pressing hard into the always-unreliable elevator call button, a few steps back, a few minutes behind was back again – right in front of me: the hot morning, the near-run from the diner, the front steps, Fix ... no, what Fix had said.

  I pushed and pushed and pushed again at the button and somewhere between the fourth and the twelfth a loud click and a drumming mechanical sound meant that the elevator was finally on its way.

  The place was old, living in a place between classic and derelict, which meant that the elevator came and went according to a schedule that was not just out of date but half faded from use – and with Fix's words slowly, grindingly becoming clearer in my mind that was far too slow.

  But it did come, the doors did open, and I did get in and, again, stabbed and stabbed and stabbed again at the also-faded button of my floor – and as it began to move I heard ... maybe not as clear but not as faded as I would have wanted: When I saw the two of them...

  I could think, believe, hope that the waitress had seen them together, sometime between now and then. But Fix was a recent Fixture, a part of the front of the building that had come after...

  Floors ground by, each one marking its passing with a new type of classic or derelict noise. It was always a slow ascension, but right then it was like my body and mind was caught in each rusty and mis-aligned part of its mechanism.

  Then it was time, and my floor. Even as the heavy doors began to part I shoved them apart and ran to my door. The music of my keys seemed extra discordant but eventually I found the right one and I escaped inside.

  But it wasn't a complete escape, because the words of Fix slipped in with me, and with the thought that made the inside of my place shivering cold despite waves of the hot sun coming through the windows: Fixture had never met her...

  * * * *

  I had to get out of there. Even if I had nowhere to go, and not enough money, I had to leave. I thought I could stay, that the wall between next door and my own little apartment would be enough: that the lath and plaster, wood and brick, could have kept what had happened there – but ... was that the smell of rose water? Was that a stay red, curled hair floating through the normal 'stuff' trapped by a wayward beam of late afternoon sun?

  A door, then: the squeal of neglected hinges, protesting metal on metal. A sound so familiar that it was almost invisible to my ears – but they'd been sharpened, honed to a fine edge by the panic throbbing in my mind, rattling the ribs in my chest.

  A voice, then: sparking and light, happy and free, slipping between the too-thin walls between my own little apartment and next door.

  "...that's what you say now..."

  I looked around, seeing everything twice because my eyes were too nervous to linger too long on any one thing: a stuttering visual inventory of my sad little life. The computer, ancient and unreliable, had to come. Without it I would have no chance of getting back on my feet – wherever it would be I'd land. Clothes ... yes, clothes. I'd need clothes. I went to the closet, pulled open the marred accordion doors – and was frozen by a frozen skyrocket of colors and fabrics. Too many. How had I gotten so many coats, pants, shirts, socks, briefs ... I couldn't take it all.

  "...say that again. I love the way you say it..."

  Back, pushed between them all, the handle of a suitcase I suddenly remembered owning. It took me two, then three, then four tugs to finally free it. The zipper made a throaty song, then it was open, revealing nothing but a lint-freckled void waiting for me to fill it.

  "...it's not silly. Well, not that silly..."

  I knew, back in the link-freckled corner of my brain, that I probably wouldn't need the sweatshirt I hadn't worn in years, of the thick wool socks that always made my feet itch, or the jeans that were way too small but that I kept anyone for the never-coming day I'd lose those four stomach inches ... but they went into the suitcase anyway.

  "...God, I love to hear you laugh..."

  "..."

  My hands stopped moving, frozen but still gently quivering from being stopped mid-action. Was that the sound of not two, but four feet stepping on a carpeted floor? Was that the too-soft, too-gentle, noise of an intake of breath that wasn't just his own?

  I had to ... had to get out. After zipping it closed, I swung it around, and the momentum of its surprising weight threw it farther than I thought: almost to hit the wall ... the wall that connected his apartment from my own.

  But it didn't ... it didn't hit. He didn't hear. I went back to my room ... too much stuff. I'd only been living there for two years but looking at it then it felt like a cell I'd been sentenced to for years, decades, a century. I should
have had a long gray beard, not the lazy stubble that shaded my lips and chin. I'd have to leave most of it behind.

  "...but you make me silly..."

  In fact it was only a chilly shiver of pragmatism that kept me from leaving it all behind, suitcase of useless, stupid clothing as well. A breath then, a slow, whistling intake of warm afternoon air, that came with a try to stay calm. The machine ... yes. I had to take that.

  Behind it, pinched between the Salvation Army desk and the wall were a diseased nest of snakes: a dusty knot of power and internet cables. Without a thought of what went where and what carried what, I unplugged – my shaking hands making the work harder than I wanted.

  "...be right back..."

  "..."

  A door opened and then closed, but before then ... was that the echo of lips-on-lips? Was that the champagne whisper of two lovers parting?

  I didn't want to, but as my hands twitched and plucked at the cables behind my computer I couldn't help but see her – flashes behind my eyes of too-brightly-red-to-be-real-hair (it wasn't), freckles like kisses of sunshine, green eyes like jade shimmering with raindrops, a sensual way of stepping from here and there –

  No. I had to get out of there. Pulling on a stubbornly resistant length of cable, the computer jerked, moved too close to the edge of the desk.

  I grabbed it just in time, pushing it then back towards safety. Almost, I heard myself think. Almost.

  Then I heard it ... what I hadn't heard for a long time ... but as brightly dazzling as the last hour of daylight bathing my little room. My vision fogged and, without thought, I wiped and then blinked away the tears.

  It had no name, or if it didn't I never learned it: it was just the melody of my neighbor – the tune she sang when he wasn't home. A up and down and up and down fluting of notes and tones that had always made the chilly days warmed, the hot days cooler, the big city not too empty of kindness and sweet, sweet smiles.

  Then came the coldness, the roaring flush of dread – more than ever before. No possibilities, no could-be, no might-be, no perhaps a dream.