A Perfect Blindness

by W. Lance Hunt

  This is what I need—for things to be what I expect. Because while Neo and Wendy feel right, I still feel wrong, as if I can’t feel straight anymore.

  Using the reflection in the mirror behind the bar, I examine my face, turning my head slowly to one side and then to the other, checking for something that might have changed. I’m not sure what to look for, but I don’t see anything wrong: my lips, my eyes, my hair, the way I’m holding my glass, the way I sip. Normal. Next to my reflection, Wendy runs her palm across the girl’s shoulder and down her arm. The girl looks down uncomfortably. I want to tell her, “Don’t worry; Wendy’ll take care of you—if you let her.”

  Realizing how normal everything is, my shoulders go slack and fall, releasing the tension that’s been stuck there since Michigan. I lean back on my stool, feeling very okay with all the normal around. I’m fine. Past week’s been a blip.

  Then I feel a finger tapping my shoulder.

  I turn.

  Jonathan’s standing there. “What’s up?” he asks.

  “I thought,” I say, feeling the evening suddenly turning weird. “You had rehearsal.”

  “We did. We’re done. Now I’m here. So’s Chris. Someplace.”

  Why are you here? Things were finally starting to feel right.

  “AnnMarie and Chris are right. Neo’s cool. Like it.”

  I take a drink.

  “Tell me. What do you think of ‘So Long, So Wrong’? I mean really think—not just fluff-this-guy-off ‘okay, good’ sort of thing.”

  “Well … It is good.”

  “Thank you,” he says, “but can you tell me what you like about it? What not?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, suspicious of the question. Why do you think I care enough to have an opinion other than ‘good’?

  “You’re not a musician, right?”

  “No.”

  “I hear Ron talk about—”

  “I’m an executive assistant slash assistant project manager at Les Femmes.”

  “Chris mentioned massages?”

  “Used to. Well,” I say, sighing—I hate explaining this. “I didn’t have my license. But I worked at Wild Hair under licensed supervision.”

  “Sorta like residency?” he half-asks, as if he’s not expecting an answer.

  Then he looks closely at me, with eyes that seem to be almost every color in turn. “How old are you?” he asks, offering me a Camel straight.

  I shake my head and slip a Winston out from my own pack. “Nineteen.”

  “Ah, that makes sense.”

  “What makes sense?”

  “You know, I’ve never met an ex-masseuse before—licensed or not.” He lights both our cigarettes with a noisy, flashing flick of his Zippo. “Did you have to massage fat people?”

  “Sometimes.” Don’t even try. I don’t get picked up. Ever.

  “Manipulating flab. Ugh.”

  “You think of something that’s not so bad.”

  “How about really hairy guys?”

  “That,” I say, smiling in spite of myself, “does suck. There was this guy. Always came in on Tuesdays at 6:00 p.m.—my night. Always wanted a ‘supervised’ massage ’cause ‘it’s cheaper.’ Hated touching him. His back was covered in monkey hair. And he was such a pussy, whining, ‘Oh, you’re pulling my hair.’”

  He puts a fingertip on my shoulder. “You know what? I have to go. My friend is out of the bathroom,” he says. “Well, my ex from Ohio.”

  As if I care.

  “Might get a bit miffed if I spend the night talking to you. But,” he says, putting a finger across his lips as if considering something. “I really do want your opinion of ‘So Long, So Wrong.’ I want to hear what a real listener thinks of it. How about Friday? We’re going to be doing a lot of work on it then.”

  “I don’t know anything about music,” I say, shaking my head, “So I don’t—”

  “Exactly. Around eight? That’ll give us a couple of minutes to talk before the rest of the band arrives.”

  Why do you think I’ll show up at all? Arrogant—

  Then this strikingly good-looking brunette with a streak of red in her hair walks up in a micromini, her tight shirt tied up to show off a flat, pierced belly. She looks me over with bright sapphire-blue eyes. Her expression is so intimidating that I pull back.

  “Amy,” he says, “this is my friend Jennifer. Jennifer, Amy.”

  Instead of saying anything or nodding hello, she curls her lips at me as if challenging me to a fight. Her eyes flare like gems aflame.

  I look away and then watch as he takes this Amy woman to meet Wendy.

  As Amy arrives, Wendy steps back, which is about impossible. No one intimidates Wendy; she’s always the boss.

  After a moment, he and Amy slip off into the crowd, her hand possessively gripping his ass.

  What is your game? No, I don’t care.

  Next I see Wendy has her arm around the young girl.

  Now this I understand.

  I take another drink.

  Normal.

  But feeling normal doesn’t last long.

  • • • • •

  The next day, when I happen to walk past my mom watching TV, I hear “It’s four thirty in Chicagoland, and topping the news tonight is the tragic death of nineteen-year-old model Charlene Pollard.” The screen fills with a grave-looking blonde behind a blue-and-white news desk, holding a sheet of paper.

  The picture switches from her talking to a street scene outside a luxury high-rise apartment building, with an ambulance, two fire trucks, and several police cars blocking traffic off, all their lights flashing. Several people in uniforms gather around a black-shrouded shape on the sidewalk. Two other groups of uniformed men keep onlookers away. The caption reads, “Live from Dearborn Parkway.”

  “Yes, Christy, this is where it happened, outside of the Dearborn Towers, the exclusive luxury residence here on the Gold Coast. At about four twelve this afternoon, nine-one-one calls started coming in, reporting a falling woman. Charlene Pollard was pronounced dead at the scene, after having fallen twenty-three stories from the penthouse.”

  “Jennifer,” my mother says. “No.”

  “You were going to be my roommate,” I say to the black-shrouded shape on the sidewalk. “Remember? Best friends. Together.”

  “In the living room,” the reporter continued, “there were signs of a second person and at least one empty bottle of alcohol. So the Chicago police are treating this as a homicide. Her live-in boyfriend, Richard Barthes, the owner of the apartment, is wanted for questioning in her death.”

  I don’t remember anything else the TV or my mother said. All I remember about that whole night is that I cried and that I felt hate—real, burning hate—for the first time. I wanted Richard Barthes to pay.

  Chapter 22

  Tempt Me

  —Jonathan—

  Staring at some new lyrics on a sheet of paper, I’m still trying to get a handle on yesterday.

  I’d been here almost a month when she called the day before yesterday. She said she’d driven here for a couple of meetings, which would be over in a day, and since she was “in Chicago anyway …”

  I invited her over.

  Which was a mistake.

  Before the call, we weren’t supposed to see each other again—ever. I’d dealt with never seeing her by knowing never again, and losing the protection of never again has been treacherous. For the first time since I left Columbus, I allowed myself to imagine what would happen when, not if, I saw her: how we’d tease and torture each other, building the excitement until we couldn’t stand it, and then it would be like our first time again, but even more, because it was never supposed to be possible. She breathed life into these thoughts when she agreed to come over, and they’ve hobbled me; I’ve not been able to finish th
e new song for our first gig in Chicago because I can’t think of anything but her.

  Then last night, she showed up here in the flesh, and my head wasn’t at rehearsal. I kept tripping over songs I’ve been playing for years. Amy was there, watching, and I couldn’t help staring at her, anticipating all the things we’d do once we were alone. We couldn’t finish working on the newest songs we need for the full set.

  After an hour and a half, Scott turned off his guitar.

  “This is pointless,” he said. “Everyone. Go home. Think about songs we can cover … something …I don’t know.”

  Pointing at Amy, Scott looked at me. “Your brain is over there, between her legs,” he scolded. “Figure out what’s important here—her snatch. Or your band!”

  That ripped it.

  Amy jumped up and started marching at him, full of pissed off, her finger out, wagging. I had to step between them and lead Amy to the back of the loft, telling her we were going out, just her and me. We bummed a ride with Chris to Neo. We talked about her portfolio on the way over. She’s very good. Amy made a few very smart suggestions. In spite of the flare-up, I could not take my mind from how great it’d be when we got home again.

  Yet when we did get home, all we did was go straight to bed, take off our clothes, and …

  And what? Have sex? Sure—all fleshy, moist, and full of semen.

  But it wasn’t fierce like it once was. Not even enjoyable.

  With nothing left to say, we rolled over and slept. I woke up not knowing who she is, only that she isn’t who she used to be, so we can never be what we once were. It’s as if what we had been never really was. Worse, I can’t wash away knowing this, so once she leaves again, everything, including my memories of us, will be completely gone.

  She should have stayed away—simply kept living in Columbus as a dream.

  Not only has she putrefied what we were and who we could be, but I also haven’t been able to finish the new song for tonight’s rehearsal—the song we have to have for the full forty-minute set that we have to have tonight, so we can rehearse it enough before we play it live.

  We don’t want to get stuck playing covers, but this song simply refuses to work.

  “What ’cha doin’?” Amy asks from on the mattress. So far she’s only gotten her panties on.

  “Trying to finish a song,” I say, crouching over the page on the keyboard.

  “‘Trying to finish a song,’” she says. “Hmm.”

  I tap my pen, rereading lyrics that don’t work. Reworking the weak melody is pointless without the words to give it shape.

  “Not exactly exciting. Well, not for me.”

  I stare harder at the last few lines. They sound like bad high school poetry, and I resent her for that. I scribble them out, just as I’d like to scribble last night out. I want her to go back—not to Columbus, exactly, but to the way she was before she came.

  “Let’s do something,” Amy says.

  “Like what?” I say.

  “Show me around. Grab some lunch at a cool dive you know. Show me where to score some clothes. Or a twelve-inch single. I don’t care. Anything. The stiffs at the meetings went to Marshall Field’s and fucking Applebee’s. Oh, and T.G.I. Friday’s. Clone food. This’s your town. Show it off.”

  “Scott and Nancy said they’re heading over to Reckless Records later. Great stuff there. Like Magnolia Thunderpussy. You could still catch them at hers. I’ll give them a call and tell them to wait.”

  “Oh, now that’s an idea—an afternoon with Scott. Trying to get one of us killed?”

  “I told you when you called I’d have to get some work done.”

  “Don’t you want to show me how great Chicago is?”

  “Yes. But later. I have to get this done now. Like in two hours.”

  “Don’t you want to tempt me?”

  “Tempt you?”

  “Yes. Tempt me. With the fruit of the tree of Chicago.”

  “An apple? That’s New York’s gig.”

  “You’re not being any fun.”

  I try rereading the lyrics, humming to drown her out. But she’s lodged “tempt me” in my brain. Tempt you? As I remember you, yes—in fact, I’d have no choice. For whoever you are now? No chance.

  At the sound of her bare feet padding across the floor toward me, I look up. The soft, late-afternoon light caresses her, highlighting and shading the extravagant curves of her body. She’s put on her let’s-get-nasty expression. It’s like a scene from a straight-to-video porno—the lonely, impossibly hot mom walking in on her son’s piano teacher to offer lessons of her own.

  “Come on, mister,” she says. “Tempt me.”

  I can’t force myself to want her. Even to finish this song.

  “Sin with me.” Amy stands inches away. The sunlight brightens the reds and blues of the butterfly tattoo on her left breast.

  Once, lifetimes ago, I’d been able to make out only that she had a tattoo through a gossamer hunter-green top. That night, I’d so wanted to know what she hid, see it, and perhaps touch it. But now I simply don’t care.

  “Tempt me, Jon,” she says, bending down, placing her hands on my shoulders. “Make me fall. All the way to Chicago.”

  I can feel the warm skin of her thighs pressing on my knees.

  “Amy—”

  “I’m staying here to be with you,” she says, her lips grazing mine.

  “Yes,” I say, reaching up to roll a lock of her hair between my fingers. “You are.”

  “So if you won’t tempt me, then I’ll have to tempt you—with different fruit,” she says, straddling my leg. “Sorry. No cherry left. That’s been picked.”

  Oh, Amy. Don’t be like this. I close my eyes. Can’t you be the Amy I knew, and not this triple-X cliché? This, I can’t do.

  “Scott needs me to have this song ready before rehearsal tonight,” I say.

  “Always Scott’s needs. What about your needs?” She tries to kiss me.

  I twist to the side and jab my fingers on the lyrics. “Right now,” I say, “I need to get this done.”

  “You’re only looking for an excuse. You don’t want to tempt me with Chicago. I might find I love it. But that’s not in your plans, is it? No. Use me, sure. Then send me home. Wham! Bam! Thankya, ma’am. No wonder you were such a lousy lay. Who are you anymore?”

  “Who am I?” I spring up from my stool.

  Slipping off my leg backward, Amy loses her balance and tumbles to the floor. “Yeah, asshole,” she says, glaring at me. “Who are you?”

  “Me? Who are you? Acting like some softcore bimbette.”

  She rolls over and stands up, facing the widows, and brushes her ass off toward me. “Fucking asshole.”

  “You, Amy—whoever. You didn’t even try,” I say. “You never even fucking asked me to stay.”

  “Would you have?”

  “Not the point. You should have asked. At least tried to make me stay. Done something. But—”

  “But what? Would you have given up your band? And Scott. Wanting to get his hands all over you?”

  “Oh, this again,” I say. “My god, give that a rest.”

  “He so wants to fuck you.”

  “Look, woman. You! You didn’t ask me not to go. Not once. You never tried. You couldn’t figure out how to keep it working. You—who taught me how to keep on living.” I grab my head. “I loved you so much. You let me walk right out of your life. Like I was nothing.”

  “Yes. I did,” she says. “Yes. Because I love you. Because you wouldn’t stay. Because you couldn’t. I knew it.”

  “No!” I yell, leaping up and rushing to her. “Bullshit.”

  She snarls. Her sapphire-blue eyes blaze.

  “Bullshit. No. You couldn’t figure it out. Didn’t even try. ’Cause ads matter more than me.”

&nbs
p; “And music doesn’t matter more than me?”

  I clap my hands an inch from her nose and hold them there, twitching, feeling heat flooding my face.

  “Gonna hit me now?”

  “Leave,” I say, straining not to yell. My body shakes.

  “That’s not really what you want,” she says, leaning forward, taking the tips of my fingers into her mouth.

  I jerk my hands back, march over to her clothes, and grab her skirt. “Get dressed. And get gone. Stay in Ohio.” I whip the skirt at her.

  Letting it strike her bare breasts, she stomps up to me.

  “You,” she says, “are such an asshole.” She cocks her hand back to smack me. “Whoever the hell you are.”

  I catch her wrist. “Do us both a favor and get out.”

  With her free hand, she grabs my crotch. I jerk in pain. She pushes her face into mine. “I’ll leave when I’m goddamned ready,” she says, and she bites my lower lip. I wince but can’t pull away. Holding my lip in her teeth, she unbuttons my pants, reaches in, and starts stroking. When I grow hard into her hand, she lets go of my lip.

  I close my eyes and kiss her.

  Amy, I miss you so very much.

  A tear dribbles from my cheek. I hope that burns you like it burns me.

  Chapter 23

  Dreamerz

  —Jonathan—

  Forty-five minutes later, I lie, eyes closed, breathing in the smell of us, together. Amy’s body feels limp with sleep and warm against me.

  This I remember. You’re still Amy. My Amy.

  Her, us, now—it’s perfect. I don’t want this to ever end.

  Then I remember that song I couldn’t finish. I look at the clock: almost six thirty.

  “Shit,” I hiss. Everyone’ll be here in a half hour.

  Gently, I pull my arm out from under her and quietly roll away. Lightly placing the sheet over her shoulders, I look at the shape she makes in bed.

  “I’m not going back to Ohio,” I whisper at her. “Even if you still are there.”

  Looking at the steady rise and fall of her chest, it hits me. It’s what you were saying: “Tempt me, sin with me, make me fall.”