I awake the next morning to find my madonna sleeping peacefully next to me. It's every guy's fantasy, I think, to share a bed with his virgin goddess, her hair mussed and spread over the pillow, her lips pink from sleep, her skin flushed from the exertion of dreaming. And not the sex stuff, either, I mean. It's more like a mythic connection to some ancient archetypal image, man and woman, you know? Relationships between the sexes are so complicated now, but underneath it all, it's still the same simple equation. Two parts of the whole. It all comes down to one.
I look at her now, and wonder what she would do if I kissed her. Not that I'm going to, but haven't you ever just looked at someone and wondered what they would taste like? Maybe not consciously, but we all do it. I'm thinking strawberries. But she looks so content sleeping like that. I don't want to bother her. Hmmm... I don't even know her name. She sighs in her sleep, and murmurs something softly. I lean down, hoping to catch her words. I'm careful not to touch her. I haven't yet, you know, all this time we've lain next to each other and shared our deepest secrets through some unspoken mind meld. Not even a handshake, or to brush the hair from her face, or even a tap on the shoulder. I think that maybe I'm afraid to touch her. Which sounds so silly, I did jump onto her balcony from mine. If I can do that, me with my fear of heights, I shouldn't be afraid of anything, right? But for some reason, the thought of connecting with her on a physical level scares the hell out of me. I think if I did, maybe I'd lose myself in her. Fall into her, and not be able to climb out. I've been falling into a lot of deep pits lately.
I start to hum. It's that same song that's been stuck in my head all week. I don't really know all the words, and I'm not too sure of the singer, but it's an emotional song. One of those songs that, the first you hear it you're struck by its beauty, the second time by its meaning, and the third time by its relevance. And before you know it, it's in your heart and in your mind and you feel like you've known it forever. Like maybe you wrote it. And maybe you did. That's the kind of artist I've always wanted to be, the one that vocalizes the lyrics to the songs your soul sings. She sighs again and turns over, her eyes slowly opening, her long lashes fluttering against her cheeks.
"Good morning," I whisper.
"Good morning, how long have you been awake?"
"Not too long. I'm Brian."
"Nice to meet you, I'm Camryn." Well, got that out of the way.
"Did you sleep well?"
"I did. My mother's people have this saying, roughly translated, that you will never suffer a restless night with an angel by your side." She thinks I'm an angel?
"Well that explains why I slept so well, then." She smiles at my silly joke. "Who are your mother's people?"
"Her father, my maternal grandfather, was a renegade Sufi mystic, from Turkish Armenia. My paternal grandfather was an Orthodox priest from Russian Armenia. They met on the road to the Old City, Jerusalem. My mother's father was fleeing religious persecution. My father's father was fleeing massacre. Not too much of a difference, you know. One is destruction of the soul, the other of the body, but both are driven by small-minded people, and both can crush the spirit."
"It's horrible, the things we do to each other."
"Pain, it makes the world go around."
"What an uplifting sentiment. Glad to know you're an optimist."
"I'm a realist. Pragmatic. But just because we're killing each other, body, mind, and soul, doesn't mean we have to wallow in self-pity." I wince. Bull's eye.
"Yeah, I know, it can always be worse."
"Now who's being depressing?" She sits up and swung her feet onto the floor, pushing herself up. Walking over to the mirror, she runs her hands through her raven hair. I am so fascinated, watching as her fingers are swallowed into its endless blackness, then mysteriously reappearing, as though resurrected. I wonder if I disappeared in her like that, would I return in renaissance?
"We've been trying to destroy each other for years. But in the aftermath, we manage to rebuild."
"Well, some aren't so lucky. The legacy of the native Americans is what? A couple hundred reservations scattered across the country, land so sterile they can hardly grow enough to feed themselves, alcoholism and disease rampant. And the younger generations can barely remember their language, let alone their rich traditions. Sometimes I wonder if this is worse than the outright extermination of the entire culture."
"It's always darkest before dawn, right?"
"But first you have to get through the night. My friend, Nick, he's part Cherokee. Not that it means anything to him."
"For some it doesn't. We don't all have to play the martyr. It doesn't make him any less of a good person."
"I know. He really is a good kid. Well-meaning. He's very generous with his affection too."
"That's rare in a guy. I bet he gets hurt easily too."
"He does. We all do, but some can hide it better." She walks back to the bed and lies down again, pressing against me, her head resting on my shoulder. Her body is soft and warm, and if I stay real still, I can feel her heart beating softly. She lightly drapes her arm across my chest and raises her head slightly to look at me.
"Tell me about your other friends. The dark-haired innocent one, who smokes." Innocent? AJ?
"That's right, you were eavesdropping."
"I was out there first. You disturbed me."
"I'm sorry. AJ's no innocent, though."
"He tries not to be. But at our age, there's so much we haven't seen or done yet. How can we call ourselves experienced? What happened to him that makes him try so hard to be something he's not?"
"Life, I suppose. It happens to all of us."
"And you? What's hurt you so badly that you maintain this faÁade? It must be hard to keep the mask from slipping. Your friends aren't fooled."
"We've been through a lot together. We can read each other's minds. Nothing is kept secret between us."
"But you still try?"
"I don't want to worry them."
"But you worry them more."
"There are some things we like to keep to ourselves."
"That's true, but we shouldn't let it swallow us. Life still has to be lived." I look her in the face.
"What about you? You seem an endless fountain of wise sayings and advice."
"I'm a good listener. And I know how to reassure people. I've seen a lot too."
"Once, I went to this hospital to visit some sick children. They were all terminal, some with cancer, some with cardiovascular diseases. Some had recently developed them, some had been like that from birth. All of them were hooked up to machines and all of them were living on borrowed time. Every breath might have been their last. But despite it all, to be honest, it was the most cheerful ward in the whole hospital. These children were so brave. Untainted by weakness, able to look death in the face and not be afraid. I don't even know any adults like that. I don't know, maybe it was due to innocence, or naivete. But I remember this one little girl, she must have been about eight. She had idiopathic hypertrophic subaortic stenosis. That's when the heart muscle gets really thick and stiff, restricting the flow of blood. It makes it hard to do any sort of physical exertion, because your heart just can't get enough oxygen to the rest of your body. She had already undergone a myectomy, which had almost killed her, but had not lessened her condition any. When I met her, she was set to undergo alcohol ablation, an experimental procedure that had never even been tried on someone so young. I remember talking to her about it. She was so matter-of-fact about the whole thing, detailing for me the process. It sounded like my worst nightmare, catheters and central lines, tiny balloons inflated in your vessels. Then alcohol injected into the blocked vessel to induce a mini heart attack. And the entire time, you're kept awake with only a small amount of Demerol. Like some medieval torture device.
And I thought to myself, how ironic that the cure risks more than the disease itself. And inflicts more pain. But if it worked, then she'd be well again. And she could lead a normal life."
"Did it work?"
"I don't know. I never went back to find out. I was too scared." She looks at me intently.
"You know, when a man is wrapped up in himself, he makes a pretty small package."
"But I thought good things came in small packages." She doesn't smile at my attempt at humor. I sense she's angry. Or maybe disappointed.
"Don't joke. I think it's sad that you can't step beyond yourself to share others' experiences. You can't always live inside yourself and your problems."
"Hey, I'm no angel. Besides, I have my own problems, why take on others'?"
"Because it puts yours in perspective. Our own problems seem so minor compared to the world. And in a way, that's uplifting. We're human, as a collective, we have the capacity to persevere over great odds. It lends strength in our darkest hours." I think about that. But before I can respond, there's a knock at the door. She stands up to open it, as I sit up. It's Nick. Neither of them says a word as she lets him into the room. He looks at her then at me, skeptical. I know what's he's thinking, it's written all over his face. I know Camryn can see it too, but her face remains an expressionless mask.
"Brian, we've been looking all over for you. You should have told someone that..." He trails off, not wanting to finish his thought. Suddenly, the surreal hilarity of the past several days strikes me. I glance at Camryn to see a smile twisting her lips. I know she's thinking the same thing. I can't hold it in any longer, it's all just too funny. We take ourselves so seriously, don't we? I let out a small laugh, but that opens the floodgates and it all just comes pouring out. I fall back against the bed, choking on my laughter. Through my tears, I can see that Camryn has started laughing as well, but Nick just stands there with a confused look on his face.
"What's so funny?" he asks. I only laugh harder.
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