At the moment he knows three things. He knows his watch reads 3:08 a.m., he knows he’s walking, and he knows it’s cold. Jesus it’s cold. That’s for sure. Nothing could be as certain as that right now …
He knows of lots of other stuff. He knows of his name, for example. He knows of his name, but he doesn’t feel his name, he feels the cold. He’s exposed. Where is his coat? Must have left it at home. It’s too far to turn back now, and besides, he’d wake everyone up if he went back. He knows of everyone at home, asleep, a million miles away. He feels like he knows them, but to be fair, he only knows of them; everyone’s inaccessible when they’re sleeping.
He knows of lots of other stuff. He knows of the street he’s on, and he doesn’t want to admit it, but he knows of the street he’s going to. He’s going to her street. He wants to say that he didn’t plan it. He wants to say that he felt restless and just wandered off, but he knows she’s the reason he was restless. She’s the reason. He knows four things.
He knows of lots of other stuff. He knows of the moon. It’s up there tonight. It’s so bright you could accuse it of showing off. “Smiling moon,” he says to himself, “you’re my only friend.” The words are so overdramatic they make him cringe, and he’s embarrassed, even though nobody heard. It’d been one of those situations when the words appear in your head from nowhere and they’re so disgusting that you have to let their venom out. It was a terrible thing to say.
It’s not even true, what he said. He’s got friends. Lots of friends. They had called him to come out tonight, but he hadn’t gone. He had told himself that he didn’t feel like going out, that he didn’t want tonight to be like every other night—beer-soaked and deafening. He had told himself that he wanted to do something different tonight.
Now he wants to say that he didn’t plan it. He wants to say that he felt restless and just wandered off, but … but … he can’t remember what he was thinking about a minute ago. He squints the right side of his face, analyzing his head. He finds only poetry, which he gives immediate release: “Too many nights without you, my dear, have unraveled my wits,” he declares. “Your charms have reallocated my senses, filling my heart and emptying my head.” He cringes again. This isn’t comfortable. That wasn’t even good poetry. He’s just too far to turn around, and it’s much too cold to stop to think, he reasons, so instead he just turns the corner here.
A long, straight street. It isn’t far now, he thinks, as an approaching form comes into view from farther up the sidewalk. He continues forward as the form becomes a silhouette and the silhouette becomes a man. Three a.m. and this other guy is out walking. It’s great not to be alone. Everyone who’s still awake at three a.m. is automatically your friend. He had seen it a million times. Late at night, all guys are naturally inclined to be buddies. Except when girls and booze are involved—then feelings get hurt and tempers get raised and before you know it everyone’s at each others’ throats. But there are no girls to impress here, so he makes eye contact as the other guy passes. He gets an angry look. The man appears to him as all eyes and furrowed brow and clenched teeth. He feels guilty and scrambles to rationalize.
The other guy was going for tough, he settles momentarily. That’s not so bad. He does that himself sometimes—tries to give tough-guy looks. But the other guy’s look hadn’t come across as a tough-guy look. It had come across as an accusation, and it was unsettling.
He searches for something else to think about. He immediately thinks of her, but that’s even more unsettling. It had once been an affectionate feeling to think of her, but now it just makes his stomach sweat. He shivers, and he wants to be able to say that it’s because of the cold.
He knows of lots of other stuff. Of other stuff besides just her. He knows of her name, for example, which isn’t her. Your name isn’t you. That’s obvious because not everybody’s name fits. Hers does, though. Hers is a beautiful name. It’s so beautiful you could accuse her parents of showing off. He thinks of saying it out loud, but this time he resists the urge to talk to himself. He doesn’t need that. He doesn’t need to be pacing around at three a.m., mumbling her name. He shouldn’t even be allowed to do that. He doesn’t even know her. He feels her. He feels her like he feels the cold, and he knows the cold, but to be fair, he only knows of her. He knows of her well. But knowing of her isn’t the same as knowing her. He knows it isn’t the same. He knows five things.
So why’s he going there, to her street? He listens to himself but receives no answer. At least no good answer. It’s a stupid thing to be doing. There’s nothing romantic about it. It’s just sheer weakness. Nobody leaves a warm couch and a glowing television screen to go walk to her house and be sad. It’s embarrassing to be so weak.
He wants to say that he can’t control it, that he’s compelled, that he’s drawn to her. He wants to say that it’s fate, or destiny, or some other charming intervention from impossibilities, but he knows why he’s going. He’s going because there’s a one-in-a-million chance that she’ll be waiting for him, and as his figure rounds the corner to approach her house, the porch light will come on and an instant later she’ll burst out the door and spring down the steps and drag him inside, where he’ll be warmed by her wanton embraces. It’s a beautiful thought, but beauty, unfortunately, has nothing to do with truth. It probably won’t happen. He knows it probably won’t happen, and probably is as certain as anything, when you think about it. So he knows six things.
He wishes he had a better reason to be going to where he’s going. He wishes that he were leaving for art school tomorrow. Unexpectedly leaving for art school in California. Then he could march right up to the house at three a.m. and ring the doorbell and tell whomever came to the door that he had to see her right away, that it couldn’t wait ‘til tomorrow. Then he would at least get a hug and good wishes. From her, that is—not from whomever came to the door.
What if her dad came to the door? He doesn’t want to think about it. He erases her dad from the scene and continues, straining to keep the vision coherent.
And after saying goodnight he’d go to leave, and, hesitating in the doorframe, he’d turn over his shoulder, look up, and say something like “God, I’m going to miss you.” He’d say it in that movie voice—the one that sounds like a deflating basketball or someone desperately in love. Those are funny things to make similar noises, but they do. He knows they do. He knows seven things.
He’d use what he knows to his advantage. He’d use that sound to his advantage, and after he had delivered his line, whatever it was, he’d watch. Just watch the pools of her eyes for a flicker, a sign of recognition, a glimmer of hope, anything. Maybe she’d break down completely and run to him, crying for him to stay at any cost … but now he’s getting carried away.
He wakes up. He must’ve been dreaming for a while because he’s awfully close now. Awfully, awfully close. This is her street, coming up, and soon it’ll all be over. The whole indulgent episode will be over.
He rounds the corner to approach her house, but he doesn’t look up. Instead he keeps his eyes on his sneakers. The sneakers alternate. They take turns flashing white above the cracks in the sidewalk. Right, left. Right, left.
He’s around the corner and approaching her house, but he still doesn’t look up. Instead he crosses the street to walk along the other side. He doesn’t even check to see if the porch light has come on. If she’s running to him right now, he doesn’t know it. If she’s running to him right now, he’s not ready to unwrap his present. He’ll savor the suspense a minute longer.
Less than a minute. Less than a minute because he’s almost there, almost directly across from her house. That means that she’s somewhere on the other side of the street. Running to him or not, she’s somewhere on the other side of this street. He knows she’s somewhere over there. He knows eight things.
There’s really very little chance that she’s noticed him and is running to him right now in order to entice him indoors and give him free range to explore his affections. Very little chance. The chances are slightly better that she’s sitting on the porch, or hanging out the window, or fiddling on the roof, gazing at the stars. Just slightly better, seeing as how it’s so cold. Jesus it’s cold. That’s for sure. Nothing could be as certain as that right now …
He comes to the house directly across from hers, but he doesn’t look over toward hers – he just stops. For a moment he tries to concentrate on his breath. He inhales biting cold, counts a Mississippi, and then blows the visible vapors toward the moon. He wants to do it again and again. He wants to lose himself in it and forget where he is and just be wildly entertained with his own breath until sunrise. He wants to forget himself but instead he forgets his breath. His little game ends, and his big one begins again.
He takes one more step up the street. Then another. It’s one step at a time for a few squares, but then he stops again. The cool thing to do would be to just keep walking and never look over and never look back. He wants to disappear. Disappear from this whole place. Second star to the right and straight on ‘til morning. He wants to evaporate like his breath and never think again. He wants to never think again but instead he just thinks of her. Of her and her house on the other side of the street.
But he still doesn’t look up. Not just yet. His eyes down, he sits on the curb across from the house. The curb across from her house. Her house on her street. She probably played on this street when she was little, he thinks. Maybe this was her curb. Wow, that’s pathetic. I’m pathetic, he thinks. I’m pathetic, so I may as well just look up.
I look up.
Her light is off. Hell, all the lights are off—it’s three a.m. She’s not sitting on the porch, she’s not hanging out the window, and she’s not fiddling on the roof, gazing at the stars. She’s definitely not running toward me. I let out an exaggerated sigh. Or maybe it wasn’t exaggerated; maybe I really did need to sigh. Like a deflating basketball, I think. In any case, it’s all over, the whole indulgent episode. Her light is off.
I get up. Up off the curb to start walking home. Back to my own home. Somehow it’s gotten colder. Jesus it’s cold. That’s for sure. Nothing could be as certain as that right now …
I’ve looked up, and once you look up it’s easier to just keep looking up. So I keep looking up. Up at the moon. It’s up there tonight. It’s so bright you could accuse it of showing off. “Sneering moon,” I say, “you’re my only friend.” I say it, and I don’t cringe.
I’m not ashamed of my bad poetry. They’re just words. It doesn’t matter—nobody’s listening. Nobody’s listening and her light is off. I know her light is off. I know nine things.
At the moment I know nine things. I know my watch reads 3:31 a.m., I know I’m walking, and I know it’s cold. I know she was the reason. I know that knowing of her isn’t the same as knowing her. I know it’s never going to happen. I know a deflating basketball and someone desperately in love make the same noise. I know she’s somewhere behind me, and I know her light is off. Off. That’s for sure. Nothing could be as certain as that right now. Nothing is.
