“Belshazzar!” the woman called to the top dog with the scarred forehead.
He was set to lurch toward Thomas; however, her voice had a strange effect on him, seemingly paralyzing his faith in himself and restraining his rage. Turning away from Thomas, Belshazzar stretched his muzzle toward the woman, who extended her dark, bony hand, rubbing his busted-up head and then stepping forward. The pack hurried after her, vanishing around the corner and leaving the smell of dry fur behind.
She called him in the early evening and apologized; they agreed to meet. He offered to come by and pick her up right then and there.
“You don’t have to,” Olia answered. “We’ll see each other tomorrow, anyway.” She thought about how men never stuck around for too long. Sometimes she’d notice them and pick them out of a crowd, touching their hands for the first time, peering into their eyes for the first time, remembering their wrinkles, uttering their names, permitting them to stay by her, noting their habits and behavior, listening to how they talked, patiently sitting through stories about their adventures, triumphs, and misfortunes, sharply and firmly thwarting their efforts to learn more about her than she wanted to disclose; she snickered at their bravery, let herself be perplexed and touched by their trusting nature, and harshly quelled their aggression. She adjusted to their breathing, urged them to take decisive action, lost her sense of time with them, left them exposed and alone with their troubles and distorted notions of love and loyalty. She missed them, thought of them, forgot them, refreshed her memory, and recalled everything they’d said to her, all their vows, and everything they did with her. She was resilient enough to never go running back to them and smart enough not to forget them forever, hiding some memento of each and every one of them under her skin—their brimming faith in themselves, their impetuosity, weakness, and unreliability, their caution, fickleness, and piety, their susceptibility to new love. “Those men,” she thought, “were born to protect this city and lead campaigns of conquest in its name. They were brought up to value obedience and restraint. They were taught to endure extreme heat and cold, pain and hunger. They grew to defend the city’s walls or build churches and warehouses, augmenting our city’s riches and glorifying all the saints who watched over it. They’re entrusted with keeping our city’s gas lines and plumbing in working order, taking care of women and children, feeding stray animals, and keeping wild birds away from the fruit trees downtown. Spreading love is their vocation; the gods have opened the heart of each of them, making way for both love and hate, setting them up for endless joy and suffering, so all they can do is love and hope, believe and lose faith, wait and never retreat, express their gratitude and profess their views, lose everything they’ve accumulated and start anew, hoping that this time around love won’t betray them, that death will retreat.
MATTHEW
Ten years ago, time stopped for me, and it has been determinedly refusing to move forward ever since. My internal mechanisms paused and my heart took to beating like it was a service industry employee with a bad attitude—doing a passable job, but not making any guarantees. Everything irritated me, even the smell of my own clothes. Turning thirty was a trap. There was no fun to be had immersing myself in the unknown and no joy to be found continuing what I had already started. Just morning fire in my head, afternoon emptiness in my throat, harsh evening light, and my hatred, terrible and practiced religiously, for anyone trying to do something nice for me, and terrible vengeance to be exacted upon anyone who tried to help me. I’d already managed to get divorced twice by the time I was thirty. I would have gone for the triple crown, but I didn’t have any takers. My habits scared women off. The fact that I hardly ever slept, and that I wouldn’t wake up for a long time when I did, put them on edge. They sat by me in the cold twilight on old sheets, hovering over me, fearfully observing my breathing, taking my pulse, hastily calling their friends for advice, carefully touching my shoulder, turning me over so I wouldn’t choke on my own bile. Back then, I’d dream of sand dunes. They flowed through my life, leaving no trace except the stifling heat of my room. I’d dream of snakes and ground-dwelling birds, I’d dream of signs written in dark clay, I’d dream of taciturn children who gathered poisonous berries among dry branches and offered them to me, seemingly exhorting me, “Come on, try one already. You don’t know what you’re missing. This is the strangest flavor you’ll ever taste—only death tastes like this. It’s better than any spice imaginable, it’s sweeter than any drug cocktail imaginable. Just try it—wake up and try it.” Naturally, that left me with no desire to wake up.
Sometimes the women couldn’t take it anymore and they’d go run errands. Sometimes they’d just sit there, waiting courteously. But they’d all leave eventually. Sometimes they’d come back and continue to sit on sheets salty as sails. My sex life sure was incredible. In the afternoon, I’d compose myself and head to the radio station, switch on my battered, virus-laden computer, sift through some CDs, fecklessly try to clean up my desk, then get frustrated and wander out into the hallway… you know, for a cigarette break or a cup of tea. The flickering glow of the Polytechnic Institute, where my studio was located, towered over the trees, a few scattered lights shining in the classrooms. Darkness pooled between the buildings; the neighborhood smelled of early spring and damp alleyways. I never wanted to leave this city, and I never wanted to go back to the studio, not for anything.