She walks out into the crowd, hands in her pockets, looks at me; the people are a river behind her. "Are you going to draw me? You said you were going to draw me!" I look away; "Be patient.
Soon."
The explosions are the clouds above the city, their flashes blurred; light's charge at our eyes is so rarely forgotten. Buildings turn into blocks and blocks turn into miles and we find ourselves at her step. A
car rumbles by; the driver stares at our feet and looks away; his exhaust blurs the buildings behind him. She grabs my hand. "Pay attention!" I smile at her. She looks at the ground, grinning. "
Come upstairs; I need to show you something."
She lies down on the couch; I look out the window. She pulls her coat over her shoulders and turns into the back of the sofa. I turn to her, my head lying against the desk. I open my mouth to speak and she lifts her hand and beckons over; I lie beside her. Her eyes are like bees, I tell myself upon looking; I try to be repulsed.
Her face is like their swarming, the angry queen reigning harsh. The cities suffer beneath her; the peasants toil, every push of the plow excruciating. I can see it when I look at her: the colors in her skin fight each other bitterly, peace too far away to grasp. The slums are the battleground, the streets are alight of
grenades.
She sits still and stares out the window now, head on arms and a vacant stare; a perfect Jolly Roger. I lay the pad on the easel and sharpen my pencils slowly. She sits still. My hands fly across the paper; she sits still. Outside is the sky, rigid and smooth in blue pastel, with the clouds arching across it, so carelessly drawn. She falls asleep too easily, I think. She lies on the bed with her hands over her head; I want to wake her and tell her that she looks afraid but I don't think she looks afraid. She is resilient. She ventures into the deserts of blankets in the darkest of night and braves the anger of nature. She shakes when you look at her closely and you barely notice it but you still do and it's there and it doesn't go away. The city burns even at night; the taxis still crawl along, the tanks tear by them screaming. She doesn't seem to mind, though; I watch her smile and sigh into the pillow.
Tomorrow night you find yourselves at swingsets,
oblivious to wreckage beside you. The wind across your face ignites the stale taste of the city; for a moment, again you taste the countryside so hastily escaped. The swings squeal under your weight, and the dying grass
racing beneath you is less than a blur; a scratch of your hand against such receptive paper, yielding exhausted to air flying past. You stare beside you and remember she's there, silently swaying to and fro. She looks back at you with her most bewildered look and flies past you again. Your hands hold the chains, your legs are the least subtle pendulum, grace never of concern. In the distance there is shouting, but the city is a haze; the entire world is you,
your hands mold the earth and the cities are only toy wooden blocks in your hands and your feet stamp the ground so insolent to resist you;
I wake up beside her on the couch, the shouting still louder. She drew the shades in my sleep, the room obscured so gently from my eyes, struggling to stay open. My drawing lies on the ground, ripped from the wall by angry
wind. Its lines don't reflect her; they sit on the paper askew, flying off through her eyelids into the ceiling.
She is cold and pale in my hands, staring blankly into the wall.