Asunder

THE BE ALL END ALL

A WOMAN SAID TO ME ONCE IT ALMOST DOESN’T FEEL LIKE IT’S TWO-THIRTY.

I’ve kept this in my brain ever since, next to where I keep particular lines of poetry, but away from pertinent information. I can’t recall what prompted the statement, although it may’ve been in response to some confession I’d been dying to confess.

Women have a way of leaving their mark, of staying with you.

When lacking a satisfactory answer I always manage to compose a stoic look on my face. Brooding, even. This is because I am no good on the spot or off the cuff. I usually need days to respond to a question to anyone’s satisfaction.

This woman was beautiful in a way that makes you sorry you were born.

Example of typical exchange between myself and woman who said, It almost doesn’t feel like it’s two-thirty.

What is wrong with you?

Stoic look on face. Brooding, even.

A pregnant woman was walking her dog in the middle of the night in a park where I was sitting on a bench contemplating death and masturbation. She walked the way pregnant women walk, particularly when they are out in the middle of the night walking dogs. It is the same way fat women walk to the bathroom, halfway between a waddle and a cry for help. I don’t know if she did this every night, walk the dog this way. There are things you know about her, though, without having to ask. Mostly, she wouldn’t appreciate this kind of recognition.

If you see her say I’m sorry.

At that moment she was the object of an affection I cannot describe nor explain. I thought maybe it was misplaced. I thought maybe the affection should’ve been directed elsewhere. That is my tragedy, if I have one. Otherwise it’s not being able to make sense of such things. The pregnant woman is her own tragedy and I have almost nothing to do with it. But mostly I regarded her as a subject. Of what, I’m not certain.

In the end, I’m not sure I can differentiate between subject and object.

One could ask, What were you doing in a park in the middle of the night sitting on a bench contemplating death and masturbation? And what exactly does contemplating death and masturbation entail? And what kind of a person engages in such activity?

Stoic look on face. Brooding, even.

Perversion is one of those eye-of-the-beholder things.

I watched her walk the dog. It was a kind of ballet.

I have no real need to express anything and certainly no affinity for it. I’d rather look pensive and have others misinterpret whatever countenance I’ve affected.

All this until I am left with a pregnant woman walking her dog in the middle of the night. There was no exchange between myself and the pregnant woman walking her dog in the middle of the night, typical or otherwise. If there had been it would’ve concluded quickly.

Example of imagined exchange between myself and pregnant woman walking her dog in the middle of the night:

Is it a boy or girl?

Boy.

Name?

Butch.

You shouldn’t be out here.

Why not?

Because it almost doesn’t feel like it’s two-thirty.

Had I taken the leash from her hands and with her watching, hanged myself with it, it would be her telling this story now. Except it would be different.

Although, the sort of pregnant woman that walks dogs in the middle of the night is also the sort of woman that carries a handgun in her jacket pocket and when approached by strange men in the middle of the night tends to shoot first and tell stories later.

So the story could involve a shooting and let’s face it, every story should involve a shooting.

Or else someone who can make sense of things.

Or else a quick and resolute conclusion.

Example of story that involves a shooting or someone who can make sense of things or a quick and resolute conclusion:

The park is empty. The man is not contemplating anything. The woman is not pregnant. The dog is not walking and the circle is not circling.

The gun is where any can find it.