Pee On Water

THE SAD GIRLFRIEND

She and her analyst spend the nicer part of an afternoon analyzing a “l-o-v-e” stuck on the end of a letter. “Is it hyphenated for emphasis?”

“No, the dashes are sticks in the love. They cut up the word. They spread the love thin across the page. It is a weak love.”

“The hyphens are chains?”

“The hyphens are needles.”

“What if the hyphens are just playful? Maybe they are influenced by hip hop music.”

“They are needles.” A sigh escapes from the air-conditioner. “I am confident they are needles.”

Wednesdays are beginners’ class yoga. She sits in her spot. During a pause, she falls asleep. The others assume she is meditating. They try not to stare. They stretch. The sad girlfriend wakes with a start. She licks the drool on her cheek. “I was just meditating,” she explains loudly. The others nod.

“What did you see?” they whisper. “What did you find out?”

A portrait of a sad girlfriend can find shade in many silhouettes. Trying to cry on the toilet. Struggling with the passenger-side seatbelt. Scowling under the weight of an arm. Growing up, girls ambition to be girlfriends. Birthday candles die for it.

“At first it was black. I could hear you calling out downward dog. I saw numbers and the numbers were in colors. Then I was in a Starbucks, except everything was made of water. The floor was shallow water, the walls were deep. There were different cups and each one held inside it a joke.” A murmur moves across the class. “What kind of joke?” “Did you try the joke?” “Was I in your meditation?” The yoga teacher silences them with a hand movement.

Tim McWilliams eyes his girlfriend through his glasses. Sad again? And over what? Strawberry ice-cream thrown in with the chocolate and vanilla? Can’t a spoon spoon around it? “Strawberry ice cream tastes nothing like strawberries. It is just an unpleasant reminder.” Tim McWilliams has spent a fortune on Blockbuster new releases. Can’t the night recover in the dark?

It can seem that nothing is happening. The clouds do their thing over buildings. The commercials cue up at commercial breaks. A story meanders without any discernible plot. But behind these blinds, a world is breathing breaths on top of breaths already breathed. Brad Pitt is slowly falling out of love and into a new love. Matter into energy, energy into light.

The sad girlfriend paints her nails with polish. She decides to change outfits before the polish has time to dry. It smudges. She does not cry. She wipes the smudged nail on toilet paper and the toilet paper sticks. She uses nail polish remover, which gets her high. Or doesn’t get her high. Or does get her high. She checks gmail. She checks gmail. She checks gmail.

“A Kim Basinger movie made my relationship look boring.” The clock drags its minute hand constant and even.

“What first attracted you to Tim?” The analyst asks, searching her hair for split-ends.

The sad girlfriend waits for the subway pressing her Metrocard to her lips. She walks to the edge of the platform and peers down the tunnel. Where are the bright eyes of the train? A couple leans against the wall waiting, hugging out of boredom. The train comes. Everyone sits down. The train pulls out. Inside the car, no one moves. The eyes of the passengers roam uneasily over the advertisements, onto the other passengers, then quickly out the window to the lonely tunnels with their repetitive graffiti tags. “We were in a swimming pool and his eyelashes clung together like tips of a crown. That was attractive to me.”

The sad girlfriend feels a feeling in her stomach. She sits very still. There are no other girls in her car. She folds her arms across her boobs. She makes an unattractive face. There is a big shit in my stomach and it won’t come out my butt. The subway car halts to a stop. The analyst floats into Starbucks, “Why do you think this is?” I think it’s scared. The passengers keep their faces straight. If the sad girlfriend lets her eyes linger too long on any one man, the man might later log on to Craigslist and post a missed connections entry.

The sad girlfriend searches for a small child to keep her faith in. During subway halts, she finds it helpful to focus her fear and hope onto a small child. There are none in sight. The lights cut out. The subway car waits in the anxious dark. Probably, terrorists have killed the subway driver. The analyst pinches her fingers on the thin half-hairs of the split end. It will either be gas that knocks everyone in comas or they’ll come in with knifes, bullets, flames. The terrorists keep going after New York cause it’s the big American pinball machine. Its skyline stands like bottles in a row, waiting to be knocked down saloon-style. There is no announcement from the subway conductor. The analyst pulls to see how far up the split end will split. The girlfriend searches again for a child.

In this year of early ’00s, anxiety is indoors. It’s being surrounded by still objects, walls too white and too smooth. Outside, the trees swish, the birds chatter, an ant will crawl over your leg and include you. But inside the only sound to accompany the air-conditioner is the metallic whine of a miss-programmed wake up alarm. M4w, E train 3 am: You were the sad girl wearing a blue t-shirt and white/light grey shorts. Me, tan khakis, black shirt w/white logo, black glasses, bob marley was playing on my iPod shuffle. You had wavy hair tied back, then you let it down. You have an amazing natural beauty.

The sad girlfriend rubs her Metrocard on her face. The ink has stained her nose. Is it ever worth wearing a dress? In the day it can feel relaxing, but by night it’s just a flag waving to the rapists. The sad girlfriend realizes her eyes have been resting in someone else’s eyes. The someone else smiles. You sat by the door. I stole a few glances, didn't stare, but totally wanted to. You were breathtaking. If you happen to read this and are available/interested send me a email.

Sometimes landing a boyfriend feels like being drafted in the NBA. Well, I’ve always wanted to play, ever since I was little watching games. I think I can really help this ballclub out of its recent difficulties. Which thought will be the last to sulk around her brain understood? Her family feels as far away as a wallet-sized photograph. Her tombstone will stand straight while Brad Pitt’s life continues its wayward path.

Above the subway, the world is living its noisy way. A.M. eyes are dizzy from Craigslist. Bulky guys flash little lights over driver’s licenses. Why were buildings built over our sky? It’s only occasionally when we see the moon, but it’s supposed to be the main thing up there. You take the train from Astoria to Manhattan. You're about 5'6", petite, really cute short dark hair, always dress casually; tee shirt, cargo pants, etc. I think you're greek. You never smile. You are so unbelievably sexy and rarely look up from your sudoku.

The world has already ended. It ended when Chris Columbus peed on land. When Jesus died and everyone got obsessed with him. In 2000 when everything was going to fuck up and then nothing fucked up at all. The whole next millennium lay open, its ten centuries available, its decades in rows. No one is watching us lay toilet paper on wet public toilet seats. We carry our water in cups, draw sunglasses on our sun. I should've said something but couldn't think of anything unlame to say. You looked so tired, slouching in your tank top. Let me take care of you. I see you most every working day. We enter the train thru the same set of doors and exit at Penn. You have dark shoulder length hair, which is sometimes still wet in the morning. I am too shy to say hi. I was amazed by your beauty and was in awe and I am never in awe of anyone or anything. Eventually I'll have to say something to you, maybe when I see you walking down 22nd to the stop, flip-flops pattering out the beats of my heart. You sat with me until i got off at times sq. the conductor said be careful to the 59th st. stop and i said careful of what? we looked at each other and you similed.

The girlfriend may die a terrible death of terrorists. There will be no children to watch with honest eyes. The analyst will be so upset. The sad girlfriend had tried to watch the world news, but the stories lacked the details needed to engage her. Brad Pitt fell for a girl who doesn’t wear shoes when she doesn’t want to. To have a boyfriend is to play in the privileged center of a story. To be sad is to hang low, matching mind to gravity, to feel the indoors and outdoors so hard it makes your head ring. This is being written to the angel who shared her bottle of water with a homeless person during the heat wave. You were wearing a beige see-through outfit. You had a beautiful golden complexion. I believe you are Italian. I hope that you are out there.