Vertigo

NEW YEAR’S DAY

New Year’s Day on the sofa. I folded my life in on itself, seven times. The last few folds it only bent. I was surprised it was so bulky.

Last night I went to a New Year’s Party where I met an Indian. I mean that’s how he described himself—“I am an Indian.” I talked to him for a long time. He seemed neither more nor less interesting than anyone else at the party, where I knew no one well and most people not at all. He told me he had once taught business studies but had now gone back to running a business.

Everyone at the party was so lovely. Everyone was so happy. Everyone’s websites were now in color with hand-drawn lettering. Everyone liked cooking and eating. Everyone didn’t see why they shouldn’t like — shoes! Everyone had taken pictures of themselves or had pictures of themselves taken in thrift-store clothing. Everyone agreed they should take time out for themselves. Everyone knew the difference between need and desire. Everyone made surprisingly snarky jokes. But then everyone laughed. Everyone smoked, or used to smoke, but everyone also, or instead, did — yoga. Everyone was younger than me, even those who were older. Or maybe it was the other way round. Everyone knew how to take their time. Everyone knew the value of real success, though everyone once worked for a flashy magazine or somesuch. Everyone knew how to say fuck. Everyone knew when to say, fuck it. Everyone wasn’t hurting anyone. Everyone knew how to keep some distance. Everyone knew when to let it go. Everyone knew when to say enough is enough. Everyone enjoyed cake. Everyone had a secret tattoo. Anyone who didn’t was keeping it secret. Everyone was surprised at some things. Other things were no surprise to anyone. Everyone knew there’s a time and a place, though not for everything. Everyone knew what it was like to be in a bad place, which was not here, or now. Everyone liked looking at things that were pretty. I can still make things that are pretty, but I don’t now, and, as for the things I made in the past, I don’t even like to look at them anymore.

You made yourself small on top of me, and I held myself still while you told me about the lovers you’d had while we were together. I held myself carefully because if I showed any reaction you would stop telling me. And then I would know no more than before.

I know you will buy me a drink.

I know you will take me out to dinner.

I do not know if you will tell me the truth again.

I can’t exchange this trinket for any of the others.

Because you are practical, you will put me away into some part of your memory that is folded. You will put me into the past tense. You will not be concerned to resolve your thoughts about me. You will not want to know what I think of you. Your skin has many folds. You can put many memories away in them, one for each woman. You will live with me there all your life: a little canker that does no real harm, folded into your skin. You have even not put me away yet, as, here I am, back beside you. You snore and it sounds like a shower of change dropped on the pavement. Your snore interrupted my dream in which I had unsatisfactory sex with S’s wife. It made her spill coins from her pockets, and then it woke me.