out of reach

Winter

Don’t Touch the Dancers warned a sign posted on the streaked mirror behind the large oak bar. Lost in conversation, they hardly noticed the ample black woman lying on the thinly carpeted platform behind them, dejected in body language and expression.

Drinks in hand, they occasionally paused to watch her carelessly tossed her leg in the air like an unenthusiastic aerobics instructor. From time to time, they noticed the vacant look on her face and unaffected way she moved to the metal classics which blared from the speakers above. While the details of their first conversation have long since been forgotten, the impact he made on her that Valentine’s Day resonated, like the image of the dancer’s abundant, dimpled flesh against the flimsy lace thong that was helpless to contain it.

Two weeks later, he brought her to his oceanside town, halcyonic and deserted in the off-season. After passing strings of perfectly maintained Victorian houses they pulled up alongside the waterfront and parked. They wandered across the hard, winter-packed sand and stood motionless at the water’s edge. While the ocean splashed icy foam onto the tips of their boots, a concentrated heat gathered in her ears, warm at first and then slightly stinging. It radiated outward until her exposed lobes pulsed gently, saturated with tiny pinpricks that were at once hot and cold. He turned away from the water to face her and noticing the creeping redness, gently covered her ears with his hands. She continued to hear the ocean in the empty space created by his cupped palms.

Summer

Surveying the assortment of pastel treasures, she chose a single chocolate cupcake without hesitation. It was the only confident decision she’d managed to make in months. After waiting in line in the oven-fresh space amid the sugary din, she paid the overzealous cashier and left. As she peered back through the window, she witnessed a young, aproned punk rocker tenderly frosting a never-ending supply of tiny cakes, handheld celebrations.

She walked west down the narrow, tree-lined street as people’s lights flickered on one by one. The air was thick with late summer’s regret, which hovered densely in the atmosphere like wistful molasses. It was a familiar lament, a tinge of sadness whose origin couldn’t be traced to any particular source. She walked straight into the invisible fog as if on cue, half-expected yet unwelcomed. It was impossible not to ingest the small, unidentifiable loss with each breath.

Fall

Nearly late for another flight, he kissed her as she slept and slipped into the morning to catch a taxi. It was the third time in a month work drew him back. When she awoke, she lie in bed watching the shadows the highway traffic made as they danced across the borders of her wall. They moved from left to right, conventionally, then right to left, like Hebrew and sometimes simultaneously in both directions, pausing only briefly as dictated by the traffic lights.

She swept her pale arm across the bed, a snow angel in the down, and was momentarily startled when her limb met no resistance. Reminded of his absence, she longed for a presence in her generous bed, to be eaten up while the skipping shadows amused themselves in the background. Alone, she felt her present disappear into her past.

She dialed his number and sighed as the call went straight to voicemail. Closing her eyes, she drew her hand to her warm stomach and imagined his plane heading west over a large cartoon map of the United States, little dashed red lines marking its trail. 35,000 feet above and completely out of reach. Three feet away and equally out of reach.

Image: French broadcasting system test pattern