Stalking down the street, I began to hear the footsteps following me again. Always this block. Always this building.
“Don't you have something better to do, like look out your windows and spy on the neighbors or something?” I scowled at the asphalt, refusing to look behind me.
I hear a chuckle. “Not particularly.” Always so nonchalant. Doesn't he take any of this seriously?
I continue walking in silence. I'm so angry at him, even the gravel crunching under his feet infuriates me. The moonlight falling down, the rustle of the trees. It feels like too much sensual stimulation. “Just go home, okay? What're you even following me for?”
“Aw, Tria, don't be sour. I didn't mean anything by it.” His voice really sounded penitent, but it didn't quench my anger.
“I don't know what you mean. I'm not sour, Jason. Just tired of having some creep follow me every night when I walk home from work.” I stared at the ground as I crossed the street, the lines of the crosswalk faded.
“That's not my name. Tria, can't you just stop and talk to me?”
I turn around. On the other side of the crosswalk, he stands. Jason, Mitch, Sean, Samuel. All names I've tried before. I have a list at home.
“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to insult you last night.” His eyes look so blue-gray, I know he's sad. His eyes look like the color of moonlight, and I can't refuse him.
I walk back across the street, sagging my shoulders. “I'm really angry, you know.” But I'm not. I've already forgiven him for refusing to come home with me last night.
“I know, love. You made it all the way across the street this time.” He smiles at me, and I smile back, because the last shreds of my willful anger have evaporated. “Come on, I'm dying for a float.” He turns right and heads towards the neon sign at the end of the street.
We walk down the block towards our usual haunt, a diner on the corner, not touching, but he tells me jokes and I laugh. I tell him about work, about how no one even notices I'm there until I do something wrong.
He stares at a stray lock of hair on my face. I brush it behind my ear, and he says, “I notice you.”
“Stalk me is more like it,” and I laugh.
But he doesn't laugh. He just keeps walking.
I try a few more names. James, Jess, Alexis and Ashley. Nothing sticks.
“I thought you were only going to try one name a night?” He says with a laugh I can easily tell is false.
“You seem particularly down tonight. Figured it might cheer you up.”
The door jingles as we close it behind us, and we sit down in our booth like we do every night. I drink a root beer float and devour a basket of fries doused with vinegar and salt. I offer him one, and he shakes his head. “You know I hate vinegar.”
I lick off the vinegar and wave a soggy french fry at him. “Look, all clean. Doesn't even taste like vinegar any more.”
But he leans back with a wide grin, looking like the smart ass I'm in love with. His skin looks sallow in the artificial light. I can't wait until we get back outside.
After slurping the last remnants of my float, I leave some money on the table and get up, reaching to grab his coat sleeve and pull him out the door. “Let's go.”
He flinches away from me, but I ignore it and turn towards the door. It's almost time, and I want as much of him as I can get. I hear an apology as he hurriedly follows me, but I ignore that, too. I don't want to waste any of tonight with more arguing, more “I'm sorry”.
We walk back to the corner. The corner where I leave, but instead of crossing the street and going home, I stand and look at him. His dark red hair, almost black in the moonlight, and the sad smile on his face. “You wanna tell me what's wrong? Or you just gonna be sad all night.”
“Nothing's wrong, Tria.”
“It's okay to tell me. You tell me everything else. I can help.”
He shakes his head. “Not with this.”
“You can't know that until you tell me. I'm nosy and I want you to be happy.”
“I'm fine. Really.”
“You're a liar. I'd like to think, after a year of you, I'd know you better than that.” And there it is. Tomorrow is our anniversary, of a sorts, and now he knows it hasn't gone unnoticed.
“I'd better go. It's almost time.” He turns around and starts to walk back towards the end of the block, the crooked stop sign where he always seems to materialize behind me. For the first time, I watch him as he walks away hands in his pockets, head down, hair hanging over his forehead. He turns down an alley, and I have to follow him, I can't leave yet.
I run, and when I turn into the narrow dead-end alley, he's gone. My chest is on fire and my head hurts with exertion. There are no doors, just a rusted fire escape that looks as though it hasn't been used for years, and even if I were brave enough to follow him up, it would buckle under my weight.
I can't follow him, so I just close my eyes, and whisper into the empty alley. “I love you, you jerk. Why can't you just talk to me, like a normal friend would?”
“I can't. I can't tell you the truth. But please, don't stop coming. Don't leave me.” His voice in my ear is a whisper, right in front of me, but when I reach my hands out to touch him, he must already be gone, because all I touch is brick.
I sigh, open my eyes to an empty alley, and walk home silently. This boy. How can I put into words how much I love him? What do I say to make him believe, to make him come with me? I give up on writing the speech that will finally make him love me back, and instead think about how I'll fill up the hours of tomorrow before I can go visit him again.
I pick up the day's paper from my mailbox, and throw it on the table among my other assorted mail. I walk through the apartment, turning on one light after another, and shedding clothes along the way. Since the shower takes forever to heat up, I turn it on and put on the kettle, needing some caffeine to jolt me into wakefulness. I collapse at the table and flip through the paper, scanning the articles without much interest. When the kettle starts to whistle, I don't hear it. I'm staring at his face on the fifth page. Albeit a bit older.
The face of Davis Adams. The face of the man who built that diner, that bar, and in fact, all the shitty brick buildings on that block. Tomorrow is the day they throw some stupid anniversary party to celebrate the development of Adams block – the unofficial name the locals give it. After all, the entire block was at some point owned by Adams, and he was the one who had turned the empty lots into “cultural centers” as the article had called them. To the locals they were just worn brick buildings that had somehow had the wherewithal to hold up against bombs, fires, wind, rain, and any other obstacle thrown at them.
Loved by the locals not because they represented any sort of cultural bullshit, but simply because they were the meeting place of lovers, families, friends, and enemies. They were the scenes of knife fights, lover's quarrels, sidewalk chalk art, the most beautiful graffiti in the city, and the singular best busker in town. I smile thinking about the place.
Still, the photo of Adams unnerves me. Is my boy a relative? A grandson, or great grandson? But, no, he never had children. I'd call it an uncanny resemblance, except that the color of his eyes are the same color as the sidewalk, his skin like the moonlight, and his hair is the exact color of the brick.
I think about the fact that I've never seen him touch anything that didn't come from that block. Never seen him eat, or drink, or hug me, or cross the street.
And then, then I think about something scarier:Did I fall in love with the spirit of an entire city block?
Do places have souls?
