FUCK FUCK FUCK

The wet smells of Brooklyn brushed by our faces, as we stood and waited for the train. We were going to your mothers house in Manhattan. A far train ride, for those, like me, who were unwilling to go. In my mouth, was the taste of bleach and chewing gum, as warm waves of anxiety spread across my chest. I flexed and un-flexed my fingers, nervously looking at the tan skin, counting tiny hairs and looking back up at you. You looked off in the distance, at nothing or maybe everything, wrapped up in your thoughts. Your face was sad, yet without expression. It looked as if it were molded that way and all other expressions were spread along that pallatte. Thinking back to our argument I wondered if she was as awful as you made her out to be. Maybe that’s why you kept me a secret for so long. Maybe that’s why I called you all those names, that I don’t feel I should apologize for.
We hadn’t spoken since this afternoon. Your back was to me, elbows jutting from your thin frame, sparrow-like, as your hands reconnected to your waist. The air was ripe with pizza, sewage and cigarette smoke, that mute the smell of Pho noodles, coming from the Vietnamese restaurant a few blocks behind us. The restaurant had a pink neon sign with words, Pho-King, cuttI stopped and pointed to the sign, giggled uncomfortably, I hoped you found it funny too. you rolled your eyes and walked ahead of me, swinging your free arms Your long thin hair caught in the New York wind, while I stood behind you, watching as you grew smaller, while I wondered: Was this worth it? Should I follow? Did you care?

On the platform, a large elderly woman walked up to one of the ticket machines. Her hands were confused, between closing the umbrella and opening her large purse. It was a massive green bag, that probably had her whole world inside it; make up and glasses and breath-mints. At least, those were the things she placed by her feet. The umbrella in her other hand, swayed nervously over her head. Large droplets of water flung all over her. Her other hand struggled through dense layers of stuff looking for her wallet. As this happened the wide-brimmed hat blew off her head. “Oh for the love of...” She yelled, dropping her purse, spilling its guts. I laughed a little, turning to you, you didn’t notice, or didn’t care. I watched as your thin wrists hugged the sides of your pockets. While you shuffled your feet, the way you did when you got nervous. What were you nervous about?
In the distance the faint smell of cigarette’s and carbon monoxide from passing cars filled the air. It made me think of the conversation we had earlier, when you told me you were tired of the smell of car fumes, or the city. We were laying together in bed, before we fought. You whispered in my ear. “I’m tired,” I said nothing, focusing my eyes on the window. Outside the city spread out like brail, dampened by the overcast sky. I wasn’t sure then, but I thought it would rain. I guess I was right. You tapped me on the shoulder, “I’m tired, of city life, lets move to the country.” I shifted my eyes back to the window.
“Are you listening?”
“Yah,” I said, looking over at you. Your fat lips were open, showing your teeth. I stared at the crooked one, I always made fun of you for. It sat in your mouth, on top of another tooth. I was glad you had imperfections. It was nice to see through what I had defined as beautiful, or perfect, there was something that made you human, like me.
I smiled at you.
“I like the city, its my home now.”
“I guess,” You said
A car horn beeped loudly, as I stood and stared at the empty train tracks. You walked in front of me. Your back was still to me. I looked at the rivets in your jean jacket and placed my hand on your shoulder. For a moment you placed your hand on mine. I rubbed my hand across your knuckles, before you flexed your fingers and pulled away. You shuffled your feet again, as anxiety spread across your thigh and moved into your kneecap. I’d like to have told you it was going to be ok, or that we were going to be ok. You walked away after that, with your arms wrapped around your torso, your hair caught in the cool rainy air. Did you want me to follow you? I couldn’t tell, so I stayed put. You shivered a little, I walked over and put my arm around you, you walked away again.
The old woman walked over her hat in her hair, her grey-brown hair filled with droplets of water. Her face stale and malnourished looking, little hairs sprouted from a mole on her right cheek. The bottom of her long dress was wet. The red dye, dampened clinging to her ankles. Her mouth was pressed into a tiny slit. Above her lips was the faint outline of a mustache. “Scuse me do you’s kids know when the D’s comin in” I looked at her and shook my head, you looked over at me, with a weird smirk on your face. “Thanks” she said, turning her back to us, revealing a small brown stain by the bottom of her butt cheeks. You smiled wider, and your ugly tooth poked out. Maybe we could talk now, maybe. Your hair blew across your face in a thin auburn sheet. Quickly, you pushed it into a puddle behind your ears and licked your lips. You bit down, and pulled your hands from your armpits and uncoiled your fingers. I turned away, facing the steps. I don’t think I was ready to talk then. I realized I was still a bit angry. Your words were sharp and hurtful and still fresh in my mind. We fought no more then two hours ago. You go for the heart when you’re mad, maybe because your so insecure, or young and this is the only way you know how to win. The word cunt came to mind, but I would never say it in anger. Though I said it before and maybe I’m sorry.

An Asian man walked up the steps, wearing a purple wind breaker with bright pink swooshes along the side. His movements were anxious. His arms were like two planks of wood. His jacket looked like it might have been from the eighties, but who knows? A wet newspaper in his hand. His fingers wrapped across part of the headline. Baghdad. Stood out in bold letters. It’s funny how current events infiltrate our lives, even in an argument. Looking at it, I remember all of the heated debates we had gotten into about the war. When we sat naked on your sisters couch and watched the news, because she wasn’t home and she said she trusted you.

On the Asian mans finger was a bright gold wedding ring, tarnished by the rain. I wondered what his wife looked like and if they ever got into bad arguments. Did they fight like us, or our parents? Did they ever speak, or sometimes doubt their relationship? I know I do, although there are times when I think we might be invincible. I stared at him. With the newspaper, he wiped his forehead, and with his free hand brought it through his long tangled black hair. I tried to guess how old he was. He looked about fifty. His face was aged delicately. Small wrinkled rivers cut across his thin bony cheeks, which were met by his thin fold of a mouth. His lips were rigid and pressed together, reflecting his impatience, or his anxiousness to be on board. His eyes had that vacant waiting quality, that reminded me of my father, or the way my father waits for a train; constantly fidgeting with all of his anxiety pooled into his arms and staring off at nothing and everything. Maybe this man was a father too, with children like us, who were insecure and prone to fighting. Who had secret lovers that they were ashamed of, like you do because I am Sicilian and proud of it; and your mother has chosen to define me based on this, because she is from the North and according to you, “a proud Italian woman.” Which I told you, means nothing to me, because this is America and I am just one of many AND...--It doesn’t matter, justifying never got me anywhere.

The Asian man milled around, tapping his foot to the music in his brain. His focus had shifted from the empty tracks to two pigeons, who had just landed by his feet. He toyed with them, moving his foot forward to see how they reacted. The fat pigeon on the left, jumped back, while the other, thinner pigeon just stared at him, with its beady red eyes. The man smiled and snapped his fingers. The pigeons in return, made soft coo’s, that might have meant something, if they weren’t pigeons. The man looked over and caught me staring at him. He looked uncomfortable, his face went slack, wearing on it, the look of concern. He squinted at me, as if I were off in the distance and he were trying to make me out. He was not perplexed by me, however. There was something more menacing and accusatory in his eyes. They almost said “stop staring at me Now!” I looked away from him and stared down at my feet. My laces were untied, but I didn’t feel like retying them. I was too angry or confused, or I don’t know what.
Below us, two people were fighting, a man and a woman. Thick slabs of concrete were coated in a thick Brooklyn accent, as their voices bounced back and forth. “I don’t give a goddamn!” The man shouted, while the woman retorted, well ya should, she’s your sista!” It sounded familiar, too familiar, like all couples do when they are fighting. Maybe this is what couples are supposed to do. Perhaps all the good times we had and were going to have, were made less boring by good arguments. I thought back to my parents and the way they screamed and hated each other for days, even weeks afterwards. I thought of the way after some fights my mother’s hair would fall out and she wouldn’t be able to stop crying. Was this what we would become if we stayed together? I looked over at you, thinking about what you told me, the first time we got into an argument “Couples fight,” but God, I wish they didn’t.
You turned and half smiled back at me. Your faint green eyes looking away, to something off in the distance. Maybe this was the only way you could smile, because I was out of sight, or out of line. My heart beat hard, its edges pounding against my rib cage. Tension ripped through my arms and legs, leaving the feeling of pine needles and turpentine, while I just wanted to cry out. “Jesus, you were right, you were right, you were fucking right.”Maybe you were. Maybe I was being unreasonable, or maybe none of this even matters. You had already won the argument, I was here. I was going to your mothers. Off to be criticized by a woman who does not know me, or ever want to know me. You had won and I was no longer going to be our little secret.
I looked over to see what you were looking at. The old woman was on her hands and knees, vomiting into a puddle. Her heaves were made mute, by the couple below us, while the skirt of her dress was made damp by the wet ground. Her hat was in one hand, while her hair flopped over her face, while bits of throw-up dangled in her split ends.