Scordatura
Heated palms leaving imprints on the marble, warm and lonely, the places we wish we were. A spilled mess, she said, parts of a man scattered about. Regarded, you thought, and how perfectly it seemed. Dry heaving behind the auditorium, blood in the saliva, blood from the nose, four days straight. Mal said it was just a phase and you tried to think so just the same. Passing, she said. It’ll pass. But you were a vapid sort and remained uncalmed by the claim. But she persisted.
How do you manage?
What do you mean?
As a person, a human. How do you manage it?
I don’t. You’ve seen me.
Yes, but still.
I don’t know.
That makes sense.
Does it? I’m not so sure.
Have you ever listened to yourself?
Sometimes.
So?
I couldn’t tell you.
You mesh all the things together, all the loosened ends frayed by your missteps. In the bathroom there is a tumbler half-full of whiskey keeping the aromas of the moment but you will not drink it, not just yet. It is stale and your skin is dry. Everything is dry and pale and dead in the light and your pillow is tired of being your friend, suffocated in your arms. The phone rings twice but you silence it and turn it off. There is a dream within a dream, an escape that lasts until the sun heats your limbs. They are asleep but you are not.
A month passes and suddenly every friend is married, starting lives devoid of you. A child appears and then another. You are an uncle, but not by blood. You are welcomed back into the lives of those you hadn’t been parts of for some time. There is a party, several, but you miss a number of them because conversations have become frightening to a point that you hide from them, avoid them. Jack calls. Calls again. You answer finally after a week of not.
Hello?
Where are you?
Here.
Where?
Around.
What’s the word?
Scordatura.
What?
Look it up.
Losing it?
As always.
Come by.
Maybe.
Just come by.
Okay.
All of a sudden it is April and you and Jack and Sal are dyeing eggs with Sam, the son. He is three now and your hairs are starting to gray, Jack’s too. Sal is pretty as ever, aging with grace. Sam is a hassle, a curious little boy with dark hair and a nose like Jack’s. He asks you what you do. You tell him it’s a secret and if he knew you would have to kill him. The humor, the joke, it is lost on him. After all, he is only three. Sal slaps your arm and you tell him the truth. I work in investments, you say. Sounds boring. Kid, you don’t know the half of it.
The sun goes down and you and Jack are drinking beers in the backyard as the nostalgia of years of friendship washes over you with a fierceness of shining stars. You admire his life and think maybe, someday, just maybe something like this will suit you. It will be some time before a settling finally becomes you. You drink and then you leave and as you drive the streetlights flicker and fade with your wandering mind. Some things, you think. Some things.