I had ended the evening yesterday with hope disintegrating like ashes at sea. I felt entering here a certain life had ended, and perhaps it had. I thought once I had potential, dreams, aspirations, but now, I stare at locked doors and barred windows.
I bid my time, pacing like most madmen do. I whispered rash secrets to myself, promising myself that I was different somehow. I did not feel like a van Gogh, ingesting paint and killing brain cells, striking arguments with lovers. But then I saw her, as though she were a fire in a desert.
I wanted to shout her name, but that would have marked me. I wanted to wave her down like the drowned man on a makeshift raft. I wanted to sing, but my voice was hoarse from days of listening and not speaking.
She was beautiful.
She was a fire in a desert.
Her hair burned in a ward of clinical, sterile white. The crimson red was impossible and lovely. Her eyes were crystal blue. The kind of blue men searched for in the bottom of the ocean. I forgot how gorgeous she was, and I was transparent, both in lust and in love.
My Angela. She was to me as Beatrice was to Dante. She struck me dumb each time I saw her, and though she was a beacon in the fog, I came up mute time and time again.
My tongue was replaced with a dumb muscle, and I wanted to tell her so much, but when I saw her in that hall where so many times I dreamt her, my heart choked my throat and I could not breathe a word.
But how could she see me like this? In a ward with men and women at war with themselves? In a wing where the words uttered are nonsensical?
I wanted to apologize for Monday with eyes like slits to insert coins into, to gamble away her savings.
How could she see me in this world where there were no names?
I wanted to pull Angela away from Sunday before he could swallow her.
And God knows I did not want her to see Thursday. I could not imagine the way the bugs crawled all over me when Thursday spoke dancing under my veins with Angela there to witness it.
Thursday was a vice.
My wife Angela – virtue. Pure and unadulterated.
My beloved Angela.
Angela was everything Thursday strived to be. Perhaps. Perhaps.
Thursday was ratty. An orphan whose family told her she’d go home soon. As though they knew. Thursday twitched and shivered. She refused to make eye contact.
But I still remembered how she smashed my heart against the wall and laughed at my pain.
My sweet Thursday.