EVERYTHING IS REAL, NOTHING IS TRUE (Part 2 of 3)

You show up at Chloe’s building a little after nine p.m. She buzzes you in after you call her on the little phone at the front. You’re immediately lost as soon as you enter the lobby; you recognize nothing from the other night. With help from the security guard, you’re able to find the elevators in the right wing of the building. Still lost when you get to her floor, you somehow manage to find her apartment. It takes a few minutes for her to answer after you knock on the door.

When you see her holding the door open, the despair you felt all weekend almost completely disappears. Maybe it’s the smile she has for you that helps, the familiarity of her open arms and her lips on your face. She takes you by the hand and leads you into her room. “How was your day?” she asks as you drop your bag on the floor.

“It was all right, considering...”

“Considering what?”

“I’m coming down.”

With a sympathetic look, she says, “I’m so sorry. I wish I could’ve seen you sooner, but I had a really late client. He just left a few minutes ago.”

“It’s cool,” you say, wondering why you didn’t seem to pass him in the halls. But you have something more pressing to worry about. You want to confirm the plans you made with her when you called earlier today. “You said I could stay here tonight, right?”

“Yeah, as long as you don’t mind sleeping on the futon."

“That’s fine. Mind if I take a shower?”

“No, go right ahead. You can leave your clothes here. I have to make a quick phone call. I should be back by the time you’re done.” With a wink and a smile she’s gone, closing the door behind herself.

Feeling vulnerable standing naked in a strange shower makes you a little anxious and too impatient to read the labels on the bottles on display; a brand of cleansers that bear her namesake. It takes a little while for you to find something that resembles soap. As you lather yourself, you become increasingly troubled by her disappearing act and who she might be calling. You suddenly can’t be certain of her intentions. You know this to be a symptom of sleep deprivation, but you can’t help it as your anxiety worsens, leading you down the path to outright paranoia. You become frantic enough to cut your shower short.

You wrap a towel around yourself, and you’re relieved to see her waiting for you when you re-enter the room. She’s sitting on the massage table in the middle of the room. Your anxiety hasn’t completely disappeared. She seems to notice how tense you feel.

“Come here and lie down,” she invites you. “Let me put on some music.” She quickly makes her way to where the CD player rests on the vanity table. She holds up two burnt CDs for you to choose from, but with the lights dimmed the same way as last time, it’s too dark for you to see them properly. “Enya or Portishead?”

“Portishead.”

You watch her fumble with the CD and the CD player, and you lie down, putting your face in the massage table’s face rest as she presses the play button. You hear her adjust the volume, and a second later you feel the towel you’re wearing disappear. Your heart races, unaware of what’s going on because you can’t see anything. But you’re soon calmed when you turn your head and discover the mirrored closet doors on your right side. You watch as she pours lavender oil onto your back and rubs it into your skin. Though you can feel it, you only know it’s really happening because you can see it. She notices you watching her in the mirror and playfully removes her Hawaiian top with a mischievous grin, a la Bettie Page. She climbs on top of you in just her plain black skirt now and replaces her hands with her upper body, rubbing her breasts against you, touching your skin with her nipples. You can feel her warm breath on your neck, soon replaced by her soft lips. You put your face back into the face rest, confident this is not an illusion; eyes closed and smiling, you forget the state you were in just a few minutes ago.

A few more kisses and she climbs down. She’s standing in front of you now. You can feel her body pressed against your head as she pours more oil on your back and rubs you. You reciprocate by rubbing her legs, sliding your hands underneath her skirt when you meet the hem at her knees and massaging the backs of her thighs.

“How are you?” you ask, speaking loud enough to be heard.

“Tired,” she says with a small laugh. “I’ve been doing this all day.”

“Do you want me to take over?” you ask. You’re on your feet before she can answer. Instead of speaking, she lies down in the same position you were just in.

Just as unsure as you were the other night about what to do, you start by rubbing her shoulders. Moving down, you find the same spots on her back she seemed to enjoy the other night. She tells you to use the oil, so you pour some on her back and rub it in like you think you’re supposed to. Despite her moans of approval – which you interpret as her wanting you to continue – like the other night, you’re too weary to keep this up. Instead of rubbing, you begin kissing her. You tell her to turn over, and when she does, you help her out of her skirt, kissing each region of her body as you uncover it. Completely naked now, you climb up on top of her. Starting at her chest, you kiss your way up to her mouth. As the music plays in the background, you go through the motions of making love without any desire to climax, which will cheapen the way you feel, bring an ending to this sooner than you want.

Too tired to keep going like this, you lie down – “like a sprite,” she says – with your head on her chest. The rest of your body is on the edge of the massage table with your legs interwoven between hers. Despite a slight discomfort this position causes, you feel an overwhelming sense of calm. You repose like this, still, silent, comfortable in each other’s warmth. For the first time in a long time, you feel safe, secure. Wanting this to last forever, you know that it won’t. The CD plays on, adding to the atmosphere, giving you a sense of time even though it sounds like a mix. You lie together through several more songs, but your peace is shattered when she says, “I have to go.”

You don’t move, wishing you hadn’t heard her, wishing she hadn’t said this. You want to stay like this just a little longer, but you’re afraid she might find this overbearing. You both get up slowly, embracing each other quickly. She takes a shower while you get dressed.

Though she’s not gone long, any time away from her seems like an eternity. You’re perturbed by the change in the atmosphere of the room as she returns and gets dressed. Putting on her makeup - becoming somebody different than the person in your arms just minutes ago - she seems to be aware of what you’re feeling. Telling you to sit down and wait for her, she knows what’s bothering you before you do. “I can’t have a serious conversation without any lipstick.”

When she’s done, she needs a cigarette and you need fresh air. Looking at her, she doesn’t seem the same. But you know underneath all that makeup, she’s there. As you follow her out onto the balcony, the air outside is as refreshing as a splash of cool water on your face.

“I want more than this,” you tell her. “I want you.” 

“You have to understand,” she says, lighting a cigarette, “I’m not going to change my life. I can’t. My life is far from perfect, but I’m happy.”

You watch her take a drag and blow smoke out through her mouth. As you process what she’s just said, you try to convince yourself you don’t understand what she’s talking about.

“Sometimes I get clients who come up here and I’m not what they expect or I won’t do what they want. They insult me; they make me feel like shit. I had somebody do that to me the other day. And when I came home – well, you saw what happened. He’s not like that all the time. I know there’s not much of a future in the relationship. He’s not going to marry me, but I can’t leave him. He’s the anchor I’ve always needed in my life. We love each other.”

It finally dawns on you what she’s saying and what these words mean. You will never be with her.

Contemplative, she stares out into the night as she finishes her cigarette. Still unsure of what you’re feeling and what you want to say, you follow her gaze. When you look down, you’re met with complete darkness, an abyss where the roofs of other buildings and alleys below you should be. On your right is another building as tall as the one you’re in, and you think it’s the wing you entered in, but the street you came in from is on the left. You watch the vehicular and foot traffic on the street to reconcile this incongruity, but the apathy of ants offers no clues. The stars above you and the bay out on the horizon also offer no help with the displacement you feel.

Next to you, Chloe flicks her finished cigarette from the balcony to the building directly below you. Distracted from your vertigo, you follow the cigarette butt with your eyes, watching the narrow arch it makes on its way down, gravity flipping it upside-down and back again as it disappears into the black hole below. You can’t see it land. Surprising yourself, you reflexively fight back the sudden urge to follow it. Confused by what made you want to jump, you deliberate on it for a few seconds. It doesn’t take long for it all to come back to you.

“I’m afraid... I might’ve misled you.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m not who you think I am. All the things we talked about, everything I said the other night. That wasn’t me.”

“Oh?” she says with a grin. “And who was it?”

“I mean, it was me. But not the real me...” You can’t find the words to explain yourself, so you give up.

“But you are real. That’s what I like about you.”

You can’t tell if she’s being serious or sarcastic when she says this. The grin doesn’t help.

“That’s not what I mean,” you say, irritated at yourself for not being able to say you want, irritated at her for not letting you feel sorry for yourself. “Forget it.”

You stand next to her, both of you remaining quiet for a long time as you stare out into the city. She suddenly disappears from your peripheral vision. You stiffen, as if caught in a trap, as her arms suddenly close around you. Her body presses against you; warmth replaces the threat of imminent danger. She rests her head against your back. It takes little effort to let yourself relax.

Looking out over the balcony, an idea from a few minutes ago comes floating back to you. You’re struck by how easy it would be to just jump right now, end it all in a matter of seconds, executed in just a few quick movements. All you’d have to do is unlatch her from you and leap over the rail.

You dismiss this not without some annoyance at yourself for having such a stupid idea. It’s soon gone, but you still feel abashed. Memories of recent mistakes and misperceptions you’ve made come flooding back to you, all bearing an unmistakable similarity to the one you made just now.

“I thought I had it all figured out,” you say to the night, defeated. “I thought I knew what I wanted.”

“You do,” she says with a kiss on the back of your neck, as if to confirm this. “You’re just a little confused right now.”

You realize that if it weren’t for her faith in you, making the leap over the rail wouldn’t be so difficult.

“No.” You break free of her grip and turn around to show her you’re not joking. “Look, when I told you how talented and beautiful I thought you were, I might’ve been lying. I’ve been wrong about so much lately, maybe I was wrong about this, too. I don’t know what’s true anymore.”

She smiles, a weak mask; you can see the hurt she feels underneath. “You need to crash,” she says, rationalizing your remarks. It’s unclear if her motivation is for your benefit or hers.

“I’m sorry. I’m so pathetic. Just a few minutes ago, I had this urge to – look, my grasp on reality is slipping. I desperately need to sleep...” You try to justify it further, but you only succeed in making the situation more awkward. You’ve ruined the moment, the feelings, everything.

“Yeah, you look like you’ve been pistol-whipped,” she says with a familiar grin.

Though you have to force it, you can only respond with a smile.

“Come on, I have to get going. Walk me to the door.”

The CD is still playing inside the apartment. Having been put on repeat, it offers no indication of the time that has passed since she put it on. Chloe cleans as she makes her way to the front door, picking up discarded towels, rubbing the kitchen countertops with a damp sponge. She stops every few minutes to ask you how you feel, and before you can answer, she has her arms wrapped around you, squeezing you tightly. After she’s hugged you for a sufficient amount of time, she goes back to what she was doing, finding another chore that requires her immediate attention before she leaves. You suspect her cleaning is a pretense for her to stay long enough for her to feel confident that nothing will happen after she leaves. You appreciate the sentiment, but you’re also irritated that she won’t go; fatigue is consuming you.

Not wanting to seem ungrateful to her for letting you sleep here tonight, you offer to help. She says she doesn’t need it, but you tie the garbage bag she pulled out of the trashcan as she loads the dishwasher with dishes she can’t ascertain are clean or dirty. She turns it on when she finishes and looks about her for anything else that needs to be done.

“I guess that’s it,” she says. She gives you another hug and a small kiss. “Is there anything you need before I go?”

“No, I think I got everything.” You look around as if to make sure there is nothing you need, humoring her to get her to leave.

She picks up the bag you tied earlier and adjusts it with the armful of clothes already in her hands.

“Are you hungry?” she asks. “Do you want to grab something to eat with me?”

You smile at her persistence and you think it’s sweet that she’s so concerned about you. But you’re also exhausted, and it’s becoming harder for you to remain polite. “No, I’m not hungry. I just need to sleep.”

“All right.” She finally gives up with a weak smile. “Think you can find your way out of here?”

“Yeah, I dropped stones behind me on the way up.”

She laughs. “Okay. Call me tomorrow?"

“Of course.”

Her arms are too full to give you a hug, so you hug her instead. She surprises you with a small peck on the cheek. You hold the door open for her as she leaves and says, “Good night.” You watch her disappear down the hall, and when she’s out of sight, you close the door and lock it. You turn off the dishwasher and CD player and fall onto the futon in the living room. Before you get a chance to get undressed or get too comfortable, you close your eyes. They don’t open again until the next morning.