Small Cruel Party
Clicking Up The Stairs
Restless dreaming about her again. This time it was like something out
of a David Lynch film, all stop motion and nonlinear time and darkness.
She was walking up the stairs of her apartment building, I caught a glimpse
of a long black coat and the scent of lavender drifted across the dingy
marble stairwell. Up the stairs a pair of boots clicked away from me and
I ran to the bottom of the staircase.
"Rebecca!" I called at her back, hoping it was her and that I wasn't about to embarass myself. The woman, quite high above me, stopped and turned. Looking up, I was flooded with memories and emotions. I remember running through deadwinter fields with her, shuffling through dusty antique shops in remote New England towns, holding her warm body close to me on cool autumn evenings. Rebecca stood in front of me, tall and thin, one black gloved hand gracefully confident on the wooden railing of the staircase. I?d never seen her in the way that I was seeing her now, as someone who once shared the most intimate and personal moments of her life, and as someone whose existence she now refused to acknowledge. Standing at the bottom of that cold marble staircase looking up at Rebecca I just felt sad. Not a crying, no hope, depression sadness. I?d gone through that for two years after she left me. Just a small, quiet sad feeling of knowing that, no matter how badly I wanted to, how much I might ever need her in the future, I would never see her again. Rebecca stood, looking down on me from behind her perpetual sunglasses, not moving and not speaking. Not breathing. I watched her slip her hand off the wooden railing and I couldn?t say anything when she turned around and I had to close my eyes when her boot heels continued clicking up the stairs.
"Rebecca!" I called at her back, hoping it was her and that I wasn't about to embarass myself. The woman, quite high above me, stopped and turned. Looking up, I was flooded with memories and emotions. I remember running through deadwinter fields with her, shuffling through dusty antique shops in remote New England towns, holding her warm body close to me on cool autumn evenings. Rebecca stood in front of me, tall and thin, one black gloved hand gracefully confident on the wooden railing of the staircase. I?d never seen her in the way that I was seeing her now, as someone who once shared the most intimate and personal moments of her life, and as someone whose existence she now refused to acknowledge. Standing at the bottom of that cold marble staircase looking up at Rebecca I just felt sad. Not a crying, no hope, depression sadness. I?d gone through that for two years after she left me. Just a small, quiet sad feeling of knowing that, no matter how badly I wanted to, how much I might ever need her in the future, I would never see her again. Rebecca stood, looking down on me from behind her perpetual sunglasses, not moving and not speaking. Not breathing. I watched her slip her hand off the wooden railing and I couldn?t say anything when she turned around and I had to close my eyes when her boot heels continued clicking up the stairs.
-Jason