“You’d be correct.”
“I destroy people.”
“Then don’t touch her as a weapon.You can’t consecrate with the same hands you use to carve.”
“I thought you said no touching.”
“That was a metaphor,” Sava says.“But, if you touch her it can be applied literally.”
“So no faith that I’ll stay away?”
“None whatsoever.”
“She’s the closest I’ve been to sacred in my entire life, Sava, and I’ve barely interacted with her.That pull, that connection, it’s the realest thing I’ve ever experienced and I’ve held death’s face in my hands.”
“I’ll help you protect her,” Sava says.“I recommend we do that from a distance, but either way, even if you give in, I’ll make her my religion too.”
“Say a prayer for me then,” I mutter.
“I don’t think God listens to prayers from me.”
“Yeah, he never took much interest in mine either.”My thumb is already tapping the knife.One, two, three.“Timer’s on.”
“Good.I’m hanging up before you talk yourself into a felony.”The line clicks dead.I pocket the phone, then pull it back out.Thirty minutes counts down.I set the knife on the table to stop tapping and immediately tap the wood instead.One, two, three.I don’t text.I watch the currently empty square.It’s vigilance.That’s what I name it so I can breathe.That’s what I name it so that tonight when I’m at home I can take my boots off and lie down on top of the covers, and pretend to sleep in slices, waking every ten to make sure she stays safe whenever the city blinks.
At five fifty the next morning a shift happens in the square.The light at the coffee shop two doors down from Silver State warms up.A custodian props the door with a rubber wedge.The lobby reflection stops being a smear and turns into a mirror with a pulse.Something in my chest rotates to face it.She’s never been out this early.
The timer ends.
Good morning Lindy girl.
Knife.Hip.One, two, three.The count used to mean: wait to cut.Now it means: wait for her.
The streetlight girl still sits under my skin like a splinter I refuse to pull.The calm of the Melinda is the salve I use to keep dabbing around it.One day, maybe the wound heals.One day, maybe the universe lets me keep a good thing, two good things.
Not today.
Today I practice the only faith I have, the faith in my control.Count, watch, wait.Knife taps.One, two, three.
I pull the leash tighter.
But I still drive past the glass box at eight where I know she’ll be, pretending the camera angles and motion detectors are for the safety of my city and not for a woman I haven’t earned yet.
five
My Lindy girlis an itch I can’t scratch.An addiction that consumes my every waking thought and when I manage sleep, she haunts my dreams.
Every morning between seven fifty-nine and eight-oh-one, she walks into her office building.Coffee in her right hand, bag on her right shoulder, keys in her left hand, always left, even when she’s juggling.She hesitates at the glass, tucks her hair behind her eartwice, then pauses and repeats the tuck a third time before she steps through.
What do you thank yourself for in the mornings?
Lindy Girl:
I’m not thanking myself.
Care to elaborate?
Lindy Girl:
