Peak of the Cycle

By Paul Ford

Feeling all nervous like, trying to calm down, chest and heart and so on.

I spent some time wondering about my last girlfriend, with my hand resting on the phone. It took me a minute to remember her number. I dialed, and the answering machine picked up. I heard her voice and a series of beeps, then hung up. Even if she's found someone new, even if she had no desire to hear from me, it would have been better to speak to her for an awkward minute than to sit here in silence, staring at the pile of trash I've swept together at the center of my floor.

Today on the Ftrain, coming home, a woman in sandals rubbed her foot against mine. She had deep olive skin and black hair, and large black eyes. She kept at it for more than a minute, while we were under the East River. She was seated; I stood in front of her with my hand braced on the railing. The tip of her sandal shifted back and forth across the side of my black shoe, a repeating stroke. I looked straight forward, wondering if she knew she was touching me, wondering why she was. I wore a brown shirt buttoned to the neck and left untucked over blue jeans. In a moment it stopped, and four stops later I got off the train without meeting her eyes.

What I want is a secular visitation, angels with sans serif wings, to swing down and sing to me, and for them to bring me a lover who can envision me a year or two from now, when the great purges and plans have had time to take effect, a lover who can afford to wait. But who can afford to wait?