The Smokers

The sun was out, had made its way through the thick covering of winter grey clouds that frequently settled over the city. In this respite from the rain and dampness they had emerged from the top level and onto the alleyway bench or neighboring church wall. She watched from her table beside the window, still mesmerized by their dark beauty, felt the pull of the unfamiliar smoke into their lungs, the morsel of contentment on their lips. She smiled, took her journal in hand and let herself be pulled to a suddenly vacant spot on the bench.

She crossed her legs, kicking out her long skirt with a black-booted foot. It was impossible not to hear the word “sex” trickling through her body in such close proximity to these men. Yet a sudden girlishness intermixed with the desirous overtones and she pulled her legs up underneath her skirt, smiling into the blue sky. It was so clear now that it was hard to believe that within hours it could be obscured, drizzle falling on the alleyway, chasing the smokers back to their cubby. She preferred the free air of the downstairs, occupied by the bookish eccentrics and college students. Yet she knew that at least a portion of the pull of this place was due to the ones who only went to the downstairs to get their coffee then quickly departed.

They were all there. Raphael, the first one who had caught her attention that first summer month of her return, stood close to the doorway to the stairs. His black hair gleamed in the virgin sunlight as it tapered down to the neck of his shiny leather jacket. At first glance her desire was peaked, her knowing intuition ringing bells of alarm. But she had not stayed away, finally giving the affirmative to his persistent invitation…

“Hello,” he said, halting her ascent up the stairs. For some unknown reason the cafe was unusually full on that bright blue day. She had been sitting with her coffee and notebook, the air from the open deck door kindly filtering the smoke from the room.

“Hello,” she replied.

“It’s really a nice day today, sunny and warm. It even makes me think a little like from my home.”

“Yes? Where are you from?”

“A place between France and Italy. That’s where I was born.”

“Beautiful I’m sure.”

“Yes, very.”

They paused and she glanced up the stairway and back to him.

“I’m Raphael,” he said, giving her his hand.

“I’m Tara,” she replied, slowly releasing the warm skin.

“It’s too nice to be inside. Why don’t you come swimming with me?”

“I know; I should be outside.  But I can’t go swimming right now,” she replied.

“Why not?”

“Because I’m working on something. And I have to pick up my daughter soon.”

“Where is she?”

“With her Papa.”

“She’s with her Papa, but you’re not?”

His eyes seemed to reach closer, draw deeper into her own.

“No, I’m not.”

“Then why not come with me, have a nice afternoon in the sun?”

Something worried her about his handsome dark face, yet pulled her in nonetheless…

But he had told her that sex was like a vitamin and that the thought of it being spiritual was simply in her head. He had never even inquired about what she wrote. There was nothing that could be done here.

Ten feet across the parking lot Deshtome leaned on the wall. An occasional bit of the unfamiliar tongue, Aramaic, he had told her, drifted across from the little group of dreads.  In those first eye-locking moments, that first nights talk of music, language and movement, she had thought there was a chance for understanding…

She stood up from her table, ready to leave the smoky room behind and walk home in the rain. Suddenly her eyes were pulled to a table close to the wall, riveted to the eyes of the man sitting there. He watched her with the same unwavering intent. She took in his dreads falling just below his chin, the complexion of his skin, from her peripheral vision; she could not even think about looking away from his calm but penetrating gaze. She mechanically put one arm after another into her coat sleeves.

“Could I talk with you?” he asked in a quiet voice, hardly above a whisper.

She covered the short distance between tables and sat down in the empty chair next to him.

“Hello. What have you been doing over there?” he asked.

“Writing.”

“What do you like to write?”

“Mostly poetry these days. I’m working on a novel, but the poetry is my love right now.”

They both smiled from underneath their eyelashes.

“That’s a very good thing, to write so much about what you feel.”

“Yes, for me it is.”

There was a pause in conversation as they came in contact with each other’s magnetized eyes at close range.

“What are you doing?” she continued.

“Looking for a job,” he replied, gesturing to the newspaper on the table. “And a place to live. I’ve been staying with other people the last few months, but I need a place of my own now.”

“Yes, it becomes important to have your own space after a while.”

They paused again and he extended his hand to her.

“My name is Deshtome.”

“Deshtome. I’m Tara.”

“So, tell me what you like to do Tara.”

“Well, write, as you already know, meditate, dance and listen to music, among other things.”

“What kind of music?”

“Whatever moves me. It doesn’t matter what kind; if it moves me, I like it.”

“That is the best, yeah, to follow that love.”

“Yeah, that’s what’s important…”  

But it had quickly disintegrated into a sex, sex and more sex, accompanied by an occasional meaningful conversation, a glimpse of love that entwined in sensual motion and silent listening. Two months later the only term she could use to describe him was a “sexual acquaintance”. There was no more that could be done here.

Now Pietro rose from the far end of the bench, folding the newspaper in half. His quiet gestures did not betray the freedom of movement to which he was capable. It was dancing one night that she had been pulled in, a smile of contentment on her face as she saw him let go, read the music deep into his body. It was pure delight to see a man dance so free…

He turned the handle of the door and walked into the smoky room. She caught his eyes and smiled at the hands of fate putting her upstairs; the overcrowded downstairs, her willingness in that moment to endure the strong scent which stung her eyes and filtered into her clothes, even invading her pores. They watched each other, suddenly acutely aware from the vantage point of doorway to table, table to doorway, that their eyes had lingered on each other during the brief and sporadic sightings of the previous weeks.

It was crowded in every section of the cafe on that cold day, rain mixing with snow and landing on the pavement outside. He moved slowly through the narrow aisles between tables, coming closer and closer to her in a motion reminiscent of a dream. His controlled and precise movement now spoke to her watchful eye of the fluid embracing movement of his dancing. She stared at him without reserve.

“Would you like to sit here?” she heard herself say, following the length of his black hair as it fell to the shoulder of his jacket.

“Oh, thank you,” he replied, his eyes shifting from her to the vacant chair and back again.

Putting his backpack on the ground, he lowered himself into the chair. She twirled her halted pen in her hand.

“I’m Pietro,” he announced, sliding his hand across the table.

“I’m Tara,” she replied, letting her hand slip into his for a brief moment.

“You were at the Clinton Fearon show a few weeks ago,” he said.

“Yes, I saw you there.” She paused, letting herself be drawn into the intense yet placid quality of his dark eyes. “I was watching you dance. I love the way you dance; I was very moved.”

He smiled that long anticipated smile, shifting his hand from coffee cup to chin.

“Moved by my dancing? Was it really so fine?”

“Yes, very fine. Free, fluid and lovely,” she replied smiling.

Their smiles lit the tabletop, a candle for the descending darkness.

“Well, I thank you, but I believe it was you who were capturing eyes with your dancing.”

“Perhaps. Men’s eyes are very easy to capture,” she replied. “But I just dance how I feel, let the music take me where it will.”

“Yes, me too.”

They were silent. The music had begun.

“Then we are meant to dance together, yes.”

“Yes, we should dance Pietro.”

 He had smiled deeper, that twinkle in his eyes that let her in. But once again, the in contained a simultaneous out through which he could escape when knowing became too hard to bear. There was little that could be done here.

Her eyes returned to the blue sky. These men with their glowing yet secretive eyes pulled at something in her, like the complement to her clinging nativity, like the hidden self that lived and breathed passionately beneath her pale skin and eyes. This dark mystery had brewed inside her for years now, finally breaking out, catalyzing the separation from her husband who was as opposite these men as possible with his gentle almost feminine beauty…

The wind on the hilltop was blowing through every layer of clothing they had on, but they didn’t move from the light embrace that formed a circle around them. They had left the loudness and confusion of her roommate’s party, seeking a place of solitude and stillness, a place no one else would be on a cold winter night…

The sky seemed endless, as if they were on the tip of the world. The stars were overwhelming in their number and brightness. All night long they could dream of that vastness, arms encircling and believing…

He held on to her from behind in the small pool filled with water. If she closed her eyes for a moment and concentrated, for a split second they could be transported to the hot springs, a three-mile hike into the mountains. But then the pain, excruciating beyond any prior imaginings, would return with the push and gradual descent of their baby making its way out and into this world…

They were silent now, both exhausted from their separate day’s activities. Words did not seem to speak of anything but confusion and frustration. They had lost the ability to read the world in their mirroring blue eyes. She got up from the couch with a heavy sigh, climbing the stairs to the bedroom where she slept fitfully on the pillow beside their daughter…

They looked at each other with tears still in their eyes.

“It’s not me that you want Tara,” Ananta said, holding onto the remote control, pressing nothing as the CD ended.

“And it’s not me that you want either, Ananta,” Tara replied, pulling on her fingers, pumping the blood into them with great necessity…    

The circle seemed almost complete now.

She let her eyes travel down the alley, follow the line of a body making its way steadily toward the cafe. She knew by the concentration present in her gaze that it was Len. She could not to resist the pull of him, always following his movements through the window until he was farther down the alley, out of sight. She was simultaneously struck with his beauty and the question: did he have a home? Or did he wander like this always, settling in some nook here and there to rest? She had spoken with him twice, both times as he left his perch in the alley to swoop in, take her hand, capture her eyes and speak lovely short heavily accented sentences before departing. 

He was close now. She could see the black hair curling out from beneath the sock cap, his hands tucked in the pockets of his jacket. He stopped to talk with another man who also frequented the alleyway, his spot of choice being the back stairway of the church. Unable to take her eyes off of him, she watched Len raise the cigarette to his lips, inhale deeply. The smoke would burn her eyes if she were standing there beside him. Perhaps she would have to close her eyes to the physical world, smell the smoke and breath in the energy swirling around them. No, it was not sex she wanted with this man. No man’s cock could go to the depth she desired. She needed to go much deeper. 

Finishing his cigarette, he began to move down the alley in her direction. She let her legs descend the bench, her feet falling to catch the earth beneath the concrete. She could see his handsome tired face, the magnetic eyes lingering on her own. Her smile filled her face. He stopped in front of her and bent down on his knee in a posture resembling that of a marriage proposal. Their hands met, amplified electrification filling her instantaneously. 

“You remember me?”

“Yes, your Len from Libya,” she replied.

“And now I remember your name, as well as your face. You’re Tara.”

“Yes, I’m Tara.”

“You are enjoying this beautiful day we have.”

“Very much. I like the sun. I miss it when it’s gone.”

“It is hard to be without the sun, yes.”

He started to rise. She could feel his hand slipping from hers. Suddenly he stopped.

“Is there some way that I might persuade you to join me for a walk in the sun?” he said.

In the momentary silence she could feel the eyes of the men upon her, old lovers or would be lovers alike. She focused her eyes on Len.

“All you had to do was ask.”

They stood up, hands still together. She simply wanted to walk in the sun, have it shine directly above their heads and cast no shadow.