what we aim for, 1

Damien leaned against the wall, wrapped in shadows that swept across him with the same unruly independence as his haircut.  It was a brick wall, hard and cold brick, like his heart; it was moon baked and rough against the back of his jacket.  His jacket was black, and matched the intensity of the night that crawled up from under the crumbling sidewalk, creeping through the pores in the cement, and sizzled under the streetlight, then quickly withdrew shivering tentacles beneath apartment complexes, lurking.  

He tossed his head.  

Mildly disturbed, his hair fluttered up into the air with the grace of fabric, dancing in the wind, and then settled right back where it had been.  

He exhaled, and smoke poured from his lips, colored with the gray of newspapers that have been sitting by the curb, rain berating them; the water turning the words into a soggy grumble like the thoughts that mumbled through Damien’s head.

Tipping back his forehead, his face bathed in the light and his hair tussled with the brick wall; the two textures rubbed against each other with discord, like an out of tune guitar.  

The tips of Damien’s calloused fingers tossed the cigarette butt down to the sidewalk and the toe of his boot ground it into the pale cement face.  

A door opened beside him.  Cacophony poured out into Damien’s ears like rubbing alcohol poured underneath his skin.  His eyes folded to the side, apathetic, like a textbook; Damien had found that the world was filled with sleepers, whom he duly judged, tucking them beneath the quilt of his impressions… their meaningless lives meant existence and nothing more.  

Emerging from the door--bundled in light, pieces of conversation, and stale music--was a young woman.  The patchwork of judgment in his eyes wrote itself out as usual… until he got to her face.  Damien’s indifference lifted from him like a sheet from an antique couch, and his curiosity dusted the old piece of furniture as his head straightened, leveling his gaze.  

In the moment when she hung in the air between the café and the streetlight, he got a good look at her.  

Crisp blonde hair, clipped back and tied behind her head, cupped her face gently, knew ever dip and curve of her cheek.  Like two lost marbles came her eyes, rolling out into the light, shining bright, rich blue.  He could barely get beyond them.  

This woman was awake, deliciously awake.  

Beneath his thick verdict, sewn in deep layers of quilted squares across her skin, were her open eyes.  Her open eyes were a taste of the perfect harmony in well-drawn album covers, a unison of corduroy and plaids and paper lantern textures, dripping with ink and watercolors; symphony music, the blended elements becoming a river, a river with its pale back to the sky and its complex world underneath.  

Her eyes were fresh.  Her eyes were a bakery in the morning.  He was the little kid with empty pockets, staring into the open windows, and his mouth full of hunger.   

His body jerked away from the wall, finally expressing his inward shock.  He noticed her arms were full.

“Hey,” his voice, not used to speaking to this sort of person, groaned like rusty machinery.  “Can I give you a hand?”

Metal gates slammed down inside her eyes as she took a long look at him.  “No, that’s okay.”  Her voice was stiff and formal, but with the hint that--when she was being nicer--a garden could flower within her vocal chords.  “I’m fine,” she concluded firmly, locking the gate and throwing away the key.  

“Hey wait, you can’t carry all of that by yourself!”  It was true.  A box was slipping out of her complex knot of arms and packages.  “I insist!”  He lurched forward, catching the box just before it hit the ground.  

She sighed, and her “Thank you” sounded as if it had been forced at gunpoint.  

“You’re welcome,” he replied happily.  

He grabbed another box that seemed ready to tumble away and proceeded to stroll along beside her.  

“Aren’t you in that band?  Northern Ireland Assembly Election or something?  I think I've seen your face on the poster."

“Yeah--”

“Awkward name, that.”

“Yeah, the boys just call us ‘Assembly’ most of the time--”

“Who came up with it in the first place?”

“Well, um… me--”

“I see.”

“It was the best thing we could come up with…”

“How long did you work on it?”

“Hey now, Miss!  You don’t even know me!  That’s the name of my band and I’m sticking by it.”  

“I just thought that front men were better at thinking up names.”

“Well, I’m not the front man,” he said smugly.  “I’m the bassist.”  

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, actually sounding penitent.  “Poor bass player, always having to stand in the back… probably stunted your mental abilities.”

Damien almost dropped the boxes.  “Hey…!  A guy tries to give you some help and so you insult his band name and then his entire profession?”  

“If you can remember far back enough, I didn’t ask for your help…”

“Fine!”  He stopped, put the boxes on the ground, and crossed his arms.  

She shrugged as she continued to walk, then slowed down as she realized those were her boxes.  She came back and stood next to them, staring down.  “Um…”  

“Well?” he asked, pleased that she was being punished.

“All right, I’m sorry.”  

He grinned and picked up the boxes.  

“… I’ve just broken up with a musician…” she said, in a completely different tone.  Damien felt like he’d been plunged into a moonlit garden, hidden in the shadows of the night, awash with pale sorrow.   “When we first met it was cool.  Creative people are… stimulating?  Refreshing to be with, anyway.  But then he started to compromise things in his life for his career.  Things like me.”

“I’m sorry,” said Damien.

“It’s not your fault,” she said.  Her voice hardened, “and I don’t need your sympathy.”

“All musicians aren’t the same,” he said quietly.

She sighed again.  “…I know.”  

Their voices faded away, allowing the city’s sounds to take over like background music; a little bit of taxicab, some wind in the trees, a dash of radio thrumming from the outside speakers of some store, and their feet--her heels, his boots.  For the first time he noticed she was wrapped tightly in a plain, long tan raincoat, but there was the hint of a short blue dress underneath.   

“Where are we going?” he asked idly.

“I’m going to work.”

“What are all the boxes?”

“A friend asked me to pick them up.”

“…What’s in them?”

She eyed him, then said slowly “…Photography stuff.”

“Oooh,” he said, interested.  “Your friend is a photographer?”

“Yes…”

“That’s cool.  Is it a career thing or a fun thing?”

“Both.  It’s her career and she has fun.”  She paused, then said sharply,  “I suppose you’d know what that’s like.”

Damien felt stung, as though her words had been venom.  “Actually, it’s not always fun…”

“What, you don’t have fun jamming all day?”

His eyebrows arched.  Maybe she was taking out some residue frustration on him.  “Um… that’s not what my band does.  When being in a band is your career, you don’t just make music.  There’s a business side, too.  Contracts, photo shoots, interviews, touring--”

“And more touring, and more touring…” she trailed off.  

“Yeah,” he said softly.  It turned out that she had a raw wound underneath that tough armor.  To change the subject, he said, “I’m Damien by the way.”

She glanced over at him, eyebrows wrinkled with a guarded expression, and nodded.

“And you are…?”

“I’d rather not say.”

“Why?”

“Because.”

“What kind of reason is that?”

“Don’t make fun of my reason.”

“Hey, you made fun of my band’s name.”

“All right, listen, I’m sorry about that.  My bo--ex-boyfriend--asked me to help name his band.”  Silence pooled in the air for a moment, separating her thoughts.  “I made list after list.”  Another pause.  “When I had what I thought was a good selection, I brought them to him.”  Here, her voice took on the quality that the eyes of a stray dog have as he looks at you, starved not only of food but also of love.   “He’d forgotten that he even asked me to help.  He’d spoken with the studio about it, and they’d gotten themselves a name.”

Damien didn’t reply.  What could he say, after all?  

Then she suddenly stopped walking.

“This is me.”

He nodded.  “Okay,” he said quietly.

She managed to get the door open before he realized he should’ve helped, and after she put down her boxes, turned around for his.  

He handed them over, tucking his uncomfortable hands into his pockets, half turned, and scuffed his boot on the pavement, lingering.  

“I’m Mia.”  

That was a surprise.  But before he could say anything, she closed the door.  


                                                     to be continued...