Necessary Trouble

She sat chain smoking out the window. Looking down on the street her hands shook as she said "We can't do this anymore". I leaned back against the wall, the thin mattress underneath me, suddenly feeling the nakedness of my skin under her translucent sheet. Sinking but unsurprised, I had no protection from this storm.

"This is good for no one" her voice wavered, and of course she was right. Continuing would be foolish. For me. For her. For her unknowing man.

Realizing my pain, her hands found mine like they had so many times before, although this time her long fingers felt like nothing. Her ghost hands, already gone, were no comfort to me.

I wanted to leave then. Leave her apartment. Leave Bushwick. Leave Brooklyn. Leave the whole damned city. I could take the next train. Calmly I got up, saying I was heading out. Not ready, she grabbed my hand again and asked me to stay.

So I did.

Later as I watched her suck the juice from a dominican mango I remembered the feeling of her lips and tongue working on me, not unlike the fruit she held. Three nights of passion. Three mornings of "This can't happen again". Hours of phone conversation and writing to each other all ended in burning me alive and making me undone, just like I knew it would.

We were necessary trouble for each other.

She walked me to the subway in unsteady silence. Nothing left to say she hugged me goodbye and I climbed the stairs, not looking back.

The time for lingering was over.