The Least of Them continued


"He was here.  You met him."
"The night we watched the Kurosawa films?"
"Yes."
"It felt so weird that night."
"When you went to the bathroom, he kissed me.  When I went to make the cookies, he asked to be shown.  You never cared how I baked.  He put me against the kitchen counter.  He put his hand inside my jeans.  He made me wet."
"I was in the other room?  Ten steps away.  Did you not care?"
"Love lasts for such a small amount of time, you said so yourself.  You just fall into the pattern for the short time it is there."

"What did you do all those weeks you were in New York?  What was it, eight weeks?"
"Six weeks."
"Why so long?"
"I was waiting for him to stop regretting our break up.  For him to have moved everything out.  For him to have returned to our space with only my stuff left behind.  To have cried alone.  Without fear of me walking in."
"What did you do in New York?"
"I got lost."
"In the crowd?"
"I slept with a few people.  Some I knew and some I just met.  I needed to feel guilty.  And, afraid of myself."
"Did it work?"
"I just ended up hating myself.  None of them were any of the others.  All those old lovers… they never stop haunting you.  There is always the ghost of someone you said 'I love you' to.  Those words form strings between two people."

My hands are old.  They have not forgiven me of anything.  They are never silent.  Or still.  They are two faced.  Unfaithful.  Liars.

"If art were to mean anything it would mean memory."
"That is bullshit," I tell her.
"Oh, what does it mean?"
"It means a response.  Perhaps, a response to memory.  But, not memory.  We do not live in memory.
We live in response to memory.  We live in response to everything.  Action.  Response.  Memory is stale.  It decays.  How we responded.  Art is a response to something.   To anything. To everything.
You pick a piece.  Without the history, it means less.  We have dates… and names… and places for a reason.  Response."

"I can leave," I tell him.
"No.  I don't want to disappoint you.  It is your first night in New York.  You have to fuck a New Yorker your first night in town.  Otherwise, you're starting off on the wrong foot.  One doesn't want to start off on the wrong foot with New York."
"How long have you lived here?"
"In New York?"
"New York, yes."
"One year.  But, before you say anything, it only takes three weeks of living here to become a New Yorker.  It stains you."
"I'll be here at least five weeks."
"You'll be a part of this town before you leave.  It soaks into you.  The longer you linger."
"You make it sound so terrifying."
"No.  It is beauty.  Only something so beautiful can be so terrifying.  The promise of holding on.  Of replacing everything else you've imagined."
"It is an unforgiving city?"
"It is the most forgiving city.  The river is filled with sin.  We New Yorkers toss our sins out hourly.  We smoke and walk through art museums.  We watch stage productions.  We eaves drop on subways.  We don't stop breathing or escaping.  You can't stop.  In order to keep up, you have to rid yourself of a few things.   That is why we have the Hudson.  A pool of regret.  We wash ourselves clean."
"Is this a theory you have on your own?"
"It is not a theory.  Wait until the fourth week begins.  You'll be at the river's edge with a handful of whispers.   A hundred people every hour.  Bent over and streaming secrets.  It is the most beautiful and painful image."
"I can't wait to watch."