Lipsticks & Rust

There’s as little life left in me as there’s Nutella left at the bottom of the jar in my fridge. I’m not a corpse yet, but soon I’ll be one. Hell, there’s no difference at the moment. I am! This is not the way I’ve always intended to go. A lone defective black-eyed bean in a sieve, log-limbed, knock-teethed, mascara-cheeked, crimson-nosed, fuzzy-haired, one-earringed; deaf in the right ear, blind in the one banjo-eyed socket.

The sweaty body odor in this place can’t out-oppress that of the wet rust as of yet. He keeps checking the lime-infected faucet. No condoling river. He kicks the roach-colonized washing basin one time. Looks at his distorted handsome face in the lime-fogged mirror another. Struggling to contain his hair with his trembling hands. No man cares about how his hair’s doing when he’s in trouble but Tom McNulty. Don’t you have a bigger fish to fry, Tom? Broad shoulders failed him apparently. But who’s going to tell him?

Kiss me, man. I’d love two manly lips and two manly arms now. What? Busy trying to break the exhaust fan lest we run out of air? No matter what you do. All the wall-kicking is as infertile as my womb.

The other night, I found myself kneeling to pray by the bank of some river that seemed to stretch and wind forever. I was alone. Only the river was with me. It called me into its cool waters. It lulled me to rise from my knees and follow its murmurs. When I was somewhere in the middle of the stream, I was pulled by some mysterious force towards the riverbed. It laid me down on my back. And stretched down there, my soul left my body and I was left for dead, with the riverbed for my grave. It came upon me like good news when I woke up. Little did I know that it was a mere wet dream. But hey, it happened. And here I am in disheveled peace; he in a conundrum. Here comes his futile third wave of heavy blows to the stubborn door. That door was once a tree. I guess some trees are as resilient alive as they are being doors. And when a tree turns into a door, it still keeps secrets –like it does keep us warm and safe –. But who’s going to tell him?

He sits now, fidgeting and fidgeting and fidgeting his time away. Back against the lovely door, face buried in hands, arms buried between his knees. Nervous, Tom? Oh! Scream as much and as loud as you will. No concerned ear in this place to be leant to your acoustic futility. How does it feel to be immured in this Amazon of Decadence? This four-walled one-way Labyrinth. This well-cheesed Mousetrap. Now he stops screaming. Heads to the exhaust fan again to dismantle it? Then what, man? Alcatraz your ass out of that square hole? If only you could find a hairpin or something and mess with the door. Oops! Did he hear me say that? Because it’s the first instance he ever looks at me since he knocked me out. Not really looking at me directly, just eyes maneuvering around me, looking for a way out.

And it’s certainly the first time that he quakes like he does now. Decay-gleaned eyes aglow with terror, touched with doubt. What? As scared as a whore in church, Tom? He sits on the toilet seat now. Tell me a joke, Tom. Flood me. Joke after joke. Captivate my lungs Don-Rickels style. Just the way you used to charm people. What Tom? Can’t look me in the eye? Cliché says that toilets are where great ideas come about to modern man. What’s on your mind now, Fidgety Tom? There’s a gun in my purse if you’re ever desperate to get out. But who’s going to tell him?

What’s on your mind now, Bewildered Tom? Are you desperately reminiscing about the thousand summers you’ve loved women in? The wigs you’ve mistaken for hair. The foreheads you’ve printed your name across. The eyes you’ve kissed. The lips you’ve imbibed. The legs you’ve worshiped… Are you reminiscing about all the umbrellas you’ve been under with the women you’ve loved in rainy autumns? Or the afternoon walks you’ve taken in park dates in spring? FINALLY! He snatches my purse, searches it. Mon Dieu, no man spends a whole two minutes searching a shallow purse but Tom McNulty. See if that lipstick can help you. Oh, a new trick, isn’t it? He fashions my fallen earring into a pick to mess with the door. Picking it this way, picking it that way. Good try, Tom, I’ll give you that. It took you an hour to figure it out when you’ve already jammed the door lock by all that kicking.

Now retreats to the thought-evoking toilet seat. Do you remember, Tom, our first encounter? I was waiting in the train station at my terminal. Something caused me to lose my balance if it wasn’t for the hands that suddenly clutched me and deposited me in safety, I would’ve died a violent death. I thanked you. Then you went your way and I went mine. That brief encounter was enough to love you. You know, I was in your apartment a while ago and I found your photo album. My God. All these women you’ve loved. What happened to those women, I wonder. And, hey, I’ve read your diaries of heartbreak. I cried for you at times and I hated you sometimes. There seemed to be an experiment of some sort. It sounded like it is an Experiment. All these women you’ve charmed. Did you charm them with brief encounters like you did me? What happened to them, Tom? No, I can’t let your experiment go on and on. It must be aborted, for I’m your last and you won’t be there to record in your diaries how it all ended (He doesn't know I've contracted Covid a short while ago).