Sometimes, I’ve noticed, he wakes up in the morning with balled fists.
Other times he wakes up looking like a still from an Italian neorealism movie. “You look like Lamberto Maggiorani,” I say when he opens his eyes. “I feel like him sometimes,” he says, letting the morning sun caress his face like the time I caressed his face a few mornings ago. “Caress me,” he says. But when I go to caress him he turns away, sits up, and reaches for his cigarettes. His back to me, he lights a cigarette and coughs like a crosstown bus. I press my ear to the small of his back. Sometimes I think I can hear his blood moving, can feel it moving, slowly, the exact same speed as my very own blood. “What’s wrong?” I ask in a sweet voice. “Nothing,” he says, “I just worry that when your book comes out you’ll forget all about me and my Italian neorealist face—you being the voice of our generation and all.” He’s never wounded like this, he’s always so confident and stoic. He usually caresses his masculinity. “Of course I won’t forget you,” I say to him, kissing him on the back of the neck. “I need you for material,” I add. He laughs. “I’m serious,” I say, and he looks into my eyes. We’re terrified and we both start crying. “It’s hard being so important,” I confess between sobs, and he squeezes me into his chisled chest, which is much nicer than my pathetic ex-boyfriend’s. He doesn’t say anything more, but I know what he’s thinking, and I almost add, “It’s hard being omniscient too.” He finishes his cigarette and says it’s time for wrestling practice. Then he disappears into the dark hallway like a person turning into a ghost because it’s dark in the hallway. And I’m sad, because you can’t see ghosts—no matter how hard you try, you just can’t.
Tags: balled fists, emily gould, emily magazine, lamberto maggiorani
