In the heat of the night . . .
 A. Cristina Emanuela Dascalu

 The gray BMW, an 87 model, was shining, newly washed, courtesy of the corner gas station whose faithful client Anthony had been for the last year, seven months, and seven days. The sun was still on the sky, the buildings looked the same as yesterday, and the trees seemed to dormitate in the heat of the day. It was a silent midsummer day, and the infernal heat wave was moving mercilessly across the plains burning the grass. It was said that the chiefs of major tribes could see the wave in the form of a red bison, a vision they had been trying to explain and elucidate for the last seven weeks, but no consensus had been reached. Getting his mail from the red mailbox across the street from his apartment, a bunch of letters from collection agencies, sweepstakes, charity requests, meaningless advertising, fashion magazines for women, and local newspapers, Anthony fugitively glanced at the newspaper headlines with the hope that something extraordinary might have happened in between his lunch break (and reading time) and five fifteen in the afternoon, his regular time of picking his regular mail before entering his regular apartment and checking if the regular AC was still functioning. The headlines seemed to merge, all the same, identical messages over and over again, as repetitive and redundant as the weather: nothing else seemed to happen (or matter) in the world, except the unbearable heat.

 On the way to the door of his apartment, climbing the couple of stairs that separate his parking lot from the top level of the town house he had been renting for the last year, seven months, and seven days, he suddenly had the vision of his car as a yellow cat, shagging the water from its coat in tiny pools that were immediately absorbed by the thirsty asphalt. It was hot and stuffy, a heavy, breathless, compact atmosphere, and no wind was blowing, nothing except him moved on the surface of the whole earth (or at least that's what Anthony was thinking).

 It was a silent afternoon and the nearby streets looked deserted since people and animals were finding refuge inside air-conditioned or ventilated indoor spaces. Anthony himself could not wait to take off his white shirt and red tie and his dress pants, "You look so spiffy, " his boss had told him earlier that day. “For god's sake, that's the only thing my boss ever told me," he was discontentedly thinking while opening the door, and once inside the apartment, he dropped all the mail on the kitchen table and ran to the phone to check if anybody had called him and left a message–not that anyone did anymore. So there were no messages, nevertheless he kept the receiver on his left ear for a while, his eyes closed, yet an alert, quick breath, he kept the receiver feeling its cold touch, delicately pressing his ear against it, with the reverence and faith of somebody who knows everything is possible only if you strongly believe in it.

 Anthony was single, apparently successful, if success is measured according to how much one earns a month or his/her bank account, or to the type of work one does, always elegantly dressed, the pride of his family, since he was the only university-educated and traveled one, and very, very lonely. He never used to have friends even before, except her, and his family ties were not too strong, his grandmother from his mother side and his biological father being the only people he was in contact with on a more or less regular basis. His apartment was a reflection of this loneliness and transitory state of mind, of this indecision to move on, get to know people, date, settle down; he never quite liked it living by himself, but he disliked even more having roommates, and he kept things still in boxes, the walls empty, and empty drawers, too. The furniture, all rented, showed a specific delicate taste, and the paintings on the living room floor were a vivid expression of his peculiar artistic talent, as well; however, everything seemed disconnected, there was no ensemble, no vision of the whole space. The floors and the carpets were fairly clean, the dishes, a combination of red, yellow, and blue plates were clean and in order, the bed nicely made, military style, a fossilic behavior of his youth spent on military bases in Germany, and on the TV, left on those days on almost twenty four hours a day, one of his favorite cartoons was broadcasted. Impatiently taking his clothes off, he threw them on the master bedroom floor, where yesterday’s mail was still in a pile, and laid down on the bed to watch TV.

 It was hot and the AC, at maximum, could not cool down the bedroom to a comfortable temperature level, so there he was, almost naked yet sweating, lost in his thoughts, his face immobile, almost in a trance, when the stillness of the air and the tranquility of his meditation were brutally interfered with by the loud music of an ice-cream truck.  His quick reaction, in distress, was to pick something from the floor and project it in the direction of the noise, a habit deeply embedded in his childhood memories, when his younger brother used to wake him up, on purpose, at the most bizarre hours, by imitating cars, trucks, animals, and, especially, by pretending to be his grandfather, somebody Anthony feared, and for good reasons.

 “I pretend that I'm glad you ran away,” the neighbors’ radio, volume at maximum, the music was filling the space and his head with thoughts of the past, his left hand was keeping one of yesterday’s local newspapers, the arm extended, in balance, a fragile pose that reminded him of her pose, arms like arches, ballerina movements, all smiles, grace and serenity altogether.

 He did not want to remember her, memory was painful, he could now smell her perfume in the air, her arched body almost dissolving in his, the soft touch, her hair a little ticklish on his face, “I hate this, I cannot stand it anymore,” the memory of the hospital and the doctors. “You have to forget her, throw away anything that reminds you of her, her photos, presents she may have given to you, destroy letters, toss away any trace of her existence in your life,” the therapist's later advice: “Never put all your eggs in one basket,” and he knew quite then that she was going through the same thing, after all it had happened before, yet they always ignored advice, driven to each other by uncontrollable forces, “Why? Why did she refuse to ever give me a chance?,” and at the same time, deeply inside, he knew she had no answer, he knew she was equally confused and lost, “or was she?”

 The gray BMW, an ’87 model, was shining, recently washed, his hands resting on the wheel, his eyes impatiently searching for any possible movement in the apartment upstairs. His car clock was showing 9:37 a.m., 52 minutes later than their scheduled meeting time, so he was thinking if he should maybe go upstairs and knock at her door, when the living room yellow curtain moved, and there she was, uncombed, wild hair, sleepy face, “She is so beautiful . . .” he was thinking, “I bet she does not even have morning breath,” Mea culpa, her hand was drawing words in the air, the window opened “Anthony, sorry, sorry, don't get upset with me, I overslept, I'll be down in a few minutes,” “Take your time, sweetheart,” and he knew that the few minutes would linger to at least a quarter of an hour, and he knew right then that he would be late for his Management class, “who cares,” and he was happy, he was smiling, he felt nervous too, butterflies in his stomach,

 “When a man loves a woman,” the music was feeling the space and his head with thoughts of the future, “Good morning, and I am really sorry,” “That's OK, I am used to it; what do you feel like eating?” “I don't know, what about you?” “Whatever my princess desires,” “The princess is sleepy and has no preference whatsoever,” “Let's just drive and you tell me when to stop, what about that?” “The car is so clean, and you smell so nice, turn your face to me,” she took his head in her hands, and was smelling his face, like an exotic, delicate flower, closed eyes, inspiration and expiration in ecstasy, “You smell so good,” his heart throbbing, his pulse 160, nervously clenching his hands, feeling the need to grab her and kiss her passionately, to make love to her right there and then, waves of blood flooding his face, feeling ashamed for the strong desire,

 “You know, I was just reading yesterday in The New Woman magazine that smell is the most important attribute in an intimate relationship, I mean it is something that can bring people closer or separate them, seriously,” now her hands were caressing the back of his neck, he was breathing quickly and heavily, “Please stop, baby, you drive me crazy,” hoping she will never stop and the minute will never end, “I'm sorry, darling, you are right, we'd better keep going,” he felt angry with himself for ceasing the pleasure, her crossed legs, beautiful legs, and she knew it too well, “All genetics, my mom's legs,” she used to say, “the blue suit fitting her perfectly, everything did,” he was thinking, and “I am so lucky to have her by my side,” “I am sorry for yesterday, baby, I don't know why I am so needy,” “That's OK,” she said, looking in his eyes, smiling, “I've already forgotten,” and he knew she meant it, and right now his mind was clear, clearer than ever before, clearer than in the months to come, and he could see that his thoughts were unhealthy for both of them, his jealousy devouring positive feelings, “I love you, sweetheart, I really do” he reached for her, “thank God, the streets are not too crowded,” his hand squeezing her perfect knee, then moving a little up on her left leg, concentrating all his love in his hand, in his fingers, touching her skin delicately and feeling the response of her skin, all her pores breathing pleasure, and he could smell the sweet, flowery scent of her skin, too, as if his hands possessed all the senses, his hands hearing the love song of her body, immersed in feelings, an ocean of warm memories, “I love you, sweetheart, I really do . . .” And, as she often used to do, she all of a sudden took off the seat belt so she could also reach him, touching him with her long fingers, butterflies on his chin, innocently playing with his hair, not so innocently kissing him on the left side of his neck, on his left cheek, butterflies all over, “You don't know how you make me feel,” and “I love you, baby,”

 “I love you, too!”

 The heat was still unbearable when she returned home at seven o'clock in the evening, the whole summer had been extremely hot and humid, she was tired and restless at the same time, strange unnamed, unusual, indeterminate feelings were invading her, painful memories of past happiness, No, I should not question past decisions, determination leaving space for guilt, trembling hands searching-for what?– in her purse, in the deep pockets of her blue suit,” “Oh, I see, keys, mail, let's get today's mail.”  The letters were in front of her, one from a life insurance agency, one from a lawyer, another one with no return address on it, in a small blue envelope, with a familiar smell attached like a special collection stamp, so profound, so seducing, disbalance of all senses, and she opened it,

   we are all involved in this escapism
   a kind of pastille for gray boring days
           the air smells of kerosene and
         your hands are so hot
               a keepsake for winter
   it's raining the clouds
   have got nephritis
         where is nemesis i'm asking myself
            while speaking with A on the phone
               my ken's influenced by surroundings
   in his dreams A may see the karrow region
   from where i think his ancestors came
               we are all involved in this escapism
         part of the same ecosystem
               moving our quadriceps speaking
   about quarter horses defending the quantum theory
   we qualify and judge forgetting that
         we are transient we move in this quadrant
         that is our terrestrial life
               pushing our words towards
    the others–invisible
   insects i can see the vowels
         stumbling and unraveled
         i can see the vowels
               sticky glued
               against our lips
                     unobserved i will abandon this place
                                    pilgrim for the country of unspoken dreams,

her poem from three years ago, before she ever dated him, before they ever got involved in any way, and then another poem, an unfamiliar one,

    the earth everywhere bears your prints,
    your image multiplied thousands of times,
    i've been walking with  oblivion's hoe under my arm:
    i have to dig up the whole earth, excavate each print,
    i have to bury the whole universe . . .

and she knew that she had no need to open the other letters, a nauseating feeling,

 “Unbreak my heart,” the music coming from all walls, all neighbors, upstairs, downstairs, to the left, to the right, across the street were listening to the same song, at the same time, and she threw away the letters on the floor, on the red carpet, and she stepped on them, she wanted them to become dust, to disappear, “this is not happening . . .” unable to even cry, and she threw away the newspapers, blue headlines about hot weather merging in the hot red air, “I cannot breathe,” on the floor picking all the newspapers, embracing them, the seducing smell in the air, she tore the newspapers in small parts, tiny parts, knowing that no matter what all the newspapers were writing about was the hot weather, “who cares,” and she could see the yellow cat, the BMW running across the stars, blue water pools filling her heart, and she opened all windows to hear its engine filling the universe with its shaggy contour, Mea culpa, she was writing imaginary letters in the air, “I love you, too,” while in the heat of the night people were gathered in front of their gray TV sets, watching cartoons about hot weather and funny characters.