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Tangled up in noir


When dawn did break, the sun in golden hue, I lay in bed, in thought of days gone by; I wondered if her hair of fiery blue Did still in lustrous flame beneath the sky.

Her kin had spoken ill of love we shared, Their eyes did judge, their words did mock and sneer; Yet still I dared, though fate was ill-prepared, To love her deeply, though the end drew near.


We parted ways upon a bitter night, But still she turned and spoke with tender grace: “On avenue, once more we’ll meet in light.” Thus time did pass, and time did leave no trace.


Though paths did cross, and though the years did fold, Her memory, in heart, doth still remain untold.



The morning light crept through the blinds like a sliver of silver, soft and cold, not giving any warmth. I was lying there, half-awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering if she’d changed. She had that fiery red hair, back then. Couldn’t forget it, even now. But did she still wear it that way? Or had time rewritten every line? Misty, water-colour memories and all that crap. Those old days felt like a dream, hazy and distant, but I could still smell the perfume of her in the air.


Her folks? They hated me. Never liked my kind. A scrappy kid, no pedigree, no bankroll, just a fistful of hope and a pocket full of dreams too big for their narrow minds. Her father’s bank account wasn’t much better than mine, but they thought that mattered.


I rolled out of bed, the rain tapping against the window, making everything seem muted. The roads outside were wet and slick, a reflection of the life I’d been living. A dead end job here, a broken promise there, a string of poor decisions tied up in the bow of a blue ribbon. I lit a cigarette, the smoke curling up like the memories of her face, of us — tangled, bound by the things that never quite fit.


I thought about that day we parted ways. God, it was a cold one. She was married when we first crossed paths, but she was on the brink of divorce. Helped her out of a jam, I guess. But the way I did it? Yeah, I used a little too much force. That’s the thing with love. It’s never just a simple transaction. There’s always a mess, a complication, a cost.


We drove out in that clunker, the miles stretching like a highway to nowhere. Abandoned it out west. No more miles to go. Just us, split under the darkness of a sad, silent night. She looked back at me once — just once — and said, “We’ll meet again someday, on the avenue.” Those words hung in the air like smoke.


Tangled up in blue.


The north woods tried to swallow me up next. They said the work would be good, but I wasn’t cut out for that kind of life. I lasted a few months, then got out. Drifted south, to New Orleans where I happened to be employed. Worked for a while on a fishin’ boat right outside of Delacroix. The jazz, the heat, the hunger for something different — it called to me. But it was the same old tune, no matter where I went. The past was always lurking, close behind, casting its shadow over the faces of every woman who passed through my life.


Then, I found her again. Not like I expected. She was working in a topless bar down on Bourbon Street. I’d stopped in for a drink, my mind muddled, the same questions chasing each other in a never-ending loop. Then I saw her — same face, a little older, a little more wear on the edges. But those eyes. Those damn eyes. They saw through me like I wasn’t even there.


I sat there, nursing my beer, trying not to stare. But it wasn’t easy. Later on when the crowd thinned out, I’s just about to do the same. She was standing behind me when I stood to leave, her voice cool, calm. “Don’t I know your name?”


I muttered something under my breath, trying to keep my composure, but it wasn’t easy. She studied my face, those lines, those maps of regret. I’d been through a lot, but I didn’t realize how much it showed until she leaned down and tied the lace of my shoe.


Her touch was electric, like a jolt of lightning, reminding me of all the things I tried to forget. “I thought you’d never say hello,” she said. “You look like the silent type.”


She pulled out a book of poems, some Italian stuff from the thirteenth century. I don’t know why she handed it to me, but I read them all, each word, each line burning itself into me like a brand, glowing like burnin’ coal. It was like she wrote it all for me, from her to me, across centuries. And I couldn’t escape it.


Tangled up in blue.


We ended up at a basement apartment on Montague Street. It was dark, cramped, but the music from the cafés drifted down into the alley, and the air was thick with revolution. People spoke of change, but the only thing that really changed was the look in her eyes. She tried, God knows she did.


But it wasn’t enough. When her man started into dealing with slaves and something inside of him died, things went south in a hurry. Everything went to hell, like it always does. She had to sell off everything, her clothes, her pride, everything she had left. She froze up inside, just like the rest of us.


I became withdrawn, a shadow of the man I used to be. Never really was. The city was a cold mistress, and it didn’t take long for me to realize I didn’t have anything left. The only sound left after the ambulances went was Cinderella sweeping up.


So now, I’m back. Headin’ to where it all started. I don’t know how to get to her. Hell, maybe I’m not even supposed to. But the road calls to me like it always has, and I can’t shake the feeling that we’ll meet again. There’s a lot of faces I used to know, but they’re illusions to me now. I had to rearrange their faces and give them all another name.


Some are mathematicians, some are carpenters’ wives. But me? I’m still on the road. And wherever that road leads, it’ll be the same thing: me, her, and that bloody avenue. We always saw it from a different point of view.


Wish she still had that burner on the stove. Wish I still had that pipe.

 
 
 

3 Comments


You're goin', you're goin', you're gone.

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"Dawn cracked hard like a pool ball,

It was taking no shit from the night"

-- Tom Waits

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Split up on a dark sad night; with the feeling it was best. On the avenue….

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©2020 by  David Sherman - Getting Old Sucks

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