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The Wall There is only one wall that separates us. I can hear his every move as if we are in the same room. Three loud taps on a table and I know that he's packing his cigarettes. There is the clanking of silverware, the banging of drawers, the soothing rush of water shooting from the showerhead. I'm amazed at how intimate these noises are. The time is 3 a.m. and his engineer boots are heavy on the wood floor. His footsteps are followed by the click-clack of a woman's heals. Her giggle is raspy and loud and then there is silence. I hold onto Starr, cradling her little body, trying so hard not to squeeze her too tightly. Lately it's as though I want to crush her until there is no risk of the world getting near her. Clenching my jaw, desperate for sleep I count in my head. One-one thousand, two-one thousand. Why the hell is he always bringing women home? What void is he filling? The clapping sound of two bodies slapping against each other, and then the familiar sound of strangers engaging in a meaningless one-night stand seeps through the wall. Their moans seem to push through my skin until I can do nothing but hold my breath crushing Starr into my arms even tighter. Starr's arm shoots up and then drops gently onto her pillow. Hovering over her, I can't help but to take in the loveliness of her eyelids. They are so milky and petal-soft with thin, pink veins swimming all over them. I stuff my nose into her neck, its scent bakery-sweet, its feel, soft and warm and new – skin that hasn't yet been touched by dirt, by filth, by life. The woman is crying out, her screams like calls of agony, into the musty Lower Eastside building we all sleep in. My neighbor grunts and then once again there is silence. Starr turns onto her stomach and throws her bunny-pajamaed leg over my hip. She hasn't been able to sleep alone in months. I gave her the bedroom and painted pale pink, little pigs all over the walls, and even bought her a canopy princess bed, but she'd rather sleep with me on the pullout sofa in the living room. Will we live here when she is old enough to suspect the meanings of these moans and grunts? The click-clack of the woman's heals and then the slamming of my neighbor's door jolts Starr awake. "Mommy," she screeches. The desperation in her voice makes me want to engulf her in my arms, push her through my skin and into my body, hiding her behind my heart so that no one can touch her, but instead I reassure her. "I'm right here, sweetie," I gently pull her down and her body relaxes in my arms. Body limpness creeps through me and then there is the comfort of my shallow breathing. *** It's getting darker earlier now. The sky is gray and orange with the anticipation of dusk. Starr is my partner – this is how it is. Nothing has changed really. She walks down the two flights with me, her hand on my wrist, and together we swing the black garbage bag into the bin in the basement. The tiny colored bangles Starr's babysitter brought back with her from India jingle on Starr's wrist making her giggle. I scoop her up and set her on my hip for the upward hike. She has taken to wearing long gypsy skirts and bandannas in her hair, like me. A little me – I pray not. She is only three. On the way up we bump into my neighbor. He is holding a full garbage bag that smells of ashtrays and beer. He is shirtless, his inked chest like a piece of art, his ribs, breaking through his skin. He pulls the bag up for a better grip and pale blue veins swell on his forearms from its weight. "Hello," he says smiling endearingly at Starr and she immediately buries her face in my neck. "Hi," I nod. He smiles at me through eyes that are hazel and glassy. The sound of him grunting last night comes back to me, forcing me to hold my breath as we pass by each other. As I pack Starr's bag she cooks me a toy pancake on her kitchen stove. She hands it to me on a little green plastic plate and I pretend to gobble it up. "Mmm… delicious." "Do you want another one, mommy?" "I'd love another." Just as I throw Starr's favorite panties into her overnight bag, the buzzer sounds. "Daddy?" Starr asks. "Yes, it's Daddy." She is always unsure how to feel in this moment. Her discomfort is revealed through the nervous smile on her face. She wants to see him, but not alone, not without me. She has already seen the darkness in him – his hands on me like weapons, right in front of her. "You wait for me mommy, right?" "Of course," I reassure her. "I'll be waiting for you to come home. I promise." I kiss her all over her face wishing I could swallow her — make her invisible to him. As always he is standing in the doorway in his crisp suit looking like a knight from Wall Street. Before he greets Starr he gets so close to me I can see the vein pulsing in his forehead, smell his warm breath that is potent with the remnants of red wine. "I will take her away from you if I find out you're sleeping with someone." Another empty threat with no relevance, but its harshness somehow manages to shift the balance in our space causing Starr to cry. She wraps her arms around my leg. "Please," I whisper. "Not in front of her." I still cower when he is near. After all of this, I still shrink inside myself. He reprimands me with his stare and then bends down to be eye-level with Starr, suddenly morphing into honey. "Oh sweetie, why are you crying? You love to see Daddy." My neighbor peaks his head out, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, drum sticks in his right hand. He looks at my ex, who is too immersed in winning back Starr's affections to notice him, and then at me, his hazel eyes still glassy. "You okay?" he mouths. I nod and he goes back into his apartment. This gesture leaves me stunned. *** My apartment is dark except for music video reflections that flicker all over the white walls, and the light blue glow of my laptop. Roland Barthe's, Discourse on Love is on my lap. It's a tattered copy, a devoured book. I've read it over and over, forever fascinated by its concept of immersing oneself in their lover so deeply as to lose one's soul, one's direction. How destructive it all is–this love thing. My cell phone keeps ringing. My friends continue to invite me to parties and dinners, proposing men they think I'd adore – men they claim are kind. Uninterested, I do not answer any of these calls, and instead pick up a framed picture of Starr. In it she is wearing a ballet tutu and cowboy boots and her pale hair is matted and wild. She is holding a magic wand in the air. A magic wand–she is my magic wand. Alone and crying, hugging Starr's framed picture into my chest I'm suddenly distracted by the slamming of my neighbor's door. It's 11 p.m. He's going out. It slams again and his engineer boots are heavier on his floor than usual. He's back. How is it that I'm standing here, my ear now against his wall like some stalker? Is this how women like me spend Friday nights? And yet, I am more interested in my neighbor than anything out my window on Ludlow Street where the noise of drunken bar-hounds and laughter should consume me or at least distract me. He is whispering into his phone, but his words reach me mumbled and incoherent. There is the heavy scratch of a match and then he is sucking in his cigarette. Quickly, I grab the garbage bag that is barely full, knot it and walk out into the hall. Pale light and cigarette smoke seep out from under his door. "Hi." "Hey." His lips are fuller than I remembered. "I just wanted to thank you. You know, for this afternoon?" "Yeah, no problem. Ex, huh? "Yeah. He's an anti-Christ." I smile as if this is funny and suddenly feel stupid "Most exes are." What the hell am I doing? "Umm." He's just staring down at me in his Ramones t-shirt. "Okay, well that's it. Sorry to bother you." I turn to walk away. "No, no, I'm just hanging out. Want a glass of wine or something." "Sure, okay." His apartment smells of cigarettes and oranges. "Sit," he says, walking into the kitchen. Plopping down onto the sofa, I look around. There is a mattress on the floor in one corner of the room and a wooden dresser caddy-cornered in the other side of the room. His coffee table is scattered with clean ashtrays and music magazines. He hands me a glass of red wine and sits on the sofa leaning into the corner opposite me. "Cigarette?" he holds out a pack to me. "Sure," I grab one even though I quit six years ago. He leans into me with the lighter and I hold up my hand as if I'm in the "Are you a musician?" Of course he is. I suddenly wonder, what am I doing here? He is older than I thought. Maybe thirty-five or maybe his skin is rough from that sort of life guys like him live. "Yeah, sort of. I used to be. Now I work for a label." I'm not even music savvy enough to ask him what label. The wine is numbing my body and the cigarette has made me dizzy. "Do you like it? Working for a label instead of the musician thing?" "It's okay." "I guess we're always wishing for something else," I blurt out, knowing I sound ridiculous. "You have a beautiful daughter. That's pretty much the ultimate, isn't it? I mean what more could you want?" "Yeah. She is the ultimate, isn't she?" I feel myself smiling at nothing in particular, thinking of my Starr and then my gaze turns back him. He holds me with his eyes, sad eyes, forever glassy, and it's not a look that's unfamiliar, but it's a look I remember only from my past. We both somehow know that there's nowhere else for this conversation to go. It's pointless because there is something desperate happening between us. It's tense and electric and strange. When he grabs my hand I let him guide me over to his mattress and roughly throw me down on it because this is not about love or depth or meaning, it's about something more and it's about nothing at all. In the dull lights I kiss his tattoos, tattoos that have no significance for me. He may never tell me what they are to him, and somehow that's comforting, knowing I'll never know him. In the soft light I notice his scars that are red and crooked and raised, and run up both his inner arms. I kiss them, suck on them, breathe all over them because I understand the soothing effect affection can have on one's scars. He pulls on me and kneads me and holds me and throws me. And I can do nothing, but abandon myself to this man who I will never love – I will never love this man and that is such a relief. *** My apartment is just as I left it. I crawl into my pullout sofa bed, breathing in the smell that Starr has left on the pillows and in the blankets. My body is still numb and buzzing. Sentiments of deep satisfaction don't come often lately, but right now they spill through me. Drifting, I feel the warmth of Starr in my arms even though she is not there, and swallow the strange taste of my neighbor that still lingers. Is this feeling of safety fleeting? My body grows limp, wondering. Marci Greer Jaffer resides in New York City with her four-year-old daughter, Dylan and their dog, Edgar. By day, Marci teaches high school English, and by night, she writes. To clear her head, Marci runs every morning before school, and runs marathons when feeling in tiptop shape. Prior to her career in teaching, she worked in the fashion industry as a producer and editor. She received an MFA from New School University, an MA from San Francisco State University and a BA in English from SUNY Buffalo. Marci is presently working on a novel.
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