Short memory

As I waited for the elevator doors to open, on the third floor of the Steinberg building, I thought of you. 

This sudden bifurcation of thoughts felt particularly strange, because I was in the middle of doing an experiment at that time, and nothing that I was working on had anything to do with you. But my mind kept drifting.

I remembered your building; walking along the street, in khakis and a cotton shirt, observing the trees, and its branches curling upon themselves like wrought-iron paisleys. The sun, the color of cantaloupe, floating on the clouds. And the traffic lights on Eighty-Sixth Street, periodically changing. 

We met in the North room of your refurbished apartment; red velvet carpet clawed to your floor --brocade curtains swaying by the windows. And we made love, violently, passionately, our hearts collapsing onto each others; our breaths synchronized like cello duets. Sweat trickled down your forehead, in little globules, smudging against my neck. And the bed rattled, and the lamps flickered, choking the filaments within. 

When you were done, you bathed in lavender and stood on your balcony while I was still in bed. And I remember looking up at you and being in awe. The sky was a riot of yellow and purple, and clouds, the size of quarters, melted on your hair. The city twinkled across the stretch of your penthouse balcony. And shadows of stars settled on your neck, speckled, like sand grains. Choruses of winds spun around you, and the magnolia petals, and the cotton seeds on your desk. 

You gave me a glass of water -I was thirsty and exhausted from the overuse of poppers - and spoke to me about your time at Yale, acting school at Juilliard, and your current pitches for Broadway. There was a weightiness to your voice, the kind of inflection that develops with success; or maybe it was another practice of your trade. I never quite figured it out, but I have remembered it through the years. Your phone rang three times and went directly to the answering machine. They all started with Hey It's John...and the voice trailed off. 

We shook hands and embraced each other. Your stiffened nipples sensitive against the brushing of my coat lapel. And then I was gone, walking on the street, down to the subway and up to my home. I finally sat down at my desk, at 10 pm, August 2012, and wrote, Broadway Star -Check.