Seciton 10

Chapter 10

The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes “Aww!”
- Jack Kerouac, On the Road, 1957

10

That one, like Chloe someday would, ended abruptly. She accused me of cheating. I told her to leave. We didn’t speak again for two years.

Chloe moved in.

It wasn’t necessarily my idea, but I didn’t argue either. I remember the day she came. Her boxes were all perfectly packed, neatly loaded in her Honda Civic – their labels humored me – “kitchen items,” “summer clothes,” “bathroom.”
I should have seen it as a sign.
Perhaps I did.
She was controlling, manipulative, obsessive-compulsive. Even her goddamned boxes were set in stone… I remember she found a fork in the living room box. It pissed her off… “cute”, I thought.
Those first few months were bliss. Inseperable cuddling, lounging, telling one another secrets, whispering nothings in one another’s ears. I cherished the time together, but began to notice things. Her fingers were chewed upon – not the nails, the fingers, her skin was bare at the tips – pink, fleshy. She would scratch roughly at her scalp. I’d never noticed it before, but with the narrowing proximity of our jointed dispositions, I began too. Fingernails digging, roots suffering, picking at what skin she could gather. I would examine her as she slept. No longer as an affection, as I once had, but with a purpose. There was sometimes blood in her thick hair – spots seemed to grow temporarily thin.
I was concerned.
I was in love.
I said something.
Our lives changed.
She could never look at me after that day. It was as if I had discovered her secret, and she was ashamed. She shouldn’t have been, of course, but as she stood there, denying everything, I knew I’d made a mistake.

Meltdown in 5….
I pleaded, our exchange already running long, and my logic having been spent on her, “Chloe, it’s ok. We can get you help. Lots of people….”
“Is that what I need, your fucking help?”

4….
“I’m not saying you need my help, I’m saying that you have a problem and it’s o.k., we can….”
She was illogical now, wildeyed. I’d never seen her so.
“Fuck you, Marcus! What’s my problem? Why don’t you tell me what it is since you know fucking everything.”
“We both know you have a fucking…”

3….
“You don’t know shit! You act like you don’t have any problems of your own… do you ever wonder why you like my finger up your ass so much? Don’t you think there’s a reason it makes your blowjobs so much better?!”
Dumbstruck.
She was attacking, insinuatingly gesturing at what she knew was a weakness. I was infuriated, yet withdrawn.
“What the hell are you talking about?”

2….“You’re a fucking fag and I’m the one with the problem?!”
She spoke the words as if repulsed. As if the idea that I might enjoy something that a homosexual might as well repulsed her.
I could feel the walls coming toward me… the living room tightening around me.
I edged towards the door.
“Fuck off, I was trying to help!”
“Don’t ever say that to me again! The next time you do I’m moving out!”
“What the hell are you talking about?”

1….
“What the fuh…”
I slammed the door in her face and bolted for my car.


Liftoff.