It is midnight, and we are going to the roof.
"I don't think you'll be able to move that," he says, referring to the wooden lid covering the entrance. I am on tiptoes while standing on a ladder. When I first try to move the lid, my arm muscles fold; he's right, I think, it's too heavy. But then I push my entire body upward and manage to force it aside. I scrape my right wrist against rough wood or a roof shingle, I can't tell which.
"No, I've got it," I say. "But I hurt my wrist a little." This is the second injury of the day. Hours earlier, when the sun was still glowering at the city, my right foot had broken through a rotten porch floorboard, scraping my ankles but not pulling blood. No blood on my wrist, either. It feels like there should have been blood.
I hoist myself up into the midnight air and adjust my sagging dress. He follows, carrying a bottle of Pilsner Urquell and an out-of-tune souvenir ukulele. "This is my last time up here," he says, and so it is mine too.
The city is smeared out for miles, fuzzy from the muggy heat and oversaturated glow of streetlamps. Skyscrapers stand in soft focus to the east, and the street behind us is still. Even though I know better, it feels like the city is asleep.
Without consulting each other, we walk to the south side of the roof and lie down, our heads resting on its upturned brick lip. The roof surface has been painted silver, and it's bright enough to tell that it's probably carrying dirt from a leftover rain. I worry that my dress will be soiled, leaving two smudged spots where my butt rests. But then I think that I've already sat down, so it doesn't matter.
We stare at the sky, which is a muted blue from the city lights. When I was little, I used to think that I could see the stars moving, but they were airplanes. Now I am ready to assume that we're watching jets. "I see two stars," he says without looking at me. "No, five." I see more than five. If you look long enough, you can find as many as you want to see.
After a moment, he holds up the ukulele. "Should I smash this?" he asks. That was the original plan. Now that it's silent on the roof, we worry about waking the neighbors. But we worry too much in general, and so I encourage him to smash the thing if only to feel adventurous. He walks over to a pipe sticking out of the roof and assumes the Pete Townshend pose. With one quick whack, the ukulele sends pieces of shattered wood and plastic string over the roof. Goodbye, Puerto Vallarta ukulele. That's that, and soon we are lying back on the roof floor again, watching the night sky slowly spill above us.
"I don't think you'll be able to move that," he says, referring to the wooden lid covering the entrance. I am on tiptoes while standing on a ladder. When I first try to move the lid, my arm muscles fold; he's right, I think, it's too heavy. But then I push my entire body upward and manage to force it aside. I scrape my right wrist against rough wood or a roof shingle, I can't tell which.
"No, I've got it," I say. "But I hurt my wrist a little." This is the second injury of the day. Hours earlier, when the sun was still glowering at the city, my right foot had broken through a rotten porch floorboard, scraping my ankles but not pulling blood. No blood on my wrist, either. It feels like there should have been blood.
I hoist myself up into the midnight air and adjust my sagging dress. He follows, carrying a bottle of Pilsner Urquell and an out-of-tune souvenir ukulele. "This is my last time up here," he says, and so it is mine too.
The city is smeared out for miles, fuzzy from the muggy heat and oversaturated glow of streetlamps. Skyscrapers stand in soft focus to the east, and the street behind us is still. Even though I know better, it feels like the city is asleep.
Without consulting each other, we walk to the south side of the roof and lie down, our heads resting on its upturned brick lip. The roof surface has been painted silver, and it's bright enough to tell that it's probably carrying dirt from a leftover rain. I worry that my dress will be soiled, leaving two smudged spots where my butt rests. But then I think that I've already sat down, so it doesn't matter.
We stare at the sky, which is a muted blue from the city lights. When I was little, I used to think that I could see the stars moving, but they were airplanes. Now I am ready to assume that we're watching jets. "I see two stars," he says without looking at me. "No, five." I see more than five. If you look long enough, you can find as many as you want to see.
After a moment, he holds up the ukulele. "Should I smash this?" he asks. That was the original plan. Now that it's silent on the roof, we worry about waking the neighbors. But we worry too much in general, and so I encourage him to smash the thing if only to feel adventurous. He walks over to a pipe sticking out of the roof and assumes the Pete Townshend pose. With one quick whack, the ukulele sends pieces of shattered wood and plastic string over the roof. Goodbye, Puerto Vallarta ukulele. That's that, and soon we are lying back on the roof floor again, watching the night sky slowly spill above us.
0 Responses to “burton / victoria”
Post a Comment