Read Online Aftermath of Dreaming by DeLaune Michel - Free Book Online Page B

York, not long before I moved to California. I was with Tim, the man I was living with at that time, and she was with her husband—her first—and a female friend she would not stop hugging as the train rattled and swooped, stations passing by.
    It was late at night, and the subway car was almost empty, so herhusband easily spotted Tim when we boarded at the Houston Street stop. They had grown up together in the city; introductions were made all around. Holly lifted her head from the friend’s shoulder, blond hair only then not hiding her face, and gave Tim and me a glance before putting her head back down. She had clearly been crying, but laughed for most of the ride, always leaned against her friend, as if clinging to the last known vestige of joy.
    â€œShe’s drunk,” Holly’s husband mouthed to us as he stood above her, his hand on the rail steadying him. “Karen here is leaving tomorrow for a year in Australia,” he went on in full voice.
    Tim nodded as if that explained all, and smiled. Then the two of them caught up on each other’s lives while I watched Holly cleave onto Karen. I don’t think she was aware I was there, but I knew who she was from the local news stories she did, mostly movie premieres, fashion stuff, and celebrity interviews.
    Our exit came before theirs. We said our goodbyes; Tim and Holly’s husband promised to have lunch, Karen shook my hand, and Holly lolled against her more firmly—as if the departure of total strangers was too much a foreboding of what tomorrow held in store. When Tim and I were halfway across the platform, I heard through the still-open train doors a long trill of Holly’s laughter descend into a distinctive wail; then the subway bell rang its two-note tone, the doors slid shut, and the train carried them off. The reverberation of that cry left me unsettled for days. Her husband had seemed like a nice man. I wondered what he was really like inside.
    Anyway. Andrew and Holly have settled into their seats at the theater just a few rows in front of me and a little to the right. That’s closer than I’d like, but safe, I decide, because I am completely out of their (Andrew’s) view.
    Okay, so I just need to make it to the lights going down, which should be any minute now, then the show will distract me, I hope, or at least keep me under the cover of darkness until it ends and I can get out and run. I am immediately grateful to Sydney for not having anintermission; at least I’m saved from that hellish interval of milling around. The outburst over Andrew has subsided to a low thrilling roar of whispers and nudges from an audience completely flustered since the most famous and talented performer is sitting among them and not appearing onstage.
    The lights flicker once, then go back up, then flicker again. Just go down, lights, please, and plunge us into wonderful concealing darkness so I can’t see Andrew and he can’t see me and I don’t have to look at Holly. Suddenly, as if my thoughts were his cue, Andrew turns around and looks at me.
    Just looks at me. The way he used to gaze at me across his bed.
    Then he waves. A fingers-up-and-down wave. Which I find odd, and wonder if it is a habit he picked up from his two kids. And still he is looking at me. A time-has-stopped look. A no-one-else-is-here look. Then he waves again. But I still haven’t responded to his first wave, other than the fact that my eyes are unable to leave his. Unable to leave his the way the earth is unable to leave the sun. My hands feel glued to my lap and I am suddenly finding it very hard to get the muscles of my mouth to smile, and exactly what size smile do you use for an ex-never-thought-you-could-breathe-without anyway? I cannot figure this out, so I just kind of half-wave, half-cover my sort-of-smiling mouth and look away.
    The houselights suddenly go down as if they were timed for him. Then Sydney comes on stage singing a