CENTRAL PARK BY ETKIN CAMOGLU 34THPARALLEL MAGAZINE ISSUE 30
34THPARALLEL MAGAZINE ISSUE 30
THE COSTUME CLOSET
LET’S DO THIS
61 YEARS OF AUTEURISM
THE RISE AND FALL OF KNOWING
CHORUS OF EXES
“I think it’s best we part ways,” I say. A cab stops. I get in, slam shut, don’t wave goodbye, stare straight ahead, keep a firm hand on the door handle. The light stays red. You knock on the door.
“Wallet, remember,” you shout. “At your place.”
Right. You do need that to get home. Because home for you is way down in in the BK Whites. Wannabe Hipster Bastard. You slide right in, the light turns green, and we’re off. I do my best to hone a monotone neutral face, focus on the information card. Medallion NL781. Civan Jorhat.
“Hey man, where you from? Albania?”
Typical. You would break it down, bling out your Google Maps knowledge of central Asian turmoil, dictatorship deluge, and Don’t Ask Jack smartass look at me I’m worldly encyclopedic whatnot.
It’s gotten hot, too hot. Where that breeze went I know not. The cab rolls beneath me. I can smell your nervous love besides me, your need to gnaw at your finger skin, your need to claw at my clothes when we get home. But I’ll resist, you’ll see. Just wait and see you conniving thief.
At ninety-third and Park I dole out a ten, no change needed sir, and walk to Lex fast. You can catch me if can, or not. You try. I take the stairs, no elevator for me and you do the same though I know you’re damn lazy and would push that button and ride up easy breezy but at least, I’ll give you this, at least you have a smidgeon of shame to save face and follow my lead.
“Right here waiting for you,” I say when I open the door and spy said money clip plus keys on the coffee table. I’m tempted to empty the contents and take my present back because you’re the last person to deserve any of my remaining good graces but I stick to classy and opt out, lock myself in the bathroom instead. Which means goodbye, get out, have a horrible night.
“Can we talk, at least, before I go?” you say but I don’t, won’t answer. You can talk to yourself all you want when you get back to Brooklyn. I don’t care. Hell, you have two hands and an imagination plus the internet connection you steal from your landlord two floors down. Cheap motherfucker. You can do all the talking you want till you jerk yourself dead.
“I love you,” you say.
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