The Big Boom [re-writing]

12:56 pm [updated]

I felt like I was put into a giant, metal box and shipped through a rusty factory machine at forty miles an hour. But I wasn't. I was in an underground subway.

My right hand was wrapped around the cold, clammy pole right under where Christopher's hand was. His eyes were trained into the end of our station which seated, strangely, of only seven other people. I was gazing at the cement walls we were passing, watching them zip through the rectangular windows of the subway and watching distant lights blink different colors here and there. The whole place smelled of strong tobacco and heated metal. The station rumbled beneath my feet. The stranger looked at me funnily for too long. The ride lasted forever.

It was all a blast of nostalgia, reminding me of the times I took the subway to your house alone, pardoning the inclusion of Christopher right now. You'd say, "Candice, this isn't something I want to say over the phone. You have to come here. Now."

And I'd arrive at your place twenty minutes later, sweating, frantic, avoiding the eyes of your mom on the way, just to hear you gossip about this professor and this other professor in the closet, and this promiscuous thing they were doing, and how they dared to ask you if they could borrow any protection from you.

You'd say, "Candice, this is an emergency 911 situation. No, forget about the stupid university. You have to come here. Now."

And I'd arrive at your place forty minutes later, my homework stuffed into my bag which I wrestled out of the hands of a stranger twenty minutes earlier, my hair the epitome of a mess. When I opened the door to your bedroom, avoiding the eyes of your mom on the way, I saw you holding two different outfits to me.

"Which one?" You asked, facing the mirror, as if you could just know who I was by my footsteps. "I met this guy earlier this week, and I really want to go for a look that says I'm open to whatever sexual escapades he has in mind but I am also a reserved, intelligent woman who wouldn't do this for anyone."

You'd say there was an emergency, I'd rush over in the middle of something, and then you'd proceed to tell me more, more times than not, about Christopher.

"He was a guy that made you stop and think. Which is pretty freaking great when you wished your brains would fry already," You said. "My god, he was great and about as beautiful as a man could get. He's great."

Another time you said, messing up and rearranging your room, "I don't know what it is about him. He makes me want to give up everything and at the same time charge straight into storm." Then you stopped folding the clothes back into your closet. "Actually, I think that's exactly it. That's what I should do."

And this time, as I took my time to get to your place, avoiding the eyes of your mom yet again, I took the stairs up to your room, the same goddamn route as the millions of other times before because there was something you had to say in person. This time, you weren't there.

Christopher's hand closed around the handle of your door and opened it. His eyes landed on me first rather than the inside of your room.

I slid past him and let my eyes feast on every nook and cranny that inhibited the memories stored in them, memories that at the moment had retreated to such a contrasted black and white.

There was that saturated corner on the wall where a bunch of flyers, post-it notes, and boards were pinned up for years, fading the wallpaper for the rest of the room. You used to have a can of pins underneath so you could stab every page of your planner up there for the according week. An assortment of notepads would be on the floor, too, so you could write trivial reminders to the add to the intentional mess on wall like Wake up and Eat, or visitors stopping by could leave a message for you.