Trajectory

Author's Notes: For a long lost friend, Sunspot67. Te extraño, hermano.

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Sunshine turns the deep night, with its layers of incalculable time and space, into the flat, blue day. It is easy to pretend all those stars disappear. But they are always there, despite the sun. Innumerable suns with innumerable worlds. And yet the worlds we create inside our minds, under this sun, seem so much more real.

I know Gojyo is awake. He's been awake all night wrestling with himself. He found a woman by the stink of that telltale scent. A woman he clearly did not follow home. He did not wake me, though the smell permeated my sleep and sent me into darker places. Dreams became nightmares, and I awoke drenched in sweaty sheets in that torturous bedding. I immediately looked to his bed and  took note: he was awake, despite best efforts to seem otherwise. His eyes were shut too tight. His breathing was too steady. His body too rigid. I let him lay, did not bother him as he struggled. I just got up and began my routine: restroom, shower, tea at sunrise.

And so I sit at the window sill and let the bag steep before drinking. That scent is haunting the room, suggesting more. It is like a ghost we share, he and I, though she shows us two distinct faces. Strange, how these worlds within us will converge.

He cannot pretend for long. "I know it's rude to get up before you start making coffee."

"It's all right. You're not exactly the polite type."

He sits up, scratches here and there, then pads off to the restroom and leaves the door ajar when he pisses. Doesn't bother to flush, but he does wash his hands.

"Hard night?" The black tea is warm and rich. It almost blocks the scent when I hold it to the roof of my mouth.

"Well, sort of." He treads lightly across the chilly linoleum floor. "You know how it is."

I hold my cup up as a toast. "You've educated me well."

He sits next to me. Close, as friends do. "You know what's funny? I wanted her, but I couldn't do it."

"Perhaps you are learning restraint?"

"Nah, it wasn't that. She just reminded me so much of Ma. A real looker. Mean, too. And something inside of me didn't wanna let her be anything but mean, you know?"

I am not surprised. "She looked like her?"

"No, that's the funny thing. She had blonde hair. Blue, blue eyes. Almost violet. Like the monk. Did I mention mean?"

"Like him."

"But this was a woman. And I kept thinking of Ma when I looked at her." He sits back, scratches his elbow and grins while the scent wafts between us. "Funny how women carry all our feelings for us, yeah? They don't mean to. Don't really have a choice. She wanted to get laid, not take my baggage. But that's what she got, you know?"

"Maybe sex was preferable." I am lying as I consider a different trajectory. Nothing as simple as east and west.

He laughs. "Should have done it. But I didn't." There is a thump against the wall of our adjoining room. An announcement that we are not alone.

"Sanzo is saying good morning." In his own way.

"Ugh. That bastard can hear a pin drop, I swear."

"Not a heavy sleeper." Oh, this tea is too strong. If I finish it the caffeine will make my energy levels erratic. I push the cup toward him. "Do you want the rest?"

He nods and gulps it down. "Shit!" His lips pucker. "Man, I hate black tea. It's like dirty water or something."

"I'll make coffee in a minute."

"Take your time." He rolls the cup between his hands. "We don't get many early morning chats, you know?"

"It's true." The sun is rising. The orange streaks are the color of desert sand in mid day.

"Yeah. That asshole priest is gonna barge in here and tell us to shut up in a minute, anyway."

"I think you enjoy it."

"Oh, sure. My favorite thing in the world: a pissy fag with attitude."

"And yet you smile every time you talk about him." The sun rises over the rooftops, making the tin sheets gleam like gold. "Maybe, one day, he'll smile." I can hear him cursing us both in the other room.

"That guy? It'd be a cold day in hell." He goes to the bureau next to his cot, a set of drawers as long as it is tall, though fairly narrow, painted chalk white. He opens the drawer closest to the cot and finds those cigarettes.

"You don't think he will ever change?"

He snorts. "Sure. He'll get worse."

But the sun is a star. It moves in a cluster perched in the arm of a galaxy creating new space and time in its wake. "I'm not so sure. He's changed already, you know." We all change.

"If you mean he gives a shit about us, it's only because of the precious mission." That smile is the same as the one he had when he mentioned the woman. Suddenly the room seems so small, like a pinpoint on a speck of dust. Our imaginings are nothing compared to what is beyond our door.

"You really think so?" I don't believe he really does. "So why do you follow him?"

"Because, well..." He takes a long drag off his cigarette. "Maybe it is sorta like the thing with Ma. I couldn't leave her, either."

"You must hate him." And love him. Both are such powerful emotions. Yet there are so many variations between them. So many expressions. Experiences. More of these than any ghost our minds have collected. Like so many stars.

Smoke clouds stratify in distinct layers between him and I. "Are you saying I hated Ma?"

I hesitate. The ghost is still here. But the face she shows me is kind, so this is hard to say: "Yes."

I would beg her, if she could hear: Please forgive us for this burden. But I will save the apologies for Sanzo, who is very real, and knocking loudly at our door..