Cindy wiped her eyes against the back of her wrist
and sighed. She put her glasses on and sighed. Then she looked at
the moon, and sighed again.
"I could write a poem about you, you're so beautiful."
"Will you shut up. Every time I get so mad at you I want
to kill you, you say something that melts my heart all over
again. You're going to have to just sit still and listen. No sappy remarks.
"I told you, I don't go out much. You want to know
the truth? I've never been out. Never. Oh, I've got a couple of
boy cousins in North Carolina and we pal around some in the
summer. And my mother set me up with some geek in eighth grade for
a fancy dance that she helped organize. Oh, yeah. She invited
some boys to my birthday party a couple of years ago. But really,
it's nada.
"And that's okay. Most of you guys aren't worth the air
you breath. I know you hotshot types think. . . ."
"Cindy. I. . . ."
"Shut up. This is me talking. You listen. Don't leave.
You're not thinking of leaving, are you?" He had moved, just a little.
The panic in her voice surprised him.
"I'm just getting comfortable." He folded his hands in
his lap.
"What a jerk. Where was I? Oh, you hotshot types. . . ."
"Wait. . . ." He started to protest again.
"Right. I said, `hotshot types' and you said, `Wait.' Now
I remember. You hotshot types think the world falls at your feet.
You think that every girl that comes within a hundred yards of
you wants you. Wants your body. And you, you're so cool, you
parade around like some mangy lion, picking and choosing what
you please, leaving the rest of us to the hyenas."
"Hyenas?"
"Shut up. So I watched you and your cool, cool
friends. And then you read those poems in class. Cold, cold winter
nights, and hot, hot summer sun, and something twisted way down
inside of me. Like a hot knife. But it felt good, in a weird way. Do
you understand? Am I making any sense?"
"Cindy. I. . . ."
"Shut up. Let me talk. That's why I told you about
your poem. And that's why I stopped by the station. It made that
hot knife burn like fire. Do you know Frost's poem about fire
and passion and just burning up with love? That's what I felt. I
thought I might spontaneously combust at any moment. I'd come home
and take a cold shower and steam would come off of my body. Can
you imagine me standing naked in the cold water for half an
hour, screaming inside, burning outside?"
"I guess I. . . ."
"No. Don't even think about it. Think about this
instead. Your friends grab me and tell me we've been having wild sex."
"They weren't my friends. . . ."
"Your friends grab me and humiliate me in the girls'
bathroom. And then you hand me that damn line. . . ."
"Huh?"
"That one. And that stupid poem about the sunlight in
the trees and hope and love and. . . . Jesus, you write good poetry.
I took that poem home and read it over and over, and cried
every time I read it, and threw it away and pulled it out of the
wastebasket. And I decided. . . ." She was crying again, pushing tears
away from her cheeks with angry twists of her hands. Josh felt a
hot knife, deep inside of him. Not a metaphor this time. Something
real, and he sensed it was about to get worse.
"I decided that I wanted you. And if wild sex was what
it took, well, so be it. I could put up with that if it meant seeing
you every day, having you write poetry about me, having you look
deep into my eyes and having you grab ahold of that knife and make
it stop hurting. For that, I would do anything. Anything."
"Cindy. I. . . ." She let her face slip down again, and
was rubbing her eyes with the backs of her hands. Josh put a hand
on her shoulder and she jumped. He moved back.
"Cindy. I don't. . . ."
"I . . . thought . . . I . . . told you. . . ." Her words were
slow and deliberate. Each one hung frozen in the air. "I thought I
told you to be quiet. Do you know why I invited you here tonight?
Do you? Wild sex. My parents said they were going out. If we'd
ever gotten into the den you would have found quiet music and
candles. I lit candles for you, goddam it. But you blew it. So it's over.
I've told you everything. And that knife? That knife that was slicing
and dicing my soul? It's gone. Just a cold, dark lump, sort of like
I'd eaten some rotten fruit. And I can live with that.
"So I don't need you. I don't need any of you. I'm
pretty happy the way I am. I hang around with some girls, go to
movies, write in my journal, write poetry. I submit stuff to magazines. I
bet you didn't know that. Want to see my rejection slips? I've got
a stack of them." Her hands came together and measured the
imaginary pile.
"But I don't need you." Her voice was chopping the
words as they came out, one by one. "I don't care what you say to
your friends. Tell them we had more wild sex tonight. Make me a
laughing stock. My friends won't believe it. And the rest of you, I
don't care about any of you. Not one bit.
"Now leave. I'm done. You're history. Put another notch
in your belt if you want, I won't tell anyone the truth. That I
wasn't even good enough for you. Go."
Cindy's profile was soft in the moonlight. Josh tried
to memorize the shape of her face, the way the moonlight caught
her eyelashes. He'd been trying to fathom what she had been
saying, but it didn't make sense. She thought he was a hotshot
lover, chasing and winning all the girls. What a joke. What a
wonderful and crazy joke. He started to laugh.
"Laugh if you want. But just remember. I know what
you are. I know what you think. And I know that I am a hell of a
lot better than you'll ever be. I'm a better person now than you'll
be when you're dead." She had risen during this last tirade and
now went in the house, slammed the door and turned out the light.
Josh put his hands behind his head, leaned back against the railing
and watched the moon.
