December 13, 2003

Painting

We’re sitting on a little loading dock at the edge of train tracks. The dock is made of cement and sticks out from what may be a yellow building. Trains stop here – or did once. J is at my side and has her back against the loading dock door, which is corrugated, and I have my hand in her pants. I’m not sure which hand it is.

There may also be houses whose yards border the opposite side of the tracks, behind a row of trees or bushes.

The dock is visible from the road but far enough away so that no one can tell what we’re doing.

This is the day that J saw me from her window. I had come to surprise her after many weeks of angry silence, and she happened to glance out the window as I approached. After a tearful reunion, she made us leave her apartment and refused to tell me why. I know now that it was because she didn’t want to be surprised by her roommate, a woman she was secretly sleeping with and would later move to California with, and later marry, and later divorce.

I can’t tell which side I’m on, her left or her right. The one clear image I have is of the building and dock as seen from the road. The building is very long and made of brick. The brick is painted a light color – yellow probably, or white. I don’t know what’s beyond the building, but it feels very open and blank back there, like a part of the painting that never got painted.