It’s Saturday. The M train turns local amidst the never-ending constructions on the tracks. No one ever knows what they’re fixing. The seats, blue and unclean, are mostly filled. Thighs touch, the denim of their pants create friction, grinding against each other like two lovers touching one another for the first time. Though not touching, a kind of intimacy is shared. Grocery bags are on the piss-and-barf-ridden floors; sneakers tap along to a song only one person can hear; eyes glance everywhere but meet each other. The only love they can give to one another is by letting their bodies move, subconsciously and rhythmically to the chugging of the train: the old shoulder swaying like flares in the wind; or heads bobbing as if being held by a ventriloquist with the most gracious hands.
A woman coddles her purse as if clutching a child in her arms. Right next to her is a person whose middle and ring toes are interlocked. Across him, a toddler’s gaze jumps back and forth from the feet to the person’s face, learning something new. The child’s mother, oblivious to the scene of interest, scrolls away on her phone, reloading a page, knowing there’s no service underground.
He reads a book next to the woman to cleanse his mind off his task.
He’s going to kill her today.
No—not the mother or the wife. She is not here on this coach. She is out in Manhattan somewhere, taking her last breaths before he takes her life with him.
Of course, his mind is worlds away from the words on the beige pages of some novel he picked out last week in the bookstore where he had seen her. Accidentally at first. Then, trailing behind her with an invisible leash he had collared around himself. He had been out with a friend, and for some cosmic reason, there she walked, right past him, on a random street, on a random day. She strolled past the concrete steps of the narrow sidewalk, her gaze lost at the overwhelming storefronts, watching everything. He said, “I’ll be right back,” almost shoving his companion off his feet before strutting swiftly behind her.
Everything went well: there were enough people between them where she wasn’t too suspicious, and he walked steadily without losing his trail. The mere thought of being in her presence gave his mind such a rush. Think: the slight tingle on someone’s tongue from consuming something they were not supposed to, something they were not ready for. And he bathed himself in all the desires he could ever want at the moment, all the possibilities he was graced with. He thought about whether he should let her know he was there. If he should say Hi. The sound of his voice as he would say it. Should he let it go deeper? Higher? Or perhaps a Hello. Maybe a tap on the shoulder. He walked to the beat of her steps: left right, left right, stumble a little, right, then leftrightleft—
She walked like she knew where she wanted to go. As she opened the oak-stained storybook door, he stopped in his tracks and let four people walk in front of him, so he was far but close enough. He found her browsing through the used section as he entered. She scanned the shelves with a curiosity that left her unscathed from the promising feast his eyes had seen. A true voyeur. His heart pummeled at the sight of her mouth parting slightly as she whispered summaries to herself, in his head telling stories with such vulgarity he wished to lather on himself.
Almost losing himself in his old-fashioned reverie, he hadn’t realized she was inching toward his direction. So—in a panic—he grabbed the nearest book and turned his back on her. He cradled it as if it was meant to be there and ran to the counter to pay, skipping a person whose face then sprouted a frown. They looked like they wanted to speak to him, ultimately saying nothing, but continued to look at him with such disdain that for a split moment, he felt ashamed. He murmured a sorry, tapping on his pockets for a quick change in exchange for the paperback he had no intention of reading. He didn’t want it at all. He doesn’t even read.
But he had to blend in, along with a new pressure he felt from two strangers: the cashier and the person behind with a silent but stout hostility towards him. He had to buy the damn book. He couldn’t piss off three people all at the same time.
“17.50,” the cashier told him with a fruitless smile.
She left the store before he could even do something. The cashier took their time counting every quarter they owed him, leaving him agitated. They asked, “Would you like your receipt?” He said a swift no and turned his body away to go, but the cashier held the paper out, and he felt he had no choice but to take it. So he stumbled upon his own feet and silently cursed everything in the world before reaching out to grab another thing he had no use for. The cashier, puzzled, mumbled a quiet, “Have a good day.”
He tried his best to catch up to her, but his companion showed up right when he came out the door. Too many people were walking aimlessly on every street corner, blocking his sight of interest. His friend, curious, asked who he was looking for.
“Nobody,” he answered.
She was nobody, really. Just some girl.
They met on a dating app and fucked once. He knocked her up, but she killed the baby.
Funny thing is, his opening line was, “Hey, you should have my kids.” He didn’t anticipate it happening so soon. He laughs about it now. It was so sudden. On their first date. First fuck. And their last.
For now.
He thought she was pretty from the first picture he saw while swiping, only meaning to pass the time. She was sitting inside a restaurant, smiling with her crooked teeth and her head tilted to the side. She wasn’t the most beautiful girl in the world—no. Not at all. In fact, he thought she was quite ordinary-looking. But something about her made him look twice. Maybe it was fate already knocking on his door to say, “This one will be yours.”
He’s not in love with her, but he thought he could be. At least, he was ready to try.
She said no.
He tried. Really, he did.
He started asking all her friends how she was doing after everything ended. One by one, he found them just for her. He even changed his number so he could talk to her, but all she ever said was: “Leave me alone.” Maybe she was too hurt to talk on the phone. Too unwell from what had happened, and she needed some time. So he gave her some time, only reaching out to her friends to check up on her.
But all he ever got was silence.
So there he sits on the train, on his way to see her again. Only this time, it would be more meaningful. Stuck on the third page of the first chapter of some book called Nightwood. He sees no use for them––books, that is. Filled with words that glamorize love and people and let others intoxicate themselves with useless prose that hinders them from actually doing the thing: falling in love. Because, after all, that’s all there is to it, right? Love?
The person next to him breaks off his thinking. “Barnes, huh?”
“What?”
“The book.” It was the guy with atypical toes.
“Oh—” He flips the book cover to cover to check the name. Djuna Barnes. “Yeah, I guess.”
“She’s insane.” The man was facing him now. “Crazy talented woman. You should check her art, too. She was an actress and everything, you know?”
“Uh, no, I didn’t know that,” he replies, fidgeting with his fingers. Strangers on the subway always made him uncomfortable.
“You should check her out. That’s one of the earliest works about lesbians,” the man says, motioning to the book. Nightwood. “Real cool shit, if I say so myself. Real fucked up but real love in that one.”
“Yeah, I’ll check her out.” He knows he won’t. He just wants the conversation to be over. He probably won’t finish the book. The man smiles at him, nodding. He wants so badly to get off the train. Move to the next cart or the vacant seats, but he also doesn’t want to make the guy think he’s running away.
Real love. He spaces out and thinks about her again.
People kill for love, die for it. The depths man will go through for the sake of his beloved. That’s why he’s going to see her: to bring back a love he can have. To bring her back. Make it alive once more to prove that love does exist in real life, not only in xeroxed copies with which people inject their daydreams.
He sits, pondering. This is what it must mean to be selfless. Now he understands how to put others before himself, feeling a befitting sense of gratitude for his growth. A new chapter he must go through. He is learning how to be patient. How lucky she is to excavate something like that from him, to receive such a gift. Still on page three, he closes the book, using the receipt as a bookmark, letting himself dream about her instead.
Union Square. That’s where she should be.
He’s memorized her weekend schedule. On their first date, she told him she worked at the gym by 12th Street. Reception. She said she always worked Saturdays, but never on Sundays because that was her rest day. Her lazy day. Her spending time alone to recharge and think about her week day.
For a couple of weeks after she blocked his numbers and her friends refused to talk to him, he jumped on the train to 14th Street and took matters into his own hands. It had been almost four months since they last talked and he couldn’t bear it anymore. She did the same thing on Saturdays. He walked back and forth outside the gym to look at her from out the glass window, always busy with the computer at the front desk.
He scurries off the station with the pace of a lover ready to save his revered. Westbound winds kiss the flaps of the canopies of different kiosks lined throughout the plaza: vegetable stands, men selling essential oils and honeycombs, bread, plants, artwork, and everything else in between. Even though the world is about to shed its tears, the howling of the city carries the afternoon. Small smiles shoot toward each other as people exchange money. Locals play chess, stuck to their seats, bantering. Why is everyone selling lavender?
And just like that, the universe listens to his manifestations, working as intended. She’s always there for the same thing, and he catches her right on time. It’s her lunch on a weekend: the overpriced almond-coated croissant she treats herself to at two in the afternoon after work across the farmer’s market. She walks with calculated oblivion, smelling the graceful chaos the market has to offer and stopping at one of the many bakery booths scattered all over. He stands patiently in line at a flower stand behind her, breathing carefully to mask his running.
From his sight, two Nepali men work on the stacked carts filled with pastries behind the counter, some empty. A third tends to customers. It’s a quick, “Hi, what can I get for you,” one gloved-up hand waiting to claw the pastry. She points her finger to the glass, which he mouths, “3.25,” already rolling up the paper bag as she gives him the money. He smiles in gratitude and moves on to the next person. She turns away, walking her sacred Saturday steps, towards the path where the London plane trees dance with the breeze like a coven, inviting everyone else to sway with them.
He already knows where she’s going to sit. There, on one of the dirt-soaked wooden benches facing the buzzing streets, where screeching cars and jaywalkers meet. She sits in the sweet path of the quaint park, finding a brisk peace. He watches with admiration from afar, wondering what it would be like to think like her, see the world through her gaze. What runs through her mind as she sits chewing her food? How does she feel about the couple passing looks at each other across her? The subtle caressing of the arm through the fabric of their clothes? She tries her best to look away but glances once in a while with the eyes of a gossip. He smiles to himself. What would she say to me if we were next to each other watching? Or if it was us touching like that?
It goes on like that for a long time until the rain comes to interrupt: his laser burn glares from afar, the sudden turning away when he feels she has spotted him, the occasional moving around the park or pretending he’s on the phone. The only thing that matters is that he doesn’t lose sight of her.
The raindrops are heavy as they first fall, causing a commotion between the panic-stricken strangers who didn’t expect it. Some of them grin, using their hands to cover the top of their heads, telling their companion, “Oh, it’s raining.” Others grimace at their clothes, shake unwanted mist off their skin, and frown.
Back down in the subway, people stand on the platform, waving off their wetness and shaking the rain off their umbrellas—doing anything to fill the silence between each other as the train takes its time. The howling of the tunnels blows them dry. She squeezes her rain-clad frame into the scene, frustrated at her leisure being cut short. It’s evident in the vertical lines that plant themselves between her eyebrows, like the gates of hell introducing themselves to someone at purgatory. He smiles at his feet, camouflaging the rest of his body underneath the stairwell. Now he knows she doesn’t like the rain. Warmth reverberates in his chest, seeing her feel from afar.
He loves the rain. Growing up, he always ran around the park, opening his mouth to taste the rainfall until his mother came yelling at his wet clothes. One of the many instances where she carried him by the ears on the walk home. How her shrill voice trapped their apartment; a she-made earthquake ready to erupt. To him, being caught in the rain ever since felt like a secret, often offering his face to the sky in voluntary surrender.
Two sun-like headlights enter through the tunnel, catching everyone’s attention.
This is a Queens Bound W Local Train. The next stop is 23rd Street.
It’s as if everyone knows the drill, like an ant’s colony, trailing behind each other, borne to their duties. In their frowns and speechless exchanges come a silent union. They pack themselves quickly into the coaches, allowing themselves to look around and settle for a minute before living their lives to themselves.
He makes sure to stay away from her. He sits at the other end of the cart, elbows resting on his thighs, hands clasped as if praying. She stays in his periphery like a dream. Standing on the other side, she looks at her reflection on the filth-ridden glass of the doors. What does she think about herself? He feels jealous of her for a second. To be able to look at herself in the eye, and have the liberty to study her face for as long as she could ever want. I want to be her mirror. Or the subway glass that emanates her reflection. She stares and stares, her oval lips licking themselves clean once in a while until there’s nothing else to see.
This is Astoria Boulevard. The next stop is Ditmars Boulevard.
She leaves the station fleet-footed, blending in with the rest of the commuters. He watches her with dead eyes through the closing doors. He moves to where she stood and holds the same pole she held, feeling the warmth of her touch and losing himself in it. The way her fingers curled and wrapped themselves around the silver metal that supported her; in a way, they were holding each other. How the soft pads of her fingertips tapped on its luster, moving around like a saxophonist making music. How fortunate some inanimate things are.
She had a habit of caressing everything her touch laid upon. The way her thumb grazed his skin, felt so dangerous to him. It was like licking frosting off a knife and feeling the cutting edge kiss his tongue bitterly, expecting it to sting, so he winces himself ready. He holds onto it until his hand turns itself into a ghost; until he feels like he has devoured every atom of her touch; until he is alive again. He didn’t realize how much he had missed her. So he promises himself he’ll come back. For her and for what they can become. I would die for her if she asked me to.
There was something about how she looked at him, all doe-eyed, withholding some truth about himself that he couldn’t yet reach; only she could. And for her to abandon him, take away a part of himself he ought—and deserve—to know is selfish. How could she? People like her should never escape from hurting others. But that was all she ever did: escape. Get away with her mistakes, without repercussions. Leave whenever she wants to. He was never taught that option; therefore, it doesn’t exist. That’s why he promised himself he would go after her. So for the remainder of his trip, he allows himself to revel in the fullness of her touch, orgasmic in his brain, all the while thinking about the ways he could kill her.
Dusk comes. He spent the past three hours marching around his room, packing everything he needed. His mind, everything but empty, reaches a certain peak of serenity, as one would feel when reaching the top of a mountain, looking around the vastness of the world below and beyond. In one hand, keychains spin around his fingertips, rattling; in the other, a firm grip on his bag. As he is about to leave, an echo of footsteps comes closer. His little sister, Harriet, thirteen, stands in front of him with doubtful eyes. The pink shirt she returned slipped off Harriet’s shoulders like she was a hanger, parading it like a walking closet.
It had been the only thing she took from him after their first night together. The shirt, also massive on her, used her upper body as a clothespin, tucking his sleeves, and trying so hard to make it fit.
“How do I look?” She asked, smiling up at him as if she hadn’t just been made into his possession five minutes ago. Good, he thought. So good. It was so good to see her in his shirt, all his. He grabbed her arm to pull her close to him and gave her a hard kiss.
“Where are you off to?” Harriet asks him, snapping him out of his thoughts.
“Out.”
“What’s in the bag?”
“None of your business.”
“Does Mom know?”
“Yes.” She doesn’t. Harriet being alone with their mother for the night, and possibly what is to come after his plans, scares him. It’s one of the biggest things he worries about and feels he hasn’t thought about fully. He makes a mental note to think about his sister on the drive to her place. Maybe he and Harriet can run away after everything. Some type of plan that doesn’t leave her rotting in this place with their mom. He feels a different type of love for his sister, something so unequivocally real and cannot be broken. A love greater than what he could feel for her, or anybody for that matter. He means only to protect Harriet from the creepy, filthy world outside filled with people who would only want to hurt her.
He reaches for the doorknob quickly to signify the end of their conversation.
“Are you coming home?” His heart starts to pound, and he can’t understand why. Everything was set in motion. It’s supposed to be perfect. He wants to yell at her for a moment, for getting in his way, but he turns around and faces her, stuck to his feet. She looks up at him waiting for an answer.
“Dinner’s on the table,” he says, grabbing her head and kissing her hair swiftly, before turning away and finally gaining the courage to open the door. “I’ll come back for you.”
A lone cypress tree stands beside the metal gates of her home. The peach-yellow paneling blends in with the rest of the neighborhood. The avenue, lined up with cars, readies itself for a fitful rest in the dark. Across her house, his car amalgamates with the others as he buries himself in the leather of the driver’s seat to peek at her window. He thinks it is lovely to keep an eye on her whenever he can. One day, he hopes for her to know that someone out there cares enough not to let any moment she lives go to waste.
On the second floor, he sees her sitting at the desk that faces the street. It always seemed like she busied herself with whatever was in front of her, like a runaway convict, vigilant and awake for what was to come next, but in her head existed a world divergent from the one she lived in. So when someone tries to speak to her, she is unattainable. Even when they were talking, he noticed she was always distant, even when there was no space between them; her eyes always glanced sideways as if afraid something or someone would come up.
The white nylon curtains flutter beside her, framing her body like a portrait for him to admire and analyze. A one-person art gallery just for him to enter. Her shadow, like the image of the moon blocking the sun during an eclipse, illuminates and is centered by her lamp. He can’t help but stare for as long as he can bear it. She is reading, flipping over a page of some book. Her temple glues itself to her palm for support. Her elbow slides against her wooden desk as she immerses herself in this newfound universe. Her head swings side to side slightly to the song playing in the background. He wishes so badly to hear it, to listen to the same melodies that are fortunate enough to enter her ears. He lets his eyes travel to all parts of her he can see: the frizz in her hair; the strap of her camisole that slides off her shoulder; her hands. Her hands. He watches, two windows between them, in the car, and before he knows it, he is touching himself through his pants.
He reflects on when she came over for the first time, sitting at the edge of his bed, waiting for him patiently to make a move. He asked, “Can I kiss you?” She said yes. They laughed together because he still didn’t know how to french, tongue stumbling in her mouth like a frail bird learning how to fly for the first time. When he came, she was silent, and he savored it. He was her first. When she went home, he’d asked if she thought they had made love or fucked.
She said they had sex.
The thing about her is that she was so easy to come into. She had just allowed him through her silence, and he felt like he could really rejoice in the feeling of being with someone where he could be himself, vulnerable and unafraid. He thought, maybe he didn’t have to kill her. He could convince her instead; to show her that they could be themselves in each other’s presence. After all, she had allowed him to hold onto a part of herself she can never have again, so he must cradle it, protect it in his arms, like a gift made of crystals sent from up above. And the baby. Their baby. He couldn’t think after he found out she was pregnant. At 21, he couldn’t believe he was supposed to be a father. But he found himself spending all his minutes praying and waiting for a sign from God, or anyone, to help him until he felt he was ready to try. Take responsibility once and for all.
But she was so quick to kill it.
He called her frantic, and all she said was: “I took care of it. Don’t worry.” She never even checked in with how he felt and what he wanted to do.
Perhaps, he doesn’t have to kill her. Just, in the least, hurt her the way she had hurt him. And to him, hurting someone is different from killing them. To kill someone is merciful and giving, freeing them from the evils of everyday life. By killing her, he feels she can be his and his only. To him, nothing is more romantic than being with someone he knows he has graced with a new version of self. Unchaste. Free. Now he feels he must capture her forever, to make sure that no one else can relish her– his masterpiece.
So as he grunts and comes to her name, into his hands, thinking about her straddling his lap, he thinks, This is love. It must be.
He lets his eyes close a bit, letting stars glimmer in the dark, to regain his composure before doing what he came there to do. After a while, she turns the light off, and he watches the trace of her silhouette as she undresses, her breasts bare in the dark. This is it. Now it’s perfect. An eerie stillness embraces him like his body suddenly isn’t his, but at the same time, he’s reached self-actualization. He gathers his belongings and breathes one last breath before everything is to change.
As he is about to leave, he hears the front door rattle, a metal sound scraping as it opens, and out she comes, hands buried in the pockets of her sweater, looking at the traffic light, hoping to beat it. A spirit of fear possesses his body because she has made it easier for him, once again, which puts him in a daze, forcing his plans to take a turn. He takes a deep breath, one last time as himself, before opening his car door and walking briskly to the corner of the street to make it in time to pass in front of her. His heart pounds so quickly he starts to feel as if he doesn’t have one. Bag in hand, clattering softly to its own song, he rehearses what he will do: bump into her, pretend he’s dropped something, pull his knife out, and threaten her if she says something. Everything else after that will follow. He takes long strides with his feet, each step stomping on the gravel below. He is looking at her now, unabashedly. In the dark, the neon from the traffic lights and storefronts illuminates her face like a grand gesture. He thinks she looks tired. He wants to take her in his arms, and let her sleep in them.
She looks at her feet as she comes closer, and he finds himself frozen as he walks. It feels like stuttering in class all over again. Fear encircles him like a halo, and he can do nothing during the overwhelming minute until the teacher voluntarily moves on or someone else raises their hand. Only this time, he’s alone, and no one is watching. Not even her. He is truly alone, with no one there to save him from himself. His mind becomes barren, emptying itself like a tsunami ready to smother the rest of the world.
Before he knows it, she is standing beside him, only passing. She glances at him, for a second, bewildered, tries to register who it is, then proceeds to walk faster. All he can do is look down. He can’t even look her in the eye even now when he is given the opportunity to really see her: vulnerable under the mist of the night. He was prey in a predator’s body.
They walked off, neither one looking back, strangers once more.
another side of paradise 
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