Sleepwalking Through The Garden of Earthly Delights

Welcome to the Garden of Earthly Delights.

Welcome to a billion Arabian nights.

— XTC

New York City

Spring-Summer, 1997

He spent the weekend with India.

Dinner, two bottles of wine, a late night film, then things got a little weird.

Nothing happened. Just a little curling up on the couch as he played with her hair, before moving to the floor in order to stretch out a little.

His hands caressed her arm, shoulders, waist.

Then she leapt up without a word, plopped herself down on the easy chair.

Is everything all right? he asked.

Yes, she said, then reached for what was left in the wine bottle, perhaps another sip, if that.

He remained on the floor for a little while, mainly because he was embarrassed and felt like an idiot. Then he meekly made his way back to the couch, watched the rest of the film.

He slept on the couch that night while India quietly retreated to her bedroom.

In the dark he watched the tree outside her apartment window sway in the late night breeze.

The quiet soothed him.

The next morning will be interesting to say the least.

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It’s raining again, Julio says.

Don’t change the subject, Julio.

A wall full of books, an end table with a female sculpture from ancient Greece, beige walls, and generic abstract paintings which may or may not represent the Mediterranean. Behind Pamela’s head, an elegantly framed diploma from Columbia University. Julio takes it all in, biding his time, avoiding the subject as usual.

He turns his attention back to Pamela and her pale blue blouse, her navy blue skirt which hugs tight around her voluptuous hips, the way her black hair tumbles across her shoulders. She’s simply stunning and therefore making it extremely uncomfortable for him. He noticed how beautiful she was the very first time he entered her office — her coal black eyes, her perfectly trimmed, arched eyebrows, her high cheekbones, aquiline nose, full fleshy lips — but it was only after seeing her a couple of times, listening to her, observing the genuine concern and care in those Goya-esque eyes did he start to feel aroused. And that’s not a good thing. How can he be honest with her if he’s holding back such important information? He’s convinced she’s on to him but so long as he doesn’t say anything or make any stupid overtures, things can go on as usual. She’s a professional, after all, as evidenced by that prominently displayed diploma behind her head for all her patients to see. If she couldn’t see what he’s thinking what good is she? He’s certain that he isn’t the only one attracted to her. What man wouldn’t be? A real woman sat before him, or at least how he defines what a woman should be. Why can’t he ever meet a woman like Pamela? Why did he always meet girls?

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A week later he’s sitting with India in Battery Park looking out over the Hudson River towards New Jersey.

They never discussed that weekend. What was the point?

They sit beside one another but aren’t saying anything. The warmer weather is coming. They could feel it in the breeze coming off the river.

We should get a group of people together and go to Puerto Rico this summer, India says.

That would be great, Julio says.

He knows it’s never going to happen — or more accurately it won’t happen with him. She’ll never invite him, that much he’s sure of. She’ll head down with a couple of her girlfriends and whatever guy she’s seeing when the time comes. Right now she isn’t with anyone as far as he knows. By tomorrow it may be a different story. It happens that quickly sometimes.

It’s so calm there, she says. The water so blue.

I love it there.

He pictures it in his mind, a stark contrast from the industrial landscape across the river. He’d do anything to spend time with her down there and he had, many times, in his fantasies.

The resume silence, sip their respective drinks. He a can of Pepsi, her a Snapple Iced Tea.

He takes a moment to glance at her, the river breeze blowing her soft dark hair away from her face, her exquisite features lit by the sun, and realizes it’s hopeless.

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He doesn’t hear from India for nearly two weeks, despite repeated messages to call him back.

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Whenever she looks at Elon she wants to vomit.

It never used to be this way. There was a time when she used to feel a bolt of electricity flow through her whenever she saw him, heard from him.

The excitement of the new.

Eventually, as always, it wears off.

Now his presence is a nuisance. Everything he does irritates her.

He’s sitting shirtless on the couch, watching TV. She watches him from the doorway of her living room. Just a few weeks ago, she’d be turned on seeing him sit there, his athletic physique on full display, pressing just the right buttons to entice him into bed.

For a brief moment — very brief — she thinks of Julio, what a different kind of man he is from all the others. Why can’t Elon be more like him?

She turns away in disgust, goes back into the kitchen to pour herself another cup of coffee, waiting for the moment this asshole leaves so she can be alone with her thoughts. She’s been meaning to call Julio, just hasn’t gotten around to it yet.

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When she does finally call him back he’s initially thrilled.

That soon changes once he answers the phone, listens to her sniffing back her tears on the other end of the line.

It happening again.

Another guy is fucking with her.

He didn’t even know she’d been seeing anyone.

It’s the usual story. All he wants was sex. He’s overly possessive, jealous. He’s heard this story a million times by now. It’s the same pattern, over and over again, only the names and faces change.

They talk well into the night.

I don’t understand why they always get this way, she sobs.

He’s probably scared. You have a certain knack for intimidating these guys.

But why?

Why, she asks. Does she need a building to fall on her head?

They’re immature, he tells her.

It amazes him that she hasn’t figured out the root cause of the problem.

He’s playing mind games with you, he continues. I mean, it’s really not that complicated is it?

That’s why I keep telling him. He runs hot and cold. Some days he’s the most caring, loving person, the next a jealous lunatic.

She’s only known him for six weeks, has kept it a secret from him. Why is she so attached to him?

Look, you’ve been through this before. You know how this is going to play out.

The irony, he muses. Oh, the fucking irony.

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They next morning they meet for coffee.

She looks as beautiful than ever. Black cotton shirt, jeans, carefully applied make up. He can smell her perfume even before she sits down. She carries herself with a certain elegance, a womanly grace. It’s easy to see why other men find her so intimidating. He never did. He knows her better than anyone, perhaps even better than herself.

Did you ever get things straightened out? he asks.

We talked this morning. Everything’s okay.

Of course. This is the pattern. Tomorrow or the next day, she’ll be on the phone again crying her eyes out.

Last night you mentioned if I saw the parallel in our situation, she says.

And?

I do. Do I do that to you?

Honestly? Sometimes.

How do you deal with it?

We were never intimate, he says. Our situation is different. Besides, we’re friends, first and foremost, and that’s all that’s important. The connection between us is the same, regardless of intimacy.

She just looks at him, studies his face as he sips his coffee. She knows he’s trying to play things down, trying to protect himself. She doesn’t know if she could handle it had things been reversed. Although she absolutely adores him, she sees him as weak, therefore easy to manipulate. She’s done it to so many men by now she’s lost count. She admits to herself that she manipulates him now and again, but very subtly. She’s not sure if he even notices. She doesn’t like to play these games with him but he makes it too easy. Why won’t he tell me off, get angry at her for once? He’s too good, that’s his problem. Women don’t respect that, no matter what anyone says.

Julio knows this and knows it all too well, which is why he knows as soon as they part, she’s going to immediately call this guy, keep giving him chances.

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He spends another weekend at India’s apartment.

This time he makes a pact with himself — not to talk about their delicate situation. He sees no point in it anyway. He doesn’t want the weekend to devolve into useless blather about relationships, theoretical circumstances, and what-ifs. He just wants to spend two nice days with his best friend, like they used to, before things changed.

Everything resumes as normal.

They enjoy a nice dinner, keep the wine consumption down to one bottle, then watch another movie.

But India can’t help herself.

Julio? What do you think of me?

She knows very well what he thinks of her. Why is she asking? Why is she bringing this up?

I’m asking because I’m curious to know what Elon is going to think of my past.

Should it matter?

It might.

India’s past is present, fraught with drama, mind games, meaningless flings, one night stands.

It shouldn’t mater, he says. If it bothers him, fuck him. What happened before you met him is none of his business.

She sighs, nibbles on her thumb. He watches her, wonders what she’s thinking.

I think the problem is that I’m looking for you but in another guy, she says.

She thinks this is a compliment but doesn’t realize how deeply hurtful those words are to him. That’s another one of her issues — her emotional stupidity.

But Julio laughs, tries to brush it off, though inside he’s dying. He knows he should simply pack his things and just go home, tell her to fuck off, but he won’t.

In some ways India is right.

He’s weak.

He’ll never find the balls to call her out on what she said.

He’s more stunned that she doesn’t realize the implications of what she said.

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Sunday morning in Riverside Park.

India is pensive, quiet.

There are more people about than expected, even at this early hour.

India rests her head on his shoulder, takes hold of his hand.

I just want you to know that I really appreciate you, she says.

He squeezes her hand. One part of him is thrilled. The other wants to wring her neck.

They sit like that for awhile, not saying much of anything.

There’s a lot being said in their silence.

Things either one of them want to address.

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As he packs his clothes he gets a glimpse of India’s new painting.

He pulls back the sheet to have a peek but quickly lets it go when he hears her coming toward the bedroom.

I’ll walk out with you, she says. I have a few things to get at the store.

Late afternoon. The sun slowly sinking below the horizon. The sky is awash with oranges, reds.

India kisses him goodbye — on the cheek.

He makes his way towards the subway, his head spinning, his soul feeling like a cheap plastic toy.

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So tell me about the new apartment, Pamela says, taking a different track. How is that going?

Julio smiles, adjusts himself in his chair, runs his hands through his mop of curly dark hair. I love it, he says. Much better than the dump I lived in before. It’s a real apartment, although it’s still pretty small. A definite step up. I needed that.

Pamela waits.

Every time I come home from work and walk through the door, it feels good. To have a view — any view — is an improvement in and of itself. It’s not a glorious vista or anything. It only looks out on the row houses across the street but it reminds me of London. It’s still only a studio but it has more room for my books and records. It feels more like a home.

You mentioned that your last place didn’t feel like one.

You kidding? he says, adjusting his black framed glasses, rubbing his hand across his beard. The last place was a garage apartment. Have you ever lived in one of those?

No, but I’ve known those who have. It’s like a basement apartment.

A basement apartment would have been better, believe me, he says. I was at street level. Just a door and a large row of windows separated me from the street outside. I could never open the curtains because anyone walking past could see everything inside. So there was no natural light, no heat in the winter, no air conditioning in the summer. My friends and I called it ‘the cave’ and rightly so. I may as well have lived in a cardboard box at the curb, there wouldn’t have been much difference.

So you feel more stable in your new place.

Very much so. I won’t be so reluctant to bring anyone home now.

And is there anyone in your life at the moment?

He allows his eyes to roam over her beautiful features, her hourglass waist, the pronounced curve of her hips, her dark perfectly smooth legs pouring like liquid from beneath the hem of her skirt. Did he have anyone special? Sitting right in front of me, he wants to say.

No, not really, he says. There is a good friend though but...

Meaning?

Let’s just say things are very one sided.

A good friend. You like her, she doesn’t feel the same way about you.

He gets up, walks over to the window, peers out at the slanting mist of the rain.

You have a thing for watching the rain, I notice, she says.

He shrugs. It’s kind of soothing, I suppose. I like