The Idea of Alex

***

The house that we share in the city is painted white. It is tiny and cramped and the cupboard doors keep falling off their hinges, but it’s ours. I like it because there’s a big tree outside that presses the green of its top branches against my bedroom window. I can pretend that the sound of the city traffic at night is actually the rumble and rush of the ocean. We have lived here for almost a year now, Mikki and Geri and Michael and I. (And now there is Alex. There is always Alex).

I have known Geri since we were both twelve years old, and in the just over a decade since I first met her she has not changed one bit. We have been stuck in our moulds, her and I. She seems perfectly content, but I am longing to break out of mine.

Geri lives her life out loud. Her opinions and her emotions bubble close to the surface. When she knows what she wants, she almost always gets it. It is often much easier to just let her have her way, and not argue about it.

I find myself continually surprised as the weeks and the months go by and her relationship with Michael continues to function. Michael is a pretty good guy, though I have to admit I didn’t think much of him at first. I thought he was merely one more of that vapid breed of boys that Geri was always bringing home. But now that he’s been around for a while and I’ve talked to him a bit, I think he’s looking for something more than what he’s going to find with Geri. And I think he knows it, too. But he is quietly patient, and not yet ready to give up.

Mikki completes the household (although Alex is spending a lot of time here too, these days). I wish I had known Mikki for as long as I have known Geri. Actually, the extra time probably wouldn’t make any difference – Mikki doesn’t say much but she sees and understands a great deal, I think. She’s always got blotches of colour on her face because when she paints she uses her fingers a lot, and then leans on her hands. I think she probably knows me better than Geri does.

And then there’s Alex. Where did he come from, originally? I can barely even remember. I think he was a friend of a friend of Michael’s, or something.

Everyone always talks about the power and the beauty and the wonder of love. Even the suffering is always grand. No one ever talks about the pathetic, degrading, poisonous parts.

***

When I first meet Alex he is polite, friendly, warm. When he looks at me, it’s as if he really sees me, and is fond of what he sees. His focus, I have discovered, is laser-like. When he is focused on you, you are the only person in the universe. When he’s not looking, you cease to exist. He is very good at not-looking. He has got it down to a fine art form. You can see the shutters going down behind his eyes. If he doesn’t want to see you, then he won’t. He is rarely all the way there. His words do not always correlate with his actions.

Maybe it’s just me. I have lost the ability to see things objectively. I’m probably just spinning this out of nothing. I hoard his words like gemstones. The way some of them can fill me with a rush of warmth while others are as malicious and unexpected as paper cuts – I don’t think that’s normal. Is there something wrong with me? Everything is wildly out of balance.

***

We are all invited to a summer barbeque at the house of a mutual friend. We arrive to find a crowd of over fifty people drinking and eating and yelling in the back of the house and spilling out into the back garden. I am a little overwhelmed. Alex keeps looking at me, trying to communicate something wordlessly, and appears frustrated when I can’t immediately interpret the message. I feel flushed and guilty.

Eventually Alex and I go out of the house to escape from the noise. The afternoon sun still holds plenty of heat and the beer has been disappearing rapidly. The scream of cicadas reminds me of the dull ache inside my head. The air is absolutely still. Alex puts his hand on the small of my back, and while all of my concentration is focused on those light points of pressure felt through my shirt, he guides me over to stand beneath the frangipani tree in a corner of the front lawn. I stare up into his face, desperately trying to restart my brain and get it to string a few words together. I can smell bushfire smoke.

He opens his mouth to speak, but at that moment raucous laughter bursts from around the side of the house, along with the sound of stumbling footsteps. “Oh, for God’s sake,” he huffs. “Come on, we’ll just sit in the car for a minute.”

Out the front gate and around the side into the alley we go. His car is parked illegally, the windows rolled open a crack to let the air in. But when he opens the passenger door for me, heat billows out as if from the inside of an oven. I can see the boiling swirls of air reflected on the worn black seats, carrying the rich scent of leather to my nose.

He goes around to the driver’s door, and pauses. “I just want to talk to you for a minute without anyone listening, okay?” I get in and close the door behind me. The sun-drenched leather burns against the back of my thighs. He slides in on his side of the car, a lithe, twisting movement that makes me feel ungraceful in comparison. Both of us roll our windows down a little more, feeling suffocated by the heat. I can smell gasoline, leather, his cologne. It’s unmistakable. I find myself unable to meet his eyes. I stare at the dashboard as if it is fascinating.

“Vanessa,” he says with patient authority, “look at me.”

It’s hard to force myself to do it. My hands are beginning to shake. They are always the first part of me to go. I hope he doesn’t notice when he reaches over to take one in his own. His thumb strokes my palm softly, regularly, as he speaks.

“Thanks for coming today,” he says. “You look beautiful,” he says. The movement of his thumb across my skin says so much more.

“Thankyou for inviting me,” I eventually manage in a weak voice. It’s all I can think of. I can do nothing to answer the speech of his magnificent hands. (Like the clean, smooth lines of seabirds in flight, every movement precise and purposeful. Humming with energy even when still. They are not still now).

His face is coming closer to mine. He is going to kiss me, I think to myself, and as he does so I experience a strange dissolving feeling, as if my blood has been replaced with sherbet and now it is fizzing. He leans further over me and I am too preoccupied by the movement of his lips to notice his hand fumbling down by my side. Then he yanks the lever that adjusts the tilt of the chair and we fall back into a half-lying position. He falls on top of me and I give a little giggle of surprise into his mouth. He pulls back, not very far, and places gentle hands on either side of my face. “You are so sweet,” he breathes, and his warm eyes echo his words. Suddenly I want to cry. I have just realised that having one’s breath taken away is not merely a manner of speech. After a moment I pull him down to me again, and he graciously allows himself to be pulled.

The leather creaks. The drops of oil collect in slick rainbow sheens on the tarmac, and the heat shimmers up in waves. A tiny voice whispers in the back of my head, this is too fast, too sweet to last.

***

I start writing love letters. They are a bit ridiculous. They’ll never be read, of course. I should burn them to keep them secret but instead I tuck them away, the paper folded over and over and locked in little jewellery boxes. They say things like, I’d follow you across the world, and I’d leave everything behind, if only you’d ask me.

I begin to wear perfume when I know I am going to be seeing him that day.

***

We ‘go out’, the five of us as a group. It’s all we do on the weekends. My mother would call it ‘going out on the town’, which sounds like an activity to be enjoyed, but to me it is a bit more like charging onto a battlefield. I try to be as well-prepared as possible, but still I am apprehensive.

One night near the end of summer we go out to Darling Harbour. We plan to meet on the steps of Town Hall. I am early because I have come straight from work. And also because I am always early. (Alex is always late).

I love this building. As a meeting place, it’s a melting pot of every type of individual that you could possibly imagine. I like to sit huddled to one side of the stairs and watch people. No one ever asks me why I am staring, because there is always someone else there doing something even more unusual.

This evening as I wait, a car full of adolescents draws up to stop at the red traffic light. While the car is stopped, one of them jumps out of a rear window, runs a full circuit around the car, and then dives back in through the same window. His mates laugh and cheer. The lights go green.

Everyone on the Town Hall steps spontaneously bursts into applause. It is like something out of a movie.

My heart lifts in sudden fierce joy. He is going to be here soon.

***

Cockle Bay Wharf at night – the expensive end of Sydney. The water slapping against the sides of the harbour is saturated in neon reflections. Glitz oozes from the strip of clubs and restaurants that line the waterside. The huge glass windows with the flashing disco lights inside remind me of aquariums. Woman in miniscule, jewel-coloured dresses are the exotic tropical fish swimming in the tanks. The men in collared shirts are sharks, I decide. They have something of the predator about them.

Sharp, watchful.

Music pulses as we enter the bar, monotonous and heavy. The air is thick with flesh. We press ourselves between the bodies, an awkward shuffle. Eventually we find a tiny corner table that is free, and we all crowd around. We have to yell at each other to make ourselves heard over the throb of the beat. By the end of the night my throat will be aching. But for now it gives me an excuse to bend my head towards his, feel his lips near my ear. I try to make my eyes sparkle at him, but I am not sure it is working. I don’t know how Geri does it. She keeps her hand wrapped around the stem of her cocktail glass as she gets up to dance. I don’t know how she does that, either. I don’t think my hips can make that swivelling movement.

Michael is watching Geri, and Geri is watching Alex. No one else gets up to dance, and eventually Geri sits back down again, sulking and pulling away when Michael tries to put his arm around her shoulders.

Alex catches my eye and makes an inside joke, and I snort and get beer in my nose. Someone on the other side of the bar smashes a glass. “Taxi!” goes the half-hearted cry. The table is sticky under my elbows.

As the night goes on, empty bottles line up on the table in front of Alex. At first the drink makes him more affectionate. At one point he presses his lips discretely against the bare skin on the back of my shoulder, and electricity seizes my whole body. But a couple more beers and he is silent, introverted, not looking at anyone. He turns a coaster over and over in his hands. A couple more after that and his voice becomes cutting, his words brutal. I feel myself shrinking under the barrage, growing smaller and smaller until it’s almost a relief when I cease to exist to him. We leave the bar soon after, and outside he walks a little separately from us, his jacket slung over one shoulder.

We go up from the wharf and onto the street. The pavements are busy at this time of night. As we are waiting for the pedestrian lights to change, I watch as across the road a frighteningly anorexic woman totters on her silver high heels past a homeless man slumped against the wall with his scruffy cardboard sign. She is going to be dead soon, I think to myself, and I immediately feel bad for thinking it, and then doubly bad because it is probably true. This city is mad, I think then, and that is definitely true.

I am cold and tired and I want to go home. So we go. When he hugs me goodbye, he holds on tightly for just a second longer than necessary. It makes the night worth it, just.

***

On another one of our ‘outings’ we go to Luna Park. (“I haven’t been there for years! We have to go!” Geri declares).

We arrive in the late afternoon. I watch Alex closely and try to find excuses to walk next to him. I am worried that he will be silent and terse again. (“Luna Park?” I can hear him saying with distaste. “Don’t you think we’re a bit old for that?”)

I have always loved the Park, except for the gaping mouth that forms the entrance, which gives me a creepy-crawly feeling. I don’t tell Alex how much I have been looking forward to this evening.

The lights come on as the sun goes down. My camera takes blurry, unfocused photos in the twilight. When I try to get Alex into the shot he winces and half-turns away, raising his hands in a bid to protect himself from the greedy lens.

We go on every ride once, and we make sure to scream nice and loudly on the exciting ones. We save the Ferris wheel until last, when the spokes are lit up in colours against the night sky and our stomachs have become tired of zooming all over the place. Mikki has gone to get drinks, while the rest of us stand in the queue.

Michael looks at me thoughtfully for a moment, then pulls Geri towards himself. I can see on her face that she wants to protest and sit with Alex, but she can’t think of an excuse on the spot, and before she can come up with something the attendant is ushering her and Michael into a cabin and closing the barred door behind them. Alex and I go into the next one. We sit on the hard plastic seats as the Ferris wheel spins slowly and lifts us up into the air.

From one side of the cabin we can look down to see the swirling mass of colour that is the rest of the amusement park. Faint screams drift up to us from some of the rides, and the roller coaster clanks periodically. From the other side we can look out over the water to the Harbour Bridge.

It’s peaceful this high up, with the ocean breeze blowing in through the bars.

“Nice view from up here,” I say to Alex. He hasn’t moved in his seat, and for me there is no such thing as a comfortable silence. When he doesn’t reply – acknowledging my inane statement with only a slight, disinterested tilt of his head – my chest clenches into a miserable ball. Not again, I think. I hate this. I can never manage to draw him into conversation. I always get the sense that he’d rather be anywhere but here, and with anyone but me.

Around the Ferris wheel we go, locked inside our little cage. My sentences become more desperate the longer the silence goes on.

***

The idea of Alex has been turned over in my mind so many times that he is worn smooth, polished, complete, with no rough edges or bits that stick out or don’t fit into the whole. I have put a frame around him. He has ceased to be a real person. He has become The Idea of Alex. He pops up all over the place in lines of music or poetry, like he’s following me around. This can either make me feel happy or spiteful, depending on what sort of mood I’m already in. I’m getting tired of living inside opposites. It’s draining.

Even though I try not to, I bring his name into any conversation as often as possible. I try to hold it back, but it sits there burning my tongue until I let it out. When I do I feel both guilt and elation, an addict indulging in another hit.

One more crumpled note for the box:

I wouldn’t give you almost anything, any more. But I’d still give a hell of a lot to hear the sound of your voice.

***

The train twists and burrows its way into the city. It makes me think of worms in rotten apples. Through the window I see the sky reflected in the glass of enormous office buildings.

The train passes a park. There are huge white birds perched in the burning autumn trees. I have had the same song stuck in my head for the last four days. I’ve repeated the lines to myself so often that they’ve become completely meaningless.

***

The city turns grey in the winter. My shoes are perpetually damp. I ask Alex to meet me for coffee. I make sure to arrive at the café before him (though this is not exactly a difficult feat). I order a coffee, which I realise is a stupid thing to do, because the caffeine will only exacerbate my shaking hands and my words tripping over each other. I drink it anyway. The cup will give my shaky hands something to hold when he arrives.

He is late, of course. As he enters an appropriately dramatic burst of thunder enters with him through the open door, and the downpour outside intensifies. The rain is falling as if it wants to hurt the pavement when it hits. I wave him over to my table.

(A large part of me had expected that he wouldn’t even show up. He says yes to anything you ask of him, but a few days before the event you’ll find he’s accidentally triple-booked himself).

Things probably would have been a bit easier if he’d never appeared through that door, and just left me sitting on my own, clutching my coffee, staring into space. (“You put two sugars in your coffee?” he’d asked incredulously, with a dramatic shudder of distaste).

I ask him what is going on between us. He is puzzled. When he answers, his words are muffled by the sounds of the thunderstorm outside. It doesn’t matter, because I can hear what he means, not what he says. ‘You misunderstood. I am sorry you feel that way.’ Tight, formal, at arm’s length.

Why do I try so hard to please him? I wonder to myself. I can’t do anything right, and anyway, it’s not what I do that he disapproves of, it’s what I am. It’s around the time that I realise this that my unread love letters begin to turn bitter.

Every time I write ‘I hate you’, I have to scribble it out. I can’t quite make myself mean it, and I won’t write something to him that I don’t mean.

I wish I could, because I have suddenly realised that I do not want to be here any more.

***

What is the definition of a broken heart?

This year has passed me by in slow motion. Not that it hasn’t gone quickly, but every moment is there in my mind, crystallised. Normally, in any other year, there would be gaps. This year shines in memory.

And it is time to go.

I stand on the pavement under the tree, and look up at our white house. I am leaving it for the last time. The final carload of my possessions is waiting to be driven north.

Perhaps once I get on the road, I will just keep driving, the ocean sliding by at my right hand. There will be no end to the road. I will wind the windows down. I will leave the music turned off and listen closely to the air as it rushes past.

It is time to go. I will not be back here again. The wheels turn, scattering dead leaves behind them as I drive away.

There is a sense of both finality and freedom.