June 14, 2011
Tonight her name was Rose, and her legs were as long as the evening. She stood at the corner of Simcoe and Adelaide, when the sun was a tantalizing slit of red on the urban horizon. High heels crunched over glittering broken glass. Those stilettos could poke holes in the sky itself.
Apocalypse day was always the busiest day of the decade. This evening, Toronto was quiet with anticipation, the rhythm of its collective breathing synchronized with the throb of her heart. This time they called it the Rapture, the salvation of the worthy and the death of the evil. If she could tell them what she knew, they wouldn't make such a fuss about it. Then again, panic was good for business.
Her first customer rolled around the curb in a silver family sedan, and she formed a picture of him before he rolled down the window. Middle aged husband and father, corporate lapdog with a suit which was crusty at the hems and sleeves. Slightly balding with watery eyes. The adventure of imagining those who she did business with was the climax of her arousal.
She stood by the driver side of the car, running her hands over the curves of her fur. A long time ago, a boy had told her that she could make anyone sweat when she did that. He had been a bore, but at least he had been right.
The window rolled down. Her estimate had been completely off – the man inside the car would have been called handsome in older times.
"Want to have some fun before the world ends? Two hundred for an hour."
His smile was nice enough, but it died at the corners of his eyes. "Deal, honey. Lets go to my place. I'll get you a drink."
Rose stared at his cold face, half shrouded by the darkness inside his car. Years on the streets had taught her that the only person she could trust was herself. That was why she didn't usually climb into cars with total strangers.
But then again, the world didn't end every day.
His apartment was Spartan and clean, immersed in the sterile scent of generic air freshener. The entirety of his living room consisted of a TV, an uncomfortable couch which looked like it might have been a medieval torture instrument, a half-empty cabinet, and an ornate coffee table. The austerity of the room was oppressive. Hurriedly, she took off her fancy robe and laid it inconspicuously on the back of the couch. It seemed silly here. She seemed silly here. As he mixed drinks at the mini bar, Rose sat and stared at the only photograph in the room. A pretty woman sat with two girls on her lap, and they stared out of the frame as prisoners peer out from behind steel bars. The girls could not have been more than five years old.
"Yes, that's my wife and kids." The man had come up silently behind her. He handed her a glass of what looked like brandy. They sat down on the couch, at arm's length. He had taken off his suit, and now lounged on the hard leather in his suspenders and a wrinkled shirt. His raven hair hung in a thick swath over olive – green eyes, which peered at her. She focused on her glass. Something about the way he moved and talked unsettled her.
"They left me last year. I'm not a family man. Not deep down. My wife was the sweetest thing, and she deserved more than I could give her."
Rose nodded, wondering when he would get down to business.
"So, I've brought you home on the day of Rapture, and I don't even know your name." He chuckled, his voice raspy and humorless. "What do you call yourself?"
"Juliet," she said. "Cleopatra. Isolde. Eurydice. I am all those names and more."
"Okay." He took a sip, and she met his eyes for a moment, over his raised glass. He seemed to understand, which was strange. None of the men ever really understood. "I guess you don't need to know my name, since you've got so many of your own."
She closed her eyes for a moment. Amongst the infinite tangle of memories that cluttered her mind, she remembered somebody who had his gaze. The images flashed by just long enough for her to see their outlines. A giant iceberg, a lifeboat, and outstretched hand. Then they were gone, and she was left alone in the expanse of emptiness in her mind.
"So. My wife would have liked to meet you. She'd have said that you look like a girl who's gone through a lot."
"Everybody has," she said. She was not in the mood to talk about her past. There was too much to talk about. She drained the rest of her glass with a vicious jerk, and set it down on the table. "Well it's been nice talking but you've got half an hour left, mister." Her long, carmine nails clicked audibly on the mirrorlike surface of the varnished table.
He got the message. "Well…uh…if you'd like to retire to my room now…"
When they reached his room, Rose closed the blinds and flicked off the lights. In darkness, it was easier. They always clung to her as if the Titanic was sinking and she was a lifeboat. But in the end it was just two bodies in the dark, melting into each other as they hurtled through a chaotic universe.
When he pressed onto her, tentatively like a scared little boy, she tried not to breathe in his scent. Still, the smell of detergent and sweat forced itself up her nostrils. Had she taken out the laundry back at her own apartment? She could not remember. Of course, if it really was the end of the world, there would be no laundry to worry about tomorrow. But she didn't believe in that stuff. She'd lived through countless supposed apocalypses in her lifetime. Their belief that the world would end, it was just like love. People used it to do what they really wanted.
She wondered what was taking him so long. He hadn't even touched the zipper of his trousers. His stubble rubbed against her chin. She felt his lips brush her cheek, ever so softly.
"This isn't…what I wanted. It's not enough," he moaned.
She cringed away from his touch, the gorge rising in her throat. He rolled off of her, to his side of the bed. As she stood up in the darkness, she could just make out his outline, curled in a ball. His silhouette shook violently, convulsed by muffled sobs.
A loud bang shattered the silence in the room. She stumbled, knocked off her balance by a sudden shift of the ground. She ran to the window and threw open the shutters. Outside the sun had set, spraying its last bloody beams onto crimson clouds. The street beneath her had split in two. A black gash yawned up at her, swallowing cars and people as the asphalt churned. The Rapture cut a wide swath of screams and destruction, all the way to the horizon.
She turned back to look at him. He was sitting up, staring at her. In his eyes, she suddenly saw herself. Something had crushed the walls they had put up around them for all their lives.
"I'm Rose," she said.
"Jack. Nice to meet you."
Silence. Then he smiled, and Rose suddenly felt how naked she was. For the first time in her long life, she wanted to be defenseless. In the growing darkness, they were two lost wanderers reaching out to each other for salvation. The crows' feet that crinkled the corners of his eyes were suddenly the most beautiful things she had ever seen.
A long time ago, a boy had told her that he loved her. He had reached out to grab her hand as the Titanic was sinking, but when she stretched to take it, the icy waters of the Atlantic had swallowed him. She had loved and lost Romeo, Tristan, Orpheus, and countless others as well.
She had grown tired of tragedy. She had vowed never to love again, so that she could have nothing to lose. Yet tonight she had fallen once more. Rose grabbed Jack's hand as if it would slip away from her at any moment, and they stood in his room, watching the city crumble. She knew there could only be one ending, and yet…
In a chaotic universe, contact was the one speck of sanity that remained. Who knew how many more apocalypses she would have to wait before she could love again?