Stuart continues walking, neither knowing nor caring in which direction he’s headed, while immersed in recollections of last night and this morning and afternoon—seeing Penelope alternate between tears and anger and icy detachment and desperate appeals and self-assured declarations and apologetic whimpering and haughtiness and humility and blank stares into space—seeing her facial expressions and body language repeatedly race through the dark emotional spectrum, from dismay to despair to rage to terror to indications of genuine instability, an utter loss of a grip on rationality—hearing her speak, in tones by turns tremulous and afraid and stern and defiant, of being a bad person, unfit for love—especially, hearing her declare in that frightful rapid whisper: Sometimes I think I could shoot a man and then shoot myself!
After two or so hours of wandering the Upper East Side streets, never cognizant of his precise whereabouts even though he knows the area well, having lived there for over three years in the past, Stuart’s seated on a rock outcropping near the top of a hill in Central Park. Before him is a gently descending expanse of winter-browned grass, blurring into brightness in the noonday sun—turning golden, shimmering like a desert’s sand, merging with and becoming indistinguishable from the sky, blinding him to recognition of distance and space; nor is he able to detect the movement and chill, marked though it is, of the breeze: Penelope’s the sole occupant of his attention on all levels now, enough that he’s barely able to sense the solidity of the rock outcropping beneath his body. He’s ceased to dwell exclusively upon her dark side—predisposition to emotional imbalance and alarming dramatics, mentions of murder-suicide. He’s also recalling, with his very nerves, the electricity that inhabits her body, thrilling urgency of her caresses, charged softness of her skin—hungry for another taste of what he felt while clasping her close. A kaleidoscope of pictures of their time in bed and the bliss he experienced is spinning in his mind’s eye, taunting him with what he’s lost—exposing the empty expanses of need inside him, plunging him into such loneliness and desolation it’s as if he’s being spurned by existence itself. His body’s his enemy now—nothing but restless, discontented, desire-flayed flesh with demands that can’t be met. He can’t run or hide from his body, his blazing blood. Penelope’s ignited this blaze and she’s the only person alive who can quench it and bring peace to his heart, but he has no idea if she’ll wish to see him again. He’s deathly afraid she’s decided to avoid him from this day hence—that she’ll never set foot in the office again, never speak to him again, never so much as glance at him again.
“I lost my nerve because of things Penelope said while in a frenzied state, incapable of thinking before speaking?” Stuart hisses at one point. “I allowed her frenzy to speak for her, assumed it was conveying her heartfelt feelings, mistook its disorder for carefully measured words?—allowed it to cripple me with panic, deprive me of clarity and courage, chase me away? What a shoddy reason to run, cowardly to the core! She was fantasizing about suicide—dying with a lover—and babbling about danger, all while extremely disturbed and certainly not fully aware of what she was saying, less likely believing it, and I fled like a weak-willed half-man who wilts at a hint of conflict! I’m ashamed to be me—I don’t know how I can face myself in the mirror, I wouldn’t blame the mirror if it refused to hold my reflection, spat it into the void! How could I run from the one person who holds the key to my well-being? How could I forget the times last night when her eyes were trained upon me trustingly, sharing their wonder and hope and hunger and daring and courage?—when they widened and blazed with desire as immeasurable as the night sky, illuminated my body from the inside out, had me joyfully gasping for breath, thankful beyond measure to be alive? How could I forget the times when the amount of emotion she was under the sway of infused her beauty with added depths of mystery, that I’ve never discerned in a woman before, and it was understood I could safely express myself as I never have before, liberated from questions, judgment, restriction, all taboos?—when it was as if she’d gifted me with a frame of mind uncontaminated by the status quo, immune to dogma, impossible to tame? Have I ever experienced such freedom before? No! Penelope lives on the edge of a precipice that’s inside her, intermingled with her very blood, and loving her is like plunging headlong over that precipice without hitting bottom: have I ever experienced a hint of such rejuvenating vertigo with anyone else, imagined such a thing could be possible? No! Have I ever embraced a woman whose transports of abandon carried me outside my familiar world, suggested the possibility of a greatly intensified, dizzyingly engrossing, manner of living? No! Has anyone else ever led me to believe there’s a wild new world stirring to life inside me, sweeping me towards enthralling experiences I’ve never had? No! Has anyone else ever led me to believe it’s possible to be reincarnated without dying—reborn via love? No! Penelope speaks of living with frightful impulses, wrestling with the temptation of death, and I’m here without her and feeling death would be preferable! For God’s sake, she’s shown me I had no idea what life is! Life as I once knew it is an empty mirage, absurd parade of false desire and ill-informed aspiration, that means nothing to me now! My former life’s an embarrassment that’s relentlessly mocking me and it’s right to do so, because I’ve stupidly thrown away the chance to trade it for a far more fulfilling one and now I have no life at all! But that can change—it has to change! Just because I was an idiot and a coward earlier doesn’t mean I have to keep being one! Who’s to say it ends now and I stay here alone, away from Penelope? It can’t end now if I’m to remain sane!”
Springing to his feet and walking east as quickly as he can, Stuart continues addressing himself: “I’m alone after spending the night with Penelope, basking with her in life-altering sensations, being awakened—reborn—in her arms? Insane! I’ve lived and breathed Penelope ever since setting eyes on her! I’ve been rearranged inside, undergone a personality overhaul for the better, by the mere fact of getting to know her! I’ve seen through her act and descried her secret life from the get-go and finally experienced it firsthand—been entrusted with a full-out revelation! She’s the sweetest, most kind and considerate, woman I’ve ever known and is a dear friend, first and foremost, and I need to gather myself and help her! She’s alone in her apartment, distraught and in need, so enough of moping in the park like a pusillanimous dimwit who’s undeserving of her regard! Penelope’s an oasis of untamed wildness in a domesticated world—so refulgent, so beautiful!—and the last thing she should be is hurting! Penelope’s more precious to me than life—Penelope is life—and the only thing that matters is being with her and calming her, until she’s her happy serene self again! She will not drive me away again—I will show her I’m capable of remaining steadfast in my devotion when faced with her strident moments! I will show her I’m unafraid to be by her side when the demons invade her! I will show her I’m fully prepared to guard her from herself, no matter how daunting the storms that overtake her! She will see I’m the man she needs me to be! It must happen!”
Within five minutes Stuart’s exited the park. He’s strolling through the Upper East Side again but it’s as alien to him as Antarctica. Visually speaking, he’s as if walled about by panes of glass upon which the sunlight bends and spreads out and scatters into persistent glares, and his surroundings are often little more than bright blurs, with just enough discernable outline and shading, detection of motion, for him to avoid bumping into others. A couple times he’s on the point of running his fingers along the fronts of buildings to confirm he’s on the safest side of the sidewalk, away from the curb and traffic, but then he shakes his head, clears his vision, and manages to laugh: of course it’s silly to suppose he’s so emotionally charged he needs his hands to assist him with seeing to it he avoids wandering into the street. All the same, though, whenever he’s at an intersection he takes care to lingeringly glance about, confirm several times it’s safe to cross: he’s definitely under the influence of feelings that are distorting his perceptions, intoxicated withou
t the assistance of a substance, to the degree he realizes it’s essential to compensate with multiplied caution. And far from being unsettled by this state of disorientation Stuart’s wholeheartedly embracing it, because he feels it’s an indication he’s embarked upon a new life, in the process of overcoming the limitations of all he formerly held near and dear. “I’m immensely fortunate—the luckiest man alive!” he informs himself while observing his reflection in a window, watching it periodically disappear in the shimmering dance of sunlight upon it. “I’m so electric with the necessity of trading my old life for a better one in Penelope’s arms it’s not only rewiring, completely upside-downing, my senses but enabling me to adjust without being afraid! I’m already stronger—well on my way to arriving at authentic freedom, absent of regret for anything being given up! The idea of giving anything up has miraculously vanished, as if it never existed! Literally overnight, the business of having a secure and lucrative career, owning an apartment that accumulates value by leaps and bounds, adding to my investment portfolio monthly without missing a beat has become distant, hollow, and farcical—now it’s no more meaningful than litter twirling in the breeze! Anything that previously dispensed comfort is now seen to be parasitical artifice, a prison in disguise—an illusion I once believed in and no longer do! And because I no longer believe in it, it’s lost its ability to bind and blind me—deprive me of richer experiences, obstruct me from obtaining what I never knew I needed to obtain! Everyone I’ve ever known, excepting Penelope, is a stranger who doesn’t understand the first thing about the treasure trove of feeling I’ve discovered! My entire life, up until last night’s revelations, is now seen to be a misguided foray into falsity and it’s my darling Penelope, resplendent with transcendent vitality, who’s given me the strength and ability and courage to bid it farewell, supplant it with self-realization that’s beyond my wildest dreams!
“And what about the way I ran into Penelope last night,” Stuart continues, “and finally caught her dressed in a manner that does her beauty justice—finally caught her in the throes of the sort of heated emotion I’d always detected behind her carefully cultivated stoic exterior? If that wasn’t preordained, an event fated to occur, then there’s no difference between black and white. An event of that nature had to happen, right? Wasn’t it absolutely necessary that my gut intuition be confirmed, considering I was becoming thoroughly unhinged and something had to give? Being repeatedly repelled by the shield of Penelope’s double-life, unable to cross the distance between us no matter how desperately I tried, was an unsustainable situation. It’s wonderful how fate works, isn’t it? Is it too farfetched to suggest all-consuming attraction is capable of bringing about events that confirm one in the said attraction, justify the said attraction, fully deliver one over to the said attraction? Too farfetched to suggest the closeness and camaraderie Penelope and I enjoyed at the office spiritually intertwined us on the subconscious level—birthed communication-from-a-distance abilities, enabled our nerves to send signals from across town, arranged for us to run into each other when she was without her mask? Too farfetched to insist my most treasured secret dreams—ones I’ve been, at best, only half aware of—have materialized, become flesh, in the person of Penelope? Too farfetched to insist the buried portion of my life has been lifted into the light of day, so that I may finally serve its needs and be rewarded with happiness that would otherwise elude me? Certainly I’ve seen a new world of unlimited possibility living in Penelope’s eyes! Certainly she’s enabled me to obtain tantalizing glimpses of a variety of unsullied energy that’s older than human history, unchanged below the surface of appearances since the beginning of time! It’s as if the primary driving force of life has retained its purity in Penelope—as if an untamed elemental spirit from long ago, stranded in the present, inhabits her—as if she’s a throwback to a lost time of unbounded emotional freedom, uncontainable primal intensity! Penelope’s assuredly a priestess, versed in the mysteries of creation, who’s been miraculously born into this sterile and materialistic day and age! But why am I analyzing, seeking to pin Penelope down? The urge to analyze belongs to my old life, previous to last night, and I need to shed it along with all else that stands in the way of coming as close to heaven as a person on earth can get! All that matters is Penelope and the new life she’s revealed to me, the self-deception she’s done away with, barriers she’s knocked down! I swear it’s as if the boundaries of my body are dissolving and I’m becoming one with the bright swirling light of this beautiful day—as if the surge of my blood’s uniting with the expanses of the sky and the rooftops are close enough to touch! But why am I still in the streets when I ought to be returning to Penelope, bathing in the life-sustaining wellsprings of her eyes?—her eyes by turns sweet and alarmed and disturbed and angry and worried and hopeful and serene and loving, reflecting the storm-tossed depths—nurturing wildness—within her? Without Penelope I die, that’s a fact! Yesterday’s another life—the life of the person I no longer am—and today I’ll live with Penelope as I’ve never lived before!”
It could be said that by the time Stuart arrives at Penelope’s building he feels he’s adrift in space alongside his body, watching it walk and listen to it talk as if it belongs to someone else. When he enters the lobby the man behind the desk seems to be outside the audible range of the normal volume of speech, even though he’s about four feet away. When Stuart addresses the man he’s unaware of the startled expression, unconcealed wariness, that overcasts the latter’s face, has no idea why he’s being asked to repeat what he just said; and the very ability to comprehend the man’s words seems nigh miraculous to him—something he’s somehow reminding himself how to do. Then Stuart’s responding to the man’s request and, even though his response is adequate enough, it can’t be said he’s wholly aware of what words he employs or at all aware that he’s still speaking at an unwarranted volume, much less that the man’s observing him with ever-widening eyes. As Stuart watches the man reach for the intercom phone and press a button, with an air of irritation he’s likewise unable to discern, and listens to him inform Penelope the friend she’s expecting has arrived it strikes him that the man’s a wax replica of a human that’s somehow acquired animation, convincingly appearing to be alive. Stuart doesn’t detect the vague tone of worry in the man’s voice, is oblivious of the fact the man’s drawing out the conversation with Penelope, going so far as to ask her if she’s sure she isn’t too busy to receive anyone: what’s primarily occupying his attention are the flickerings of sunlight upon the glass entry doors, he having turned towards the street. Then a voice from behind the desk gives Stuart to understand he’s being allowed upstairs and he begins walking without the slightest turn of his head in the voice’s direction, any trace of acknowledgement.
Then Stuart’s in an elevator, all but blinded by the light of the overhead lamp that’s glaring on its brass walls, darting between them—surrounding him on all sides, blurring the boundary between solidity and space. It’s only the numbers of each floor, briefly illuminated in red in ascending order as he rises towards Penelope’s apartment, that are discernable in the golden haze. When the elevator door opens he’s momentarily facing a mirror on the hallway’s wall, even if he’s unaware of it: there’s an enrapt—some would say half-mad—aspect to his gaze.
Then Stuart’s facing Penelope’s apartment, watching the pale blue of its door warp and shimmer in the florescent lights, the tubes of which are running up and down the length of the hallway ceiling, seeming to set it ablaze with swirling silver flames—watching the door shift between being convex and concave, outright liquefy, as bright snowflake patterns pierce and splinter the air—watching the doorbell’s button blur in and out of focus, alternately appear larger and smaller, as he lifts his hand towards it. But before he’s able to ring the bell the door opens wide and Penelope’s standing before him and he’s instantly lifted from his altered state, liberated from the perceptual distortions, restored to clearly delineated dimensions—no
longer under the impression he’s hovering alongside his body, or misapprehending how loud he needs to speak, how far he needs to reach in order to touch her. Penelope’s wearing a skin-tight scarlet nightie, plunging of neckline and mid-thigh high of hem, with a white rose in her fluffed and curled hair—she’s radiant of face and smiling benevolently, an expression of trembling and hopeful anticipation’s in her eyes—her vermillion-lipstick-slicked lips are parted, her tongue’s invitingly rolling about them—a beguiling perfume, suggestion of peppermint and lavender, is in the air.
“God!” Stuart intones, overcome with amazed delight, relief rippling through his every muscle. He’s never undergone such an abrupt shift in orientation, from pronounced sensory disorientation to a firm grounding in crystal clarity, in his life: such is the magic of Penelope’s smile, her friendliness, her manifest wish to be nice, her deliberate advertisement of her beauty. He’s already easy in his mind and self-assured, animated and eager—already removing his coat and stepping towards her, feeling something of what he’s going to feel when they embrace.
“Not a God—a Goddess!” Penelope giggles, playfully tossing her hair from side to side as out-and-out rapture leaps into her eyes. She takes a flirtatious step backwards while extending her arms towards him.
“The most beautiful Goddess to ever grace the firmament!” Stuart exclaims, stirred to greater exhilaration by the music of her giggle and motion of the light in her eyes. Seconds later he’s stepping within her arms and wrapping his around her, pressing himself against her, running his hands over her shoulders and neck and face, joining his lips to hers. He couldn’t be more at one with his body as Penelope wraps her arms around his neck and curls a leg about both of his, breathes deeply and quivers, massages his mouth with gentle undulations of her lips and tongue, stimulates his cheeks and ears with gossamer-soft caresses. And he couldn’t be more at peace inside, of the opinion that the only dream he’s had of value in his life has come true—that heaven itself has materialized to bless and protect and nurture him, ensure he’ll realize his full potential, live in the only manner it’s possible for him to live. Penelope’s the only person in the whole of existence he needs and there’s nothing to doubt any longer—no reason to dread banishment to unending unfulfillment, loneliness, and despair on account of her declining to reciprocate his affection. She’s making it crystal clear, with every gloriously responsive muscle of her body, that she’s going to be a part of his life for the rest of his life: she’s kissing him as ardently and tenderly as he could wish for, in a manner that’s assuredly a declaration of love. She’s not driven by disturbance and desperation, as when she kissed him last night, but by unmistakable joy. She’s not racing inside herself to escape the persistent nagging of an unpleasant experience but embracing a positive experience in serenity of mind, with all of her soul—melodiously cooing, warbling the sweetest of sounds, moaning in a manner that’s shimmering in his blood.
Penelope Prim Page 7
