The Metropolitan Ambush

Heartbroken would be an overstatement. Ambushed would probably be a more appropriate word--ambushed by a Midwest city that slid into filthy frames of landlocked residences with cluttered lawns and weathered roofs; their decimated appearance an indication of the harsh elements they've fought and succumbed to.

So I closed my eyes because I hated the poverty, because I hated Mick Jagger's nauseating oversimplifications blaring through the taxi's speakers.

I thought back to my second evening with her. She called my future plans "far out" and it just seemed so goddamn adorable. But she also had insight and she was willing to share. "Everyone around here falls into a relationship in high school and all the girls get pregnant by the time they're eighteen." She was beautiful when she said it because she was a refutation of her own generalization.

We were both drunk by the end of the night. "Don't worry, I won't stand you up tomorrow," she assured me. She was beautiful when she said it because it sounded honest.

I closed the space between us and tried to pull her aside discreetly. "When was the last time you kissed a boy?" I inquired delicately, making myself too obvious, my eyes broadcasting truth like stupid radio towers.

"I do prefer the ladies," she confessed. And my disappointment was a catapult that launched my lips towards hers.

"But I'm strangely charming," I countered, bringing my hands up to her face.

She laughed and said, "You're amazingly charming... and cute for a boy." Then my lips fell clumsily into hers and she accepted them.

Even if she was some dispossessed lie, some bullshit name that had me singing a Phish song to myself before I fell asleep, she was still memorable. She was still something to write about.

She could have been smoking pot in her parents' basement while a stripper wrapped her legs around my head. She could have been visiting her favorite bar--the one where her car was broken into--while I watched a blues band that knew nothing of sadness. Or she could have been bleeding to death in some emergency room while I dissolved into cigar smoke and twenty-dollar martinis that were, surprisingly, worth every penny.

Her tattoo said trust no one and part of me wanted to watch it disappear beneath my fingers, its inky implications staining the skin it decorated before vanishing completely. Another part of me wanted to burn it from her flesh, like that unforgettable episode of our favorite TV show where Jodi Foster's voice wreaked havoc on a man's sanity.

I tell myself she couldn't possibly be that good a liar and I couldn't possibly be that naive. I think that everything was legitimate except her name.

She knows I'm getting on a plane soon, thinking she'll never hear from me again. So I want to believe she'll be pleasantly surprised when her eyes stumble across words like drunks across company. She'll appreciate my understanding: Deceit is inevitable and tough to maintain; sometimes interactions are that much more effective when they're brief and dishonest.

Today, my mouth tastes like olives and my mind drifts back to Boston. Three cities in the span of a week and I consider throwing myself through the window of this boarding gate. I want my face to hit the runway in a cascade of broken glass while flights depart for destinations more conducive to love. My head needs to explode, my ears need a break from percussion and my body needs to be done with Indianapolis. So I tell last weekend's love affair that I hate this city more than hers. And it's true. At least Boston was honest.

"We're never coming back to Indy," I say to my coworker as we squeeze into our tight seats on the tiny airplane.

"Not if we don't have to," he replies, leaving the option a little too open for my taste.