Splice

Nothing, nothing, nothing (the kind of the nothing that exists out from under the blanket of the universe) followed by four, seven, nine, six, four, eight, three. I was in the middle of mouthing the phone number written on my chest.

Several years later, while traipsing the aisles of a Whole Foods with my wife, I realized I had been sleepwalking. I still don't know how I overlooked the gaping memory blind spot of how I ended up standing naked in front of a mirror in a friend's dark bathroom for so long. When I woke up, my eyes were already focused on the digits clearly written over my heart, my lips were in the middle of forming the numbers.

I quickly scanned through the events of the night, slowing at the highlights that would become long term memories.

The girls skipping down the brick street.
A waiter dancing on the table.
A misunderstanding with a taxi driver.

The number on my chest in the mirror wasn't in my handwriting. It was written in a deep black with beautiful curves and dangerous angles.

Dancing in a Chinatown basement.
Southern Comfort.
Rain.
I walked her home.
The ballpoint tickling my palm.

I looked at the number on my chest in the mirror. I could read it. I looked down at my chest. The number was backwards. I looked at my right palm.

I placed my hand over my heart as if I were reciting a bizarre pledge of allegiance. The numbers fit perfectly. The alcohol induced sweat transferred the number from my hand to my heart.


What I listened to while typing:  Son House - Death Letter Blues/John the Revelator