Talking Backwards

Christopher Barlow
1

PART 1

Dream me, oh dreamer

Down to the floor
Open my hands and let them
Weave onto yours
Feel me, completer
Down to my core
Open my heart and let it
Bleed onto yours
-

TV On the Radio

He looked from the bed, to the dresser, to the faint scratch in the drywall behind the desk,
which he had clumsily made with a box-cutter when they had first moved in together, back
to the bed where a small wooden box laced with a cream-colored satin and finished with a
dark cherry polish sat heavily on top of the silken sheet, which had been smoothed and
tucked down neatly into every one of the four corners of the mattress. A deep abrasive
silence filled the room. For several seconds he did not breathe and for several minutes he
did not speak and the air around him waited anxiously to be moved.
A woman also at the foot of the bed. Reposed. He was aware of her, but he would not
look. He let out a breath. A thrumming tension moved swiftly to every corner of the room
and seemed to build. With a breath he had awakened everything around him. The waste

basket, nearly full, suddenly appeared intent on spilling its contents on the floor. The small
Chinese opera masks hanging on the wall leaned forward as if to leap onto the bed. The
floorboards beneath his feet creaked and threatened to collapse. Everything was held on a
razors edge. The small receptacle in the corner of the room with its two narrow eyes and
gaping mouth seemed to observe it all and shake in fear.
For a moment he pondered the possible reasons why such an innocent object would
have such a sad, sunken expression. Perhaps the pain of being stabbed with metal prongs
through the eyes and mouth on every occasion electricity was needed somewhere in the
room had caused its poor soul to wither with despair. Perhaps the loneliness of living
beneath the nightstand, constantly in shadow, had released all hope from deep within its
tiny electric heart. Perhaps the.
She stirred.
He stared sternly at the receptacle, but he pictured her well practiced movements.
He imagined her hands moving up along her thighs and settling on either side of her hips.
Her right leg swung over her left, a tattoo above her ankle momentarily catching a ray of
light streaming through the window. Her small bare breasts quivered. Flecks of dust
hanging in the air were caught up in a whirl by the motion of her leg, and at the same time
her shoulders dropped and her chest moved downward and she let out a long calming
breath.
Why are you just standing there? Wouldnt you like to lie down?
At last he picked up his head. The curl of her lips pulled him forward, but the
concern on her face made his eyes roll back into his head. They quickly tumbled out, afraid

of the darkness within, and landed fixedly on the window.

A breeze moved in, brushing the curtains and calling to distant memories. A day at
the beach. A late night adventure to the pier. A moment so pure and kind in its timely
deliverance it ached. The way her hair had moved in the breeze, mimicking the waves
rolling peacefully along the shore, had taken his breath away. A faint vision of a moonlit
boardwalk, a sky smattered haphazardly with so many flecks of light, a mesmerizing cycle
of yellow, red, green, blue, purple, and pink streaks spinning in slow infinite circles,
intruded his thoughts and was gone.
He looked at her now, the bed on which she sat, the walls surrounding them both
and the years of memories they shared together, took it all within himself, turning his
world entirely upside-down, and let it back out:
Im sorry.
The sound of his own voice startled him, as if he hadnt expected to speak at all. The
words left a stain in the air that the silence that followed could not erase. His face felt warm
and his hands felt cold. He wasnt sure what he had meant in saying those words, but at
least it was something.
She looked at him with the eyes of a receptacle, tears welling up and short-circuiting
her brain, causing her entire body to convulse. Bad blood, she said. He always said so.
Thats just what you are. Her chin quivered and small dimples formed beneath her lips.
Suddenly aware of her nakedness, she ripped the sheet from underneath the mattress and
wrapped it around her body. The small wooden box moved closer to her, and she pushed it
away. She hid beneath the thin silk sheet.

He felt an urge to comfort her and a paralytic restraint holding him in place. He
stood motionless. Re-stating his apology seemed a hollow gesture. His lips remained still.
He thought about moving to the bed, placing an arm around her. But would she even let
him? Time moved forward and he was reminded of its passing by the soft rhythmic sobs
emerging from beneath the sheet. He shut his eyes.
The world hummed and buzzed around him, but now he seemed to be drifting
further and further away into a distant void. The soft lull of the radiator dissipated. The
blinding white light reflecting off of the white paint of the windowsill faded. The rough
touch of the old shaggy carpet beneath his bare feet vanished. The smell of two warm
bodies and the taste of her in his mouth. All gone. Drifting. He sensed nothing.
His feet became unstuck from the floor. An imprint of his heels and the balls of his
feet was left on the carpet as his body lifted upward. He hung in the air. Still for a moment.
He looked at her. His mouth opened to speak, but he struggled to find the right words. For a
moment he fought, but there was nothing he could say that she would be able to
understand. Slowly he began to rise.
Myself. Me. This is not me. What? I dont know. Listen! I wanted to tell you.
The top of his head met the ceiling and passed through as if it were a cloud.
We were once. Something. I dont know. Why? Take me back. Lets forget this. Lets
tell each other were okay. Lets tell each other we can do better. And maybe we will.
He passed through the plenum and the attic above. The cold night air embraced him,
and he gained velocity.
I dont know. Dont know. Dont know.

He knew that there had to be a certain set of words to speak that would fix
everything, but the time to find them had passed. The right words had not come to him, and
silence was his only alternative.
Faster and faster he flew toward some far-off point in space. Past planets and solar
systems. Into the unfathomable void between galaxies. And there he remained. Staring back
at the world he had left, floating among the ruins of stars, cold and secluded.
At last his eyes opened. Her hazel-ringed pupils aligned with two hollow black
portals into another dimension. A dimension that she, nor anyone else, could never
understand. Like imagining a new color. Not yellow, not red, not green, not blue, not purple,
not pink. Any attempt to understand only leads to headaches.
Waves of emotion radiated from her, yet he remained still.
She sobbed.
He did not hear her.
Tears fell from her face.
He looked but did not see.
She reached out to grab his hand. She clasped it tightly. She got up from the bed and
began to wrap her arms around him. The sheet cascaded down her body. She pressed her
naked flesh against him. Her soul leaked through her pores and obscured him.
His feet moved backward. His hand reached out behind him and the tips of his
fingers brushed the doorknob. His lips moved. Im sorry, they said.
Leave, she said, and he was gone.
She could hear teardrops hit the carpet in an irregular pattern, each one sending a

jolt of pain through her legs, up to her chest, down her arms, circling around her fingertips,
and surging into her brain. She took a step backward and collapsed onto the bed. The little
box leapt into the air and fell on its side, loosening the ribbon. The pale sheet moved lazily
over her body as she cocooned herself in its light fabric. She wept for an eternity and then
continued to weep as the world around her collapsed into a singularity. She felt empty. She
felt nothing. She floated in the void for another eternity until sensation suddenly exploded
into being once more. The past had become the present in her mind, and soon she was
standing before him at the bar where they had first met six years ago.
She clasped the bottle in her hand. The bottle of Makers Mark that they were
destined to finish together over the next several hours. The bottle that would lead them
into the her apartment at two in the morning once it was empty. The bottle that he would
slip into his bag as she lay sleeping the next day. The bottle that would someday end up in a
small wooden box laced with a cream-colored satin and finished with a dark cherry polish.
She removed the lace from the box and opened it. She took the bottle into her hands,
which were so cold that she almost couldnt feel the glass. Time dragged on and on. Hours,
days, weeks became nothing more than abstract concepts, impossible to relate to. At last,
she gripped the bottle firmly and threw it out the window.
She did not hear the glass shatter on the concrete of the parking lot six floors below.
Instead, the voice of a bartender echoed in her mind: You two had best slow down. I
dont want to be calling an ambulance. Thats bad publicity.
The young man scoffed and took another gulp straight from the bottle and placed it
delicately on the bartop. Wincing from the burn of the alcohol he struggled to hold back a

cough. His eyes glistened and his face turned a deeper shade of red as he grabbed the girl
by the arm and turned to leave. She glided along with him. In her own blissful delirium she
fluttered her eyelids and bit her lip as she admired the many colors of the glowing neon
signs hanging above the bar. Inside her head she repeated the same thought over and over.
This is the happiest I have ever been.
Halfway to the exit she stumbled and placed a hand on someones back, muttering
apologies. Beneath the strangers sweat-soaked shirt she felt the muscles wriggle and the
hard edges of the shoulder blade shift as a hand came up to wave at him. It was a sign that
all was well and good.
The young man turned around and smiled at her. She leaned closer to him, but his
gaze drifted up and over her shoulder. She turned and saw that the bartender had a hand
on the bottle of Makers Mark. Suddenly a phone rang. The bartender released his grip on
the bottle and shuffled toward the back room.
With surprising agility and well-balanced strides, the young man moved toward the
bar. He slipped between a group of energetic young girls toasting martinis and dodged a
teetering man swirling a half pitcher of beer. He reached out a hand and his knuckles slid
along the countertop until the back of his hand collided with the bottle. He snatched the
bottle, waggled it in the air, showed it to the girl at the other end of the bar, and took
another swig. Golden liquid dripped through the cracks of his immense grin and dribbled
down his chin and splashed onto the floor.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
...

Pause. Re-read everything. Wait a day. Add and subtract details. Wait another day.
Rearrange sentences. Wait a month. Exchange synonyms. Life continues on and on and on.
New ideas: sometimes yes, sometimes no. The mood changes, but the story itself will not
budge. The young man and woman refuse to join. The glass shatters on the pavement again
and again and again. A happy ending cannot be imposed.
A strange yet familiar sense of reality settles.
We know how this will end.