“Corporate offices remind me of an M.C. Escher painting,” he observed while we sipped white wine on a damp April afternoon. It was always spring when we reconnected. We were on a Brooklyn terrace overlooking yet another set of chrome buildings that were being built on the New York skyline like the ever-pulsing LED bars on an old digital stereo.
“Just a confusing maze of the same shit. Round and round and round.” he went on and I laughed, the noise sounding garbled in my wine glass as I was mid-sip.
The conversation drifted on like this for a while—him making a dry remark, me giggling girlishly at his sharp surveillance of the world. He gazed absently past my head at the distant buildings and I noticed little freckles around his nose I hadn’t appreciated before. I found myself pondering with a rush of unexpected maternal fondness if he had those as a child. Even in my own private mind, I feared that this amount of affection imbalanced the delicate nature of our relationship.
We had broken up again last autumn, when the leaves turned. It was the usual things—I’m not ready, we want different things, you’re beautiful, oh love, I don’t want this to be the last time I see you. Their familiarity didn’t cushion the fall.
For a time after we parted, my love life was a carousel. I’d wait and watch for a new tin pony but their cold bodies stung my legs. Imagining a romance without him felt like cruelly yanking myself out of a nap, so we coaxed each other back into another reconnection, purring softly I missed you / I missed you, too, until our eyes fluttered closed.
He bought us another round, clinked our glasses together, and pulled me in for a kiss. The fresh pours shimmered like topaz and the embrace was quick and familial because after all, it was just another unremarkable Sunday and we’d kissed a thousand times before, unheedingly trusting that none of them would be the last. Our brains were buzzed with pollen and the feeling that we’re reborn into new skin—spring had come again.
Was this the beginning or the end? Round and round and round.
If you’re unfamiliar with M.C. Escher’s dreamlike work, look here.
Stumbled here after "Impression of a West Village sunset" was featured on an official Substack Roundup®️ and just wanted to tell you I enjoy your writing as much as I do your art! A multi-disciplinarian!
Beautifully written with a side of Escher!