Blue

A tender, unsettling reflection on heartbreak, memory, and obsession. In the soft blue glow, longing lingers where love once lived.

A dark bedroom, viewed through the doorway, is lit only by a blue the inside of a blue lava lamp. A male figure is asleep in the bed. There is a key on the floor.
The soft blue glow of the cheap lava lamp.

by Raymond G. Neal (from the book “minis.”)

The night is crystal clear, freed of L.A. smog by the warm Santa Ana winds that have managed to reach the city this year. I am sitting in my convertible MG, which is parked in a red zone at the corner of a brightly lit intersection on Santa Monica Boulevard. I have my emergency lights flashing to give the impression that I am experiencing car trouble to anyone who may care to wonder what I am doing here. I wait patiently, my hands in a loose grip on the steering wheel, my eyes fixed on the doors of a crowded gay disco across the street. I do not fidget or squirm or think about leaving. A good thing is coming to me, and so I wait.

When I see him exit, I will find my eyes glued to the back of his body as he saunters up the boulevard toward his car, which I know is parked up a side street three blocks away. I’ll notice the expanse of his broad shoulders, housed in skin that is beautifully tanned for the summer. I’ll notice the curves of his muscular arms as they sway slightly, in time with the rhythm of his gait. I’ll notice the white muscle tee that he is wearing to show off his powerful upper body; how the thin cotton clings to his skin, having absorbed the sweat that has run down his back along the spine. I do not fear that he will see me. He will be too drunk to notice me at this distance, should he even glance my way. To him, I’m invisible.

I will follow his car as he navigates winding, treacherous Sunset on the way to the freeway, then follow him home as he swerves drunkenly within the slow lane of the 405, heading up over the Hill and into the Valley. I will watch him pull into his designated parking space behind the apartment building that he lives in, and then marvel at how he avoids falling as he stumbles up the stairway that leads him out of my sight and to his front door. Although I won’t be able to see, I know he’ll fumble with the front door key, perhaps even drop it once or twice, before finally finding the slot, turning it and going inside. He will close the door behind him, stumble to the bedroom skirting furniture and dirty laundry, collapse onto the bed and fall into a deep, drunken sleep.

I will quietly go up the stairs to his front door and probably walk right in, as I doubt he’ll have remembered to lock it. But just in case he does, I will use my copy of the front door key, which I secretly had made before returning the original to him the day he dumped me. I’ll walk silently through the living room and into the bedroom, which will be bathed in the soft blue glow of the cheap lava lamp that I bought him for his birthday last spring. It’s been plugged in and turned on every night that I’ve visited. Isn’t that sweet?

I will gaze down upon his muscularity and once again become envious, wondering how God decides who gets the right metabolism. I’ll recognize the quiet snores he makes as he sleeps soundly in alcoholic oblivion, and I will long for the nights when I would fall asleep to their sounds. I’ll lay down next to him and nuzzle my face up against his bared neck, my head resting on his vast shoulder, and breathe in the aroma of his sweat. I’ll tenderly kiss his neck, taste his scent, let my tongue linger on his delicate, vulnerable jugular, and experience a painful thirst for him that ties my stomach into knots. I’ll thank God that my life was blessed with his presence, even though it was just for a short time. Then I’ll get up without a sound, creep out of the soft blue underwater glow of the lava lamp, and promise myself once again that I’m leaving this place for the very last time.

But I’ll keep the key.

🖋️CONJURE ME THIS: Describe an object in your home–or your memory–that signifies someone you no longer have contact with. What feelings does it produce in you? Is it something you plan to keep, or will you eventually let it go?