City Hunger
There was a club called 25, and Sina was turning 18. We danced close, bodies pressed into the bass, both high on something. In the bathroom, two girls wanted me to photograph them as they undressed. My head was splitting. There was an urge to vomit that I kept strangling down. The bigger one got on her knees while I counted white tiles on the wall, polished and endless. When she was done I went back to find Sina and picked up the dance where we’d left it. After a while she tugged my sleeve. Can we go home? I’m tired.
That night, something in her fractured. She cried until the room drowned in it. Why do I do this?
she screamed, hurling a basket of apples at my head. I love you, you bastard, but you’re a coward. A freeloader. A fraud. You hate this world but you devour what it offers. You hate these people but you fuck them. You hate these drugs but you keep chopping another line, and another.
She threw a bag against the wall. White powder fell like snow. I sat on the bed and watched, smoking.
This world means nothing to you,
she said, her voice climbing higher. I mean nothing. Love means nothing. How am I supposed to give myself to someone who feels nothing about love? Tell me that.
I’m not answering that,
I said. She got colder, then hotter.
She went to the kitchen and came back with a long knife, started stabbing the pillows, the mattress, feathers erupting into the air. I leaned against the wall and smoked, untouched. She looked like a naked angel being torn apart. Then she stopped. I have to get out.
She dropped the knife, jammed clothes into a Hello Kitty backpack, ran for the door before I’d even registered what was happening. The door slammed. I came to and ran to the balcony. I could see her reddish hair moving down the dark street. Sina, where are you going?
Nothing. She was gone into the U-Bahn. I grabbed orange juice from the fridge, drank some, threw the carton at the wall. The yellow stain is still there. Her phone was on the bed. I picked up one of her underwear, buried myself in the ruined pillows, and tried not to think about what was coming.
That night I had a dream that felt like it was still happening when I woke, drenched and sick. I stumbled to the kitchen, poured cereal and milk, but her face wouldn’t leave—pale as death, and me holding her while I screamed the whole city’s name. I couldn’t tell what was real anymore. There was a smell I couldn’t place. Looking down at myself, blood seemed to cover half my body, or maybe it was just shadow and light playing games. I lifted a spoon of cereal and the faces came back—the ones from outside 25, all screaming her name over and over.
People kept saying she’d left with some guy from Chan Shin, someone dangerous, someone shady. She was too drunk to know what was happening. I screamed. If I screamed loud enough, if I said her name loud enough, I could undo it—I was sure of that. Phone in one hand, tequila in the other. The cold air from the window helped, washed over my head and pushed the thoughts away. I ran through the space between knowing and reaching her, I was crying.
When I turned the corner the alley was there and so was she, helpless against the filthy brick. Everything I had—every feeling—collapsed into that one moment, sharp as a gunshot. I ran to her. I said things without words, screamed them hoping they’d still somehow reach her. I held her and held her until I felt myself start to rupture. I choked on blood and tears. Her empty eyes, her soft face—they were telling me what I already knew. I wasn’t there.
It rang.