The Vertiginous Thrill of Exactitude
Chapter Three: 77
The city that never sleeps did not get it's name from the constant noise and light. It's the people. The people never sleep. That worked for me. I didn't like my dreams, anyway.
It was as dark and quiet as it ever gets when I slid out of bed and donned my running clothes. My apartment key was on a chain I wore like a necklace tucked into my shirt to keep it from hitting me in the face. My phone and earbuds tucked into an armband and my ears, respectively, I left Pogo in the mess of sheets and locked the door behind me, bending to fit the key without taking the chain off. The air cut through my hat and gloves, but I knew I'd soon be warm.
Seventy-seven days after leaving Aspen Colorado for the last time, my stomach lurched. I ignored my hangover, plugging in my music. The song blared and I kept a wary eye out for traffic, on foot, bike, and in car. I was soon breathing steadily, heading towards the middle of the city. I checked my watch. I had ten minutes to meet Natasha in Central Park. I put on speed despite my headache. Our friendship was growing but I was still scared of her and didn't want to be late.
The sky lightened as I jogged through a sea of strangers, everyone moving to their next destination. No one stood still. March hadn't brought much warmer weather, but it had brought more happy sunlight. I slowed, searching for the women with red hair, dressed, predictably, in black. I stopped the song and wrapped the earbuds around my phone by the time I found her by a street lamp. She stretched one arm across her body, her breaths visible puffs, like a dragon. I narrowly missing a woman walking her three dogs, crossing the flow of foot traffic. Without a word, she joined me and we headed into frosty park.
She took in my puffy eyes. "You're late."
I looked at the time on my wrist. "By two minutes!"
"Just saying. You're getting slow."
My face heated. My life was coming together, finally. I had control for the first time ever, but Natasha had a way of making me feel like it wasn't, and that I didn't.
"If you just got a good night's sleep, it would probably help."
My jaw clenched. I had just gotten rid of a controlling mother, I didn't need another one. I rebelliously picked up the cadence. She matched my speed easily.
"You keep going like this, you're going to crash."
"Can we just run!?" I burst out. My determination dissipated, and I slowed to a walk. She kept running, gaining distance without a glance. My head pounded and my lungs burned.
This was our routine. I would go to bed late, wake up short hours later and drag myself out of bet and bundle up to meet up with Romanov for a run, so that she could tell me I'm doing everything wrong. I kept coming. I didn't know why.
I worked double to catch up with her bobbing form, leaping over an ice patch.
"Any auditions today?" She asked, when I was by her side.
"Just one." I answered between breaths. I had kept a steady rate of auditioning for musicals, dance companies, and even a couple of 'straight' shows. I avoided her gaze. I knew she thought I was stretching myself to avoid 'getting better'. She had told me every morning this past month.
"Any word from Steve?"
I shook my head and felt her watch me for a long moment.
"They have him all over the country."
They sure did.
"S.H.I.L.E.D. wants him to move to D.C."
The bottom of my shoe scuffed the ground and I nearly fell on my face.
"It's close to headquarters," she added, ignoring my clumsy recovery.
A stitch nibbled at my side. "What about you?" I asked.
"What about me?" She winked at a guy jogging in the opposite direction who was goggling.
"Are you moving to D.C.?"
"I go wherever S.H.I.L.E.D. needs me."
A pang of pre-lonliness. Would Steve move? Would he take me with him? Did I want to leave New York? I was just getting used to the noises and convinces of city life. Sometimes the smells, the dirty places, the smoggy heat, lights, unhappy faces, yells, sirens and horns made me feel like the ground was swaying under my feet. But most of the time it was one grand distraction. And I needed to be distracted. Washington D.C. sounded so…political. Boring. Dark haired women in sensible heels with espresso and agendas. I couldn't see myself without Steve. Sure, he left me for weeks at a time, but he always returned with flowers.
The sun climbed and warmed my numb face. I began to worry about my time. I was always cutting it close with my schedule, but It was easier to run between trains and appointments than to have down-time. Down-time was what it sounded like: it brought me down.
"Good luck today," Natasha said. We neared the end of our loop in Central Park. "I would say break a leg, but…"
She was silent for three steps before the hair on the back of my neck prickled. I craned my head around to see what Natasha was seeing.
"Don't do that!" she whacked me. "Amateur hour over here."
"What is it?" My stomach soured.
"Just a couple of lose-" she broke off. "Come on, pick up the pace."
Adrenaline made it easy to follow her. I wanted to sprint like a colt. She kept our pace snappy, but casual. Without warning she took a sharp cut into the trees.
"Keep running until you hear me call your name."
"What!"
"Go."
I did. I forced myself to trust that she knew what she was doing. I didn't have any fighting skills, but I was a coward for deserting her. After about ten seconds curiosity killed the cat. I ducked behind a tree, panting. I had to pee. I poked my head out just in time to see a beefy guy in running clothes take a foot to the side of the head and drop to the ground. There were four men sprawled in a perimeter around Black Widow.
I pulled air in and watched Natasha bend, pillaging a wallet from beefy guy and guns from each man. She emptied magazines, wiped finger prints off on her shirt, and kicked the them into a set of flowering bushes.
My knees were jelly as I reentered the the scene. She glanced up from digging through the wallet.
"I thought I told you to keep running."
"I did…for a while. Who are they?" I searched the faces from a safe distance.
"Not sure. This one," she nudged the leg of a blonde. "has a Cybertech badge. Expired."
"Cybertech?"
Her mouth made a tight line; she wasn't going to explain.
"You should get going," she glancing around. "Busy day."
"Is it safe?" I didn't want to leave her capable sight.
"You're with S.H.I.L.E.D. Nothing's ever safe."
"…"
"You'll be fine."
"How do you…"
"They weren't after you. They had been watching me all morning. I didn't think they had the chops to actually do anything in public."
I gaped at her.
"Siri! You're fine. Go and do some leaps and spins, or whatever you do all day."
"Okay. Okay."
I was shaken. I didn't understand why they chased us and why they had guns. Why she was fine with it. What Cybertech was. My head gave a resounding pound. I still had to run home. Why did I have to have so many drinks the night before? I made it back in record time. I was jumpy, convinced people might be chasing me, every glance ominous. I kept telling myself that Natasha knew what she was doing. I felt sick as I took my apartment stairs two at a time.
As I unlocked the door I could see Pogo through the window, jumping and barking. He really wasn't used to traffic and people, so I squeezed my body through the cracked door, blocking his escape. The heat from inside washed over me. I retrieved his leash and then let him bolt down the stairs to the patch of grass, our front yard. A woman with a long black skirt and and scarf over her hair eyed Pogo as he pooped. I waved the plastic baggie; I was going to pick it up.
Pogo dragged me around the block. I checked my phone. Still nothing. A muscle in my chest tightened. It's fine, I assured myself. He's fine. He's indestructible.
I had just enough time to shower, feed Pogo, pack a bag for my day, and speed-walk to the station. I set my mind on where I had to be and at what times, side-stepping some ladies. I pulled out my Metro card and heard the screech as the subway approached. It was packed, as usual, standing room only. I wedged myself into the crowd and found a hand hold. The P.A. system scolded passengers to get clear of the door. We rolled forward.
I loved taking the train. I wanted to stare at all the faces, but I didn't want to offend anyone. Subway riders were nicer than I had expected. They didn't bother me; everyone kept to themselves. It was very assuring to see all these people living, moving from place to place. You could be brushing up against a stranger, three strangers, for an hour and not make eye contact. Most people closed their eyes while riding, or read. It's easier than catching an awkward gaze.
The rocking and the constant noise was soothing, if it wasn't too hot or cold, and if you had a seat. I was terrified of closing my eyes the first few times. I thought I might fall asleep and find myself in the Bronx or Coney Island in the middle of the night. The hissing and groaning of the wheels of the wheels on the track was a soundtrack to this bizarre scene.
I had rehearsal in one of the Juliard class rooms, across the street from the Lincoln Center. The closest stop to the school was a block away. I was ready to move through the daily crowd as soon as the subway doors opened. We moved like a flock of birds up from the dirty underground station and into the somewhat fresh air. I began to shiver, waiting for the cross walk to tell me I could run to rehearsal.
I dumped my bag and slipped off my shoes, entering the bright yellow studio just as the choreographer played the music. He did this every start of rehearsal so we could review. This was the third rehearsal; we had one more to go before tech and dress rehearsal. The performance opening was next Friday, and he had just finished setting the dance on us last time we met. It was a fifteen minute modern piece set to an relatively unknown modern composer. It was one piece in a dance concert of six pieces, all varying in style. I had auditioned for a handful of choreographers, with a hundred other dancers, and had been cast in one.
I was happy to be dancing again. Or I thought I was. It was more that I was happy with having something familiar. It was routine, and kept me busy. My ankle sometimes gave me trouble, and it wasn't easy to pick up the steps like it used to be. I had lost flexibility and strength from my long hiatus, but at least I was dancing.
When the song finished a run-through I was ready. I took my place, downstage right, opening position. I breathed, pulling oxygen to all of my muscles, conserving. This dance was fast. My head turned to where the audience would be, and I caught my eyes in the mirror. I knew my reflection, yet it surprised me somehow. I searched the puffy eyes, the small nose, the wide mouth and the jaw line. I traced my left ear and the messy blonde hair I had just tied back in a bun at the nape of my neck. I looked at the flushed cheeks and the worried forehead. I didn't find anything. I found nothing.
The first notes of the music was like a pinprick, but I held my position, finding the heart beat of the song. After three eight counts I took a final breath and slowly, as if pushing through a fog, began my first movement. I didn't have to think about what I was doing; it was engraved on my muscles. I set my brain on autopilot, enjoying the way my legs and arms took over. My body melded to the beat, and I was flying. My brain took a backseat to my body, and I felt heat flood from the top of my head, down my throat, over my chest and stomach, wrap slick arms around my ribs and melt down my legs.
I fought it, taking huge gulps of air when I had the chance. Not this again. Not now. Not here in front of dancers. I squeezed every inch of effort and unexpected emotion into what I was doing, like a lemon juice into a pitcher.
When it was time, I caught my partner's eyes from where he was waiting, 'off stage'. I braced myself for the lift and felt a pang behind my sternum as my body tensed. The back of my throat tightened. I blinked stinging sweat from my vision. Sweat or tears? Sweat.
My partner ducked, hooking his arms around mine and my feet left the ground. I wrapped the backs of my legs around him and rested the back of my head on his shoulder. I was draped over him like a bullet proof vest. I was inside out. I had been skinned and tanned, turned inside out to be used as someone's vest. When the pressure on my shoulders was too much, he switched his grip to my rib cage.
Here's where the bruises came from, I mused.
With one swift upward effort, I was above his head, looking at the world upside down, backwards. Heat dripped off my face as my diaphragm fought for authority in this inverted position.
Sometimes dance felt like an abusive ex-boyfriend. This imaginary ex liked to tell me I was weak, flabby, ugly, and that I was never going to be good enough. He made fun of me in the mirror, when I couldn't execute that triple pirouette. He like to ask me, what did all those years count for? When dance wasn't whispering poems in my ear, about flying among the stars, he was telling me that my life with ballet was a lie. I had worked so hard to get to this point in my career. I got up everyday, did the work, trained diligently, just to find out that it was all a fallacy.
She lied to me. She lied and lied for years and turned me into a one of her pawns. Pathetic little Siri. She can't dance any more. She doesn't know who she is anymore.
When my feet touched the floor I was crying. The energy in the room changed as the other dancers noticed me. I was embarrassed but kept up the choreography even as I felt my partner hesitate when we met eyes again for the second lift series.
"You hurt?" I heard him mutter before pulling me to my feet from the floor.
"I'm fine." I told him in a voice that radiated to most of the room.
Get it together! You're just tired, need more sleep. I did pull it together, drowning out my unwanted emotions with precision of movement and intention. I didn't have to think or feel for this. I could just move. Keep moving.
I still loved him. I loved dance.
My partner carried me off the stage, draped over his shoulder like something he caught in the woods. The music drifted into a static sleep. His body bent forward and I slipped over him to stand. I wiped my face on the insides of my arm.
"Sorry," I mumbled. "Sorry."
"You ok?"
"Yeah. Sorry." It was all I could say.
The choreographer called us to the center of the room for notes. He lingered on my face for an extra beat but thankfully didn't comment. I sipped water and listened for the corrections. My heart settled, but the embarrassment grew. What was that? I had just had a melt down right in the middle of a dance.
I was tired, but not that tired. I didn't have anxiety attacks anymore, now that she was gone, not in 77 days. Maybe I was shaken from what happened that morning. It had been so abrupt; Natasha sent me away without an explanation or closure. I could be in shock or something. Steve would have held meso tight that I would have no problem knowing that I was going to be ok.
I missed Steve and it was like hunger. I itched to check my phone. Maybe he had called.
When rehearsal was over I avoided the choreographer, pulling on my warm street clothes over my shorts and leo. I didn't have to pretend I was in a hurry. I had an audition to get to, across town. I was out the door and down the hall before anyone could ask again if I was alright. My phone told me I was, yet again, cutting it close. No new messages or missed calls. I grabbed a sandwich and a coffee from a café. There was no time for the subway.
Cab it was. I was lucky, as a man in black suit and purple tie stepped out of a cab, just as I stepped outside the building. I hustled, slid in the back seat before it was snatched by someone else.
Today's audition was for the musical, The Lion King. I had about a snow ball's chance in hell, I knew, but I had made the decision to audition anyway. It was good practice and I needed all the practice I could get. I was far behind where I had been when I was dancing in college. This was the seventh audition in as many days. I got called back a week before for the Rockettes, but I only made it two rounds. It was the smiling: I couldn't keep it plastered to my face like a mask. I got cut at tap dancing, which I was okay at, but didn't love. I didn't have great style or personality with tap. I could do the moves, but only if I was concentrating. It felt fake. It required smiling and high eyebrows, flirting with the audience. I didn't have that Christmas shine.
I checked my phone again, as I guzzled my coffee. No calls. I paid the cab driver and stepped out into the heat, game face.
I had auditioned and made it to a contemporary dance class at Steps on Broadway before I realized that I was starving and exhausted. I felt like crawling down the street and onto the subway. I thanked my stars that there was hardly any passengers; there were plenty of seats available. I pulled out my squished sandwich I had bought for lunch and picked around the soggy bread. The swaying motion lulled me to close my eyes.
At my stop I dragged myself upright and marched myself up the stairs. My bag strap cut into the top of on shoulder. Evening had set while I was underground. The lights of the city outshone the moon. The temperature had dropped with the sun, and I was shivering again.
Pogo was waiting at the door again, barking, his tail working double time. I picked him up like a teddy bear and he grunted and squealed, telling me all about his day. I felt guilty, not for the first time, about leaving him alone all day. so despite my rumbling stomach and my aching feet, I slid my arms into an extra puffy jacket and headed back outside. I let Pogo take his time sniffing every corner, every bit of trash, lamppost and gutter. We had a good long walk and he forgave me, as he always did, for the long day by himself.
Back into the warm apartment he followed closely at my feet, jumping out of the way to avoid being kicked when changed directions quickly. I filled his water and food bowls and then moved from the fridge to the cabinets trying to decided what to eat. The freezer had what seemed like the best option, if not the healthiest. I pulled out a carton of vanilla ice cream and spoon, telling myself that I was just holding myself over until I could figure out what to make for dinner. Before I knew it, the carton was empty.
Pogo watched me lick the last bits of sugar from my spoon. I set the carton on the floor and let him clean out the cracks before I threw it away. I looked around the messy room, turned on a lamp. Sat on my unmade bed.
"Now what?"
Pogo cocked his head to the side, waiting for me to explain myself. I fished my phone out of my jacket pocket. Still no calls. Not even from Anouk.
I pulled up my recent calls, mostly all from Anouk. She had become my best friend, my only friend outside of the crazy world of superheroes, until she saw Steve on my doorstep. There was no hiding the truth from her then. She was actually the first person I felt I could talk to after Aspen. She had been an outsider, not a S.H.I.L.E.D. shrink, so I felt like my words were safely out of Fury's reach. She was hungry for story and a bit pushy about it. Anouk wasn't worried about stepping on my toes and practically forced me to open up. She was a great listener and very happy to keep me from being alone when Steve left to save the world.
We kept each other company, as Coulson was gone just as often as Steve. I had reintroduced them, somewhat reluctantly, and they had hit it off. He recommended her for a job through S.H.E.I.L.D.'s program to clean up evidence of the weird. She worked with the Mop Up Crew, to keep S.H.I.L.E.D. secrets secret, as much as possible.
Part of this, and she told me this was her favorite part, was circulation of comic books. S.H.I.E.L.D. had a few comic book authors on staff that wrote about the superheroes. The thinking was that if they could keep the stories unbelievable, keep the heroes as fictional characters, people would un-believe. Public ignorance was a vital part of public safety, according to S.H.I.L.E.D.
I selected her number on my phone and listed to the ring back. She was always good for a drink.
"Wotcher."
"Hey!"
"Siri, can I have a rain check? Phil just got back."
"He did?" My stomach dropped.
"Yeah. See you tomorrow?"
"Yeah. Definitely." I forced the cheerful tone to shine through the blatant envy.
"Wait. How did the audition go?"
"No call back."
"Bastards."
I forced a chuckle. "Did he say anything about Steve?"
"No. Hold on."
I heard the murmur of her question and Coulson's answer.
"No cigar."
I couldn't answer for a second and my voice wavered when I did speak. "Say hi to Phil for me."
"He says hello. Okay, okay…" she laughed and said something to Phil, "I gotta go."
I peeled off my dance clothes and managed to take a hot shower before crashing.
A sound woke me, a sound that drifted in and out of my dream. There were always sounds at night in the city, and unless it was really explosive, I usually slept through them.
Footsteps in the dark. My eyes flew open and I was alert. My instinct was to hide under covers, as unhelpful as that was. My body was tense, still curled on my side, knees almost touching my chest. I listed to what sounded like shoes on wooden stairs.
A weight-shift on the bed, a wiggle. Pogo grunted, but didn't bark. I wasn't imagining the footsteps, but why wasn't he barking? He was a barker. He barked at me when I came home. I would have hoped we would bark at an intruder in the night.
My eyelids were glued open as I waited in terror, in the semi-dark for the source of the sound to come up the stairs. I saw it then: a shadowed head, a silhouette against the orange of the street lamps through window pane, growing with each step into a neck and shoulders of a man. A strong chest, confident and recognizable, but too good to be true.
"Siri?"
My heart jump-started, a reboot. I sat bolt upright. It was the sound of his voice that had first awoken me.
"Steve." There was no question.
He said nothing, didn't turn on the light. I watched his silhouette drop a bag onto the floor. In three steps he crossed the room. His weight pulled the corner of the mattress down so that I was drawn to him, my gravity. I crawled out from under the covers and pulled my legs under me. The dusky light from the window cast shadows in the hills and valleys of his eyes, nose, cheekbones, neck.
"Hi," he said. His golden, goofy, smile graced his often stoic face. It broke my shy reluctance and I crawled over to him and put myself in his lap, wrapped bony arms around his neck.
"Hi."
Safe arms pulled me in further. Here, just here, I was whole. I was one person— a whole person. He kept all my pieces together, glue for my soul. My cheek brush up his neck, across his never-prickly jaw and my nose found his. And my lips found his.
We landed on my laptop and half-empty bag of chips. Pogo, finally, started barking.
His mouth pulled away from mine in a smile and I felt his breath when he laughed. I disentangled my limbs and pulled my laptop out from under his back and then fished around for the chips, mildly embarrassed about the state of my living area.
He rested his head on my pillow. I curled into his form, bursting with questions.
"How long?"
"I'm not sure. A couple of days maybe." He answered.
I didn't have the courage to reply. Next question.
"Washington D.C.?"
He sighed. "Who told you?"
"Natasha." But you should have, I didn't add.
"They've been requesting for a while. I keep telling them my home is here. Always has been."
"Will you?"
He was quiet for a moment. "It depends."
My heart leapt happily. Here's where he would ask me to come with him. "On what?"
Again there was quiet thought. He turned on his side to look at me in the face.
"I found Peggy."
"You…"
"She's in a nursing home in the capitol. S.H.I.L.E.D. is looking after her. You know she was a major part in bringing it to where it is now."
"That's…great."
I felt something settle between our bodies in the time it took for me to come up with my next question.
"How was she?"
"She was…older. She has Alzheimer's and…she would remember me, and then forget. For about ten minutes…she kept…getting…she was old."
He is sad. He is sad. He is sad. The thought drummed on me like rain. Was I jealous? Definitely. Did I feel bad for them both? Yes.
"You are the best person I have ever known," I told him, truthfully.
This caught him off guard. Under my hand, resting on the side of his neck, I felt the heat of a blush. He scooted me close, kissing me, not quite dispersing our shared uneasiness. Exhaustion creeped up, but I didn't' want to miss a single minute I got with him, so I found another question to keep us awake.
"What are you afraid of?"
He turned onto his back. I followed suit, making sure my arm was still touching his. He answered somewhat reluctantly.
"Sleeping too long. Losing you. Being the very last person alive on Earth."
These made sense to me. It was as if he had thought this question through; it was prepared.
"How long do you think you'll live?"
"I don't know." He replied quickly. Irritation like scattered clouds. "How long are you gonna live?"
"What does that mean?"
"You know what that means." Clouds building, blue sky vanishing.
I thought I did, but it made me squirm. I made him say it out loud.
"You aren't heathy, Siri." There is was. "And I don't plan on outliving you."
I felt him shift to look at me, but I couldn't return his gaze. Rain.
"I'm fine." Practiced words.
"I can't save you…" he signed heavily. "I can't save you from yourself." He said it like a dirty secret he'd been keeping.
This was too heavy. I switched tactics. I sat up, pulled up the sleeve of my t-shirt and flexed my bicep muscle, as if to say "healthy as a horse." His hand ran softly over my arm, down to my wrist and then tugged.
"Please listen to me."
"I am," I said into his shirt. I felt the rise and fall of his lungs and the tiny pounding of blood through artery and vein. "I am less human than you. We can live to the end of the world together." The words were lofty and romantic; sarcasm bit into the tone, stinging us both.
"Won't you talk to me?" The bass of his voice rumbled through his chest.
Walls rose. "I am." Enough, already. I sat up.
"About what happened."
"Steve. I. Am. Fine. I am better than fine. I don't have panic attacks anymore. 77 days. I'm dancing. I am busy getting on with life."
"I know. That's great. It's just…you don't seem like…you."
"Well then maybe this is who I am!" Lightning and thunder.
Steve was calm, calm like always, strong in the storm, unwavering. He relented.
"What about you? What are you afraid of?" Frustration still dripped from his voice.
His surrender softened me. How could I waste the time I had with him? I put my head back down on my pillow, swallowing anger.
"Losing you." I stole it from his answer, but it was truthful.
"I'm not going anywhere. I'm pretty much indestructible."
Looking back, I know I believed the second part. It's easy to fall in love.