The Mistress that Never Slept

I've always loved the rush of the city. It allowed me to escape my insecurities. No one would notice the frail, unattractive young man in between the naked fellow playing guitar and the guy selling fake Gucci bags. I loved the anonymity it afforded me. I was never one person, but hundreds. On the Upper East Side, I was a socialite, perusing the fine jewelry stores. On the lower west side I was a ghost, my pale specter haunting the pawn shops of the area. By day I was Peter Sarsa, investment banker. By night I was a partying psychopath. One night I'd stop by the club, where I'd chat up beautiful young women in my still-fresh business suit. A few dances later and it'd be a wrinkled mess, fresh with the scent of sweat disguised under generic deodorant. Another night, I'd visit a coffee house, where I'd chat up some of the intellectual types while sipping over-priced coffee that was hardly worth its' cost. One night in particular, I remember seeing a young man named John Luova play, hunched over his acoustic guitar, his greasy hair hanging over his eyes, obscuring the majority of his face. In those days, John was an addict, now he's recovered and his music is hardly as good.

At first, I visited my mistress only once or twice per week. Later on, however, I found myself making nightly visits to take in her sights for my own pleasure, and I can only hope hers as well. It was a mutual relationship. I found my escape from the real world, the stresses of each and every day, and she was supported. I found my way to her and she found the way to my wallet. I was blissfully unaware, ignorant, and oblivious. Yet it was perfect. It became too committed, however.

I became an addict. My life was dominated by my obsession to return to the distant skyline that lay so beloved in the trenches of my heart. I was not a passionate man. The rough and gruff sort of a New York public school education, classes of mind-numbing economics, will do that to you. Any pleasures I had were kept secret. The city was no different. The city lay in a treasure chest, buried somewhere in the deep folds of my mind between my involuntary nerves for breathing and for my heartbeat. It slowly became unearthed, and my love for the crowded streets, the familiar smells of cigarette smoke and vehicular exhaust became encrusted in the arteries of my heart, beating to and fro throughout every fiber of my being with every spasm. It was love. I was in love with the city, and she with me.

My bank account dwindled. If I didn't spent $123.67 on vintage vinyl records, I spent it on a meal at a fancy restaurant. I couldn't help myself. My life became the city. I had grown accustomed to her face, the subway lines running deep into her appearance, the skyline her silver hair, the people the thousands of individual pores. And here I was at my prime; I was kissing the city herself.

But just like that it became too much. I had seen everything in the amount of time I had spent in the city. My savings account had declined from $80,000 to a mere $2500. This was all in a year's time. My friends, the few I had, had usually accompanied me, almost like voyeurs to my meeting. They, however, were soon lassoed in by their wives and significant others, caught in their illicit affairs, reminded of their families and bent back into the shape they had been-straight lines. I had no reason to be guilty. I had only myself to care for. I did my work, my house was paid for, and there was food in the house (though I seldom ate in). It did not inconvenience me; it did not cause me any shame or guilt. I loved the city, I loved her every feature. Notice, however, that I use the past tense.

I had become bored with the city. Her once refulgent appearance now appeared dull and lifeless. I understood what it meant to be bored in a relationship, to look at your lover and to see nothing more than a glare, some sort of conniving intention between her every look. And I saw this in every light I saw. I could see, no! I could feel, yes, feel, her glances of cruel intentions. I could feel her reaching for my wallet, destroying my future, destroying my life. She was not the woman I had imagined. She was a beast, a cruel heartless beast. This was only proven a few days later when I was robbed at knifepoint.

I arrived in the city at 7:30 P.M., after work, like I always did. I went out for a nice dinner, a place I frequented often, and I had paid the bill for $97.36. It was a delicious meal; I can still taste the vintage red wine, the perfect Italian cuisine. I then took in Times Square for the millionth time, standing in the midst of the streets, looking up at the eyes of my lover and seeing nothing more than an advertisement staring me back in the eyes. I could feel her burning me with malice. Oh what a disaster it had become!

It was not over. As I boarded a train on my way home, I was approached by a relatively young man, not more than 19 or 20, who asked me for change. I reached into my pocket and handed him a few quarters I had left over from paying for my Metro card. He replied with a nod of gratitude. I then turned around to find my seat. But what came next was not a pat on the back. He poked a knife in my lower back and asked for my wallet. I looked, wide-eyed, from side to side. We were the only persons in the car. I was alone, and I would have to give in. I reluctantly handed the young man my wallet as we pulled into the next station. He ran off as the doors opened, and I didn't even attempt to chase him. There was no point. He was younger, faster, and I knew in my heart that this had been orchestrated by my mistress.

It was then and there that I vowed to never return to the city. If anyone ever asked, I'd reply to their invitation with a look of pure malice. My hate for the city burned like the hate of no other. That was that, I wanted nothing more to do with my mistress. Yet I did not forget her.

On April 16, 2004, I was married to a secretary by the name of Joanne. I felt terrible. I had invited my mistress to the wedding. As much as I disliked her, I felt I owed her this; perhaps it would bring closure for both of us. She didn't come. To this day, I wonder what could have been with the beautiful mistress who never slept.

Communication could have solved the issue perhaps, but a man torn is no match for a woman scorned.