The man stood by the window in a dark room, smoking and waiting patiently. There was nothing else to do but wait. His eyes flickered between the fattening moon in the starless sky and the apartment on the fourth floor of the building across the street - one floor lower than his own. It appeared lightless and lifeless. No one was there, not yet anyway.
The oppressive heat of Chicago summer seemed determined to kill everything in its path. During the day the pavement would be scorching hot to the touch, slightly cooling off in the evenings but still giving away the uncomfortable warmth. The buildings radiated heat as the trees and grass were yellowing under the unrelenting sunrays. A glance into the distance would make the air appear to blur and dance as if levitating over the fire. Nights were slightly better and yet just as bad as days. Sidewalks sported wet circular stains where the air conditioners sweated in an attempt to block out the persistent and deadly onslaught of the heat wave. In a state of emergency people were advised against watering their lawns or washing their cars in the privacy of their own homes. Nobody said it was forbidden to do so, after all, this was a free country, but tickets were written to people who ignored the city's need for water and sooner or later, most complied. Two weeks of ninety plus temperatures with unrelenting humidity had worn everybody out.
Old people were dying by a dozen a day, asthmatics sought refuge in hospitals, healthy people dragged themselves through the streets like they were old and weighed down by invisible hands. Pigeons sat on wires looking miserable and too lazy to fly. Dogs were just as beaten as people and unwilling to walk, they somewhat resisted being pulled by their leashes, but not much. It was too hot for a battle between humans and beasts. Only squirrels seemed to be unaffected by the heat, hurriedly jumping from trees to the ground, rushing across the street and risking their lives, climbing another tree or if they were in luck a half-closed dumpster where they could find a load of rotting food.
The man by the window turned his head and glanced at the clock on the computer desk, shining green digits. Exactly two o'clock in the morning. The last time he checked it had been one fifty-eight. A deep sigh ballooned his chest and the exhale sounded almost painful. Always a patient person, tonight he was lacking in the virtue of perseverance. The beginning of a new day was less than five hours away, and his body should be refreshed, his mind eager. He didn't believe that could be achieved now.
With no air-conditioner or a cool corner to hide into, his loft studio apartment felt like the insides of an oven. Even the old, beaten up bathtub was warm. A man can only take so many cold showers and they didn't seem to help much anyway. As soon as one stepped from under the blissful spray of cooling water, the heat wrapped itself around one's body, covering it in sticky discomfort.
He tried all tricks he could think of. He stocked his freezer with wet underwear and then forgot about it only to realize it would be too stiff to put on when he finally remembered it was there. A few pairs of boxer shorts were kept soaking in the small bucket, tucked deep inside the refrigerator, and the man would change his underwear every couple of hours or so. Despite the welcoming cool off for at least a few minutes, after a week of this practice he began noticing the first burning pain when peeing, probably the consequence of a bladder infection that he suspected he had given himself while indulging in desperate measures.
If Isabella were still here, thought the man, there would be an air-conditioner installed in the window. There would be healthy food in the refrigerator, not the remnants of fried chicken dinner from two days ago and stale pizza he had picked up on his way home almost a week earlier. There would be no Tupperware with food so old its contents seemed to have created a life of its own. The dishes would be done, the clothes clean, carefully folded and put in their proper places in the closet.
Beautiful, overworked, overemotional, overdramatic Isabella. He believed she did love him in her own way. Could somebody, whose body was a sculpture of perfect symmetry ever know true love, rather than simple gratitude for the adoration by other humans, desperately lacking her grace and magnificence, he often wondered. He knew she loved the fact that he was an artist, an aspiring painter and sculptor, even though he hasn't quite made it yet. She liked to believe she was his muse, and had made him paint her, sculpt her bust, cast her torso in bronze, lip-to-lip as he had called it. She could never get enough of him creating her image.
To keep his pride, he would do just about anything required. Family portraits, pottery, hand made china ordered by the clients. He would draw for the comics, come up with advertisement sketches and everything else that he hated but was forced to undertake to survive.
All the while, Isabella stood by his side, admiring his paintings, finding subliminal messages and beauty that he didn't put there; didn't even think about when creating. She would carefully point out that what he considered beautiful was really grotesque and disgusting, admiration of which would make people cringe in horror and counsel that he should devote himself to still life and portraits instead. Lacking the eye for the aesthetic, Isabella was one of those people who try very hard to appear educated on the subject, displaying the nonexistent to appreciate and judge. She drove him crazy sometimes. However, when the bills came, she would quietly pay them all, never mentioning the fact that it was really her generosity that allowed him to indulge in this little artistic way of life, as his father had put it. Two weeks after she moved in with him he quit his part time job selling bathroom supplies and fully dedicated himself to art.
He regretted that she had left a few months ago. But when alone and his mind reminiscing on the past, he knew that they couldn't have stayed together for much longer. Two years was a long enough time and if she hadn't decided to leave on her own accord he would have made her do so sooner or later.
Still, life with Isabella was easier in some ways. There was an order and discipline present that he desperately lacked when living alone. There was a warm body in bed next to him every night, there were Sunday breakfasts at Mitchell's, elegant dinners and parties thrown by her employer where she proudly introduced him as her fiancΕ½ even though they had never had an honest talk about marriage. It was just something she took for granted. If she supported him long enough, if they persevered for a certain amount of time, marriage would follow. He doubted it would have ever taken place and once she realized her mistake she was gone. The dreaded scenes of hysterical crying, begging and accusations never happened. When he returned from the gallery one day, she was simply gone. Her clothes and a few knickknacks that she held dear were gone too. Everything he had ever given her as a gift - jewelry, books and his works of her were left in the apartment. It was as if she wanted to begin all over, without anything to remind her of him.
He never trusted her completely anyway. She was too beautiful and classy for him. He could never guess what she really saw in him. Hoping for the world fame on the arm of a celebrated artist? His work was good, he could tell that much, but he was no Picasso and there would never be recognition big enough to satisfy someone like Isabella. He had known artists who were now old men, plagued by heavy smoker's cough and trembling hands; their talent beyond anything he could ever dream for himself and nobody knew their names. They were unrecognized, unappreciated and unwanted. They must not have been the right characters for the slippery slope of fame. Often he'd stay awake at night, fearing that he would wake up in the morning and find himself to be that same old man, life wasted, ambitions unfulfilled. He created popular art because he had to, not out of ambition. His best work, most of which never left the confines of his studio was gruesome and according to Isabella disgustingly monstrous. She believed nobody would be interested in it and he suspected she might be right.
One more cigarette
, thought the man to himself.
One more cigarette and I'm off to bed, fuck this waiting
. He ran a hand through his damp, unruly hair, letting out another sigh.
Just as he inhaled the first deep drag of the newly lit cigarette, the familiar shiny blue Mustang appeared at the end of the block, turning in from the main street onto their residential one, bearing a name of a celebrated British poet. The man straightened in anticipation and immediate excitement.
Not that I doubt you, buddy
