Behind Our Lives

Chapter One-2

ONE-TWO-THREE, FIVE-six-seven. One-two-three, five-six-seven. Clomp-clomp-clomp, clomp-clomp-clomp. Lincoln was at least four buildings away and already he could hear the words and sounds that filled his life, invaded it. Five evenings a week and every other weekday afternoon.

He hoped the music would start soon—drown out the incessant sound of those heels, of the instructor's booming voice. The music, though not his style, was a reprieve after the clomping. A gift ... for the first few minutes.

Several women in dresses with swishing skirts and high heels rushed past Lincoln, chatting with high pitched, laughing voices.

He couldn't figure out the appeal. The dance? He doubted it. Salsa was supposed to be passionate, freeing, not this regimented counting and clomping the studio seemed to advocate.

Didn't the women get that?

More likely it was the idea of the dance. The idea of something exotic and freeing and full of life. That, he supposed, he could understand.

Maybe he'd pop in one night. Get a closer look at who, exactly, had the wool pulled over their eyes. New lovers awkwardly trying to impress each other? Seasoned lovers aching to fill the empty, silent hours of knowing everything there was to know and yet still being strangers? Or singles?

A man strode past in khaki's and a tucked in dress shirt; he flipped his key fob then clicked it. A horn sounded just behind Lincoln, making him jump. He shook his head, then followed the man with his gaze.

The studio accepted singles, a big sign made sure no one missed the announcement. Hello, lonely soul. This too, is for you.

The man jogged up the studio steps.

Maybe it was all singles, a myriad of people hoping there'd be some kind of magic in those numbers, those steps—one-two-three, five-six-seven—that would mean they didn't have to be alone anymore. Two buildings away now, the sound dominated the street.

Lincoln held the library books to his chest, envisioning their promise—silence, solitude, a life apart.

He felt sorry for the dancers. For their blindness, their searching after something they could never have. We were all alone. That was the truth. Born that way, we die that way. The big lie was that the years in between could change that.

One building away, and he could feel the music thumping in his chest.

All the windows were open. That's why the sound had travelled so far. Warmer weather. The window would be open all the time now. Lincoln sighed.

A slew of hopefuls poured down the studio steps. Laughing. Chatting. Arm in arm. He walked past them, through them. They spread wide as if he were Moses parting the sea.

Almost there. Almost home. He'd close his windows, no matter how hot it was.

Romper ran ahead, past a car in front of Lincoln's steps, past the long toned leg attached to the woman stepping out of it.

Lucy.

Lincoln stood frozen, his back against a tree. Flee? No point; she'd see him run. A door slam. They were here. What could they want? How had they found him?

Lucy laughed as Joseph took her arm. That tinkling laugh. The laugh that made him first notice her, made him turn his head in a crowd and see.

Lucy.

She was beautiful as ever. Slim. Blue eyes flashing under lashes long with mascara that never clumped, not once in their four years together, that never ran or smudged. Not when she cried. Not when she was slick with the sweat of lovemaking.

The mascara of every other woman he'd ever been with had clumped.

Her eyes met his—Lincoln braced himself to say something, anything, but her gaze flitted away. She gripped Joseph's arm tighter. Joseph, who barely looked at him, who walked on as if Lincoln were nothing more than a bum on the street.

Lincoln watched them pass. Her in her red dress and black heels; Joseph in khakis and a wrinkle-free shirt. They weren't here for him. The dance. They were here for the dance.

Lincoln slumped against the tree, his heart thumping against his chest like a mallet. He looked down at his loose and aging clothes. Not the crisp suits and perpetually shined shoes Joseph and Lucy were used to seeing. Instead, Lincoln wore an old flannel button-up and torn jeans. His hair hung in greasy clumps, inches longer than it had ever been.

He raised a hand to his beard. He hadn't intended to grow it, had never had more than stubble before. But in those first few weeks, which quickly turned into those first few months, he couldn't bother shaving. What was the point? Then one day an old classmate approached. Lincoln walked on, dreading each moment the distance between them shortened, the questions that would come, the explanations he'd have to give. He braced himself, steeled himself, readied ... and the classmate walked on with only a casual glance. He hadn’t recognized him. More than that, he dismissed him. In that moment, Lincoln decided the beard would stay. And he hadn't bothered to cut his hair once in the eight long months since he’d seen them. But he never thought ... Joseph. Joseph not recognizing him. Joseph not seeing him.

Lucy had, though. Whether or not she'd known for sure it'd been him, there'd been a flicker of recognition. And then she walked on.

Lincoln kept his back close against the tree. What time was it? After nine? Nine-fifteen, maybe? Classes started on the hour. So they were late. Typical. Of Lucy, at least. That magical mascara took time to apply.

Thursday at nine. He wouldn't be outside at this time again.