“The Reason that Vincent is Alone”

     It is a Sunday in August in 1987 in New York and the heat, the terrible humidity rises from lumpy East Village sidewalks.  The light is the colour of lemons, of white grapes.  It shimmers.  Taxis zip uptown on wide avenues.  Streams of dust upended in their wakes.  The sidewalks are clotted with pedestrians.  They cough.  Complain about pollution. 

     Kate is cutting Vincent’s hair.  Her face is serious, concentrated, her dark brows furrowed.  She is bent at the waist, working on the back of his head.  Vincent fidgets like a little boy. 

     Lately only fighting.  She feels constantly tense, tight.  As if tied in a knot.  She has hoped for relief, for the unblighted happiness she felt with him in the early months to return.  She has hoped for many things.  For the return of the cinnamon toast made from bagels they bought together at the Second Avenue Deli.  Sunday mornings Vincent served them to her in bed.  Placed them ceremoniously on a great white plate they bought at the flea market on the west side. 

     Early this morning she declared over toast and coffee that Vincent needed a haircut. Vincent had only shrugged. 

     “In ancient times it used to be a sign of great love for a woman to cut a man’s hair.”

     He raised an eyebrow.  Shrugged again. 

     “If you say so.”

     “Sit still, won’t you?”  She purses her lips, examines the back of his scalp, leans back, tilting her head as if she were looking at a sculpture.  Assessing her work.

     “I wish you weren’t always trying to fix things.”  Vincent mumbles this, just loud enough for her to hear.  A stage whisper.

     “What are you talking about?  I’m not always trying to fix things.”

     She snips some hair.  The tendrils flutter to the floor like eider down. She uses a slender black comb as a guide around his ears. Moves slowly, carefully. Afraid she might cut him.

      “Cleaning up, folding up, always always.” 

The way he sits in the chair, straight backed, he could be riding a horse.

     “I just like to have things put away a little.  Is that so bad?”

     Vincent mutters, a touch of phlegm in his throat.  Too many cigarettes she thinks.

     “Always, always trying to fix things...” 

He shakes his head ever so slightly, coughs. 

     “Telling me how to paint a goddam picture.”

     “I wasn’t telling you how to paint anything.  Jesus! I was only telling you what I thought about someone else’s work. If you don’t like to hear my opinions don’t take me on any more of your insipid little gallery outings. It’s like you only go now so you can rant about how bad everyone else’s paintings are. God help me if I think some other painter might being doing something interesting.” 

     Vincent waits. She is nearly out of words.

     Kate mutters, under her breath, “Jealous, that’s all.  Jealous.”

     “What?”

     “Nothing, forget it.  Let’s just finish your haircut.  OK?”

     Kate straightens the red towel that is draped over his shoulders to catch the hair as she works. As soon as she lifts her hands from his skin he moves again. Twitches violently like a man infested with insects.

     “If you’re not going to sit still… You know, forget it.” 

She pauses feeling the greatness of what is suddenly unfolding. The opening she sees, feels. Of what she is going to make happen. 

     “You know what, Vincent? I am done cutting your hair.  I am done with you.”

     He explodes up, a geyser of a man, as if this was the moment he’d been waiting for. Turns, facing her now.  Below, all heat and turmoil. Roiling, fetid liquid.  Spoiled. Up top, the flame red hair. Cut, half finished, trim and neat to the left, hair on the right still flapping, ripped banners in a bellowing wind. Hair in wet loops stick to his pale white neck, the only place his hair curls like that. Kate notices, remembers playing with them.  Sighs. She pushes the cotton of her t shirt between her breasts, wiping up sweat.

     “God it’s hot.” 

Sighs again. A tide going out.

     His words crack like the snap of a whip in the air.      “Be done then. Fine. Perfect.” Snap. Snap. Snap.

     They glare at each other. This week has been particularly bad. Nothing but sniping, cutting knives sliced deep into tender spots. Kate has left their bed each night to stare out into the pulsing semi-dark. Falls asleep late on the futon next to the fire escape. She dreams of torture chambers. Blood seeping everywhere. Pale bodies suspended. Dangling light bulbs. Twisting labyrinths that lead only back to more blood shed. Sometimes the blood is hers. Sometimes Vincent’s. She awakens always in tears.

     Now, neither one moves.

     Though Kate feels that the air around them has ceased to move, that time has somehow slowed to a crawl, down below in the street the city still bleats and blares. A horn honks. Two short blasts, one long. Bass speakers roar. 

     Kate breaks the moment. Flicks her eyes to the floor then back up to Vincent. 

            “Fine Vincent. You’re right. It is perfect. I am done.”

 ...to be continued