It was already dark, but he arrived at her building, drawn to her by some relentless force of magic. Her world was only known to him through a window of warm orange light. He imagined the light cloaking and enveloping her, the way he wanted to close her in a protective circumference. He wanted to take on her share of human secrecy, feeling a sense of desperation that seemed to drive a splinter into his being.
He thought of Gatsby standing alone on the vastness of his lawn, hypnotised by the green light at the end of Daisy’s dock. In his mind, he imagined Gatsby reaching out in the loneliness of the night, and he had to restrain himself from doing the same.
“I wish I had someone who would be there for me and I could be there for him and we could just dive into it together.” Her voice was a deathless song, yet pregnant with the past killings that have come to define her, and it romped in his consciousness, without care or caution.
As he stood on the street, held by the power of his proximity to his very own Daisy, he thought about their own ash-grey men who haunt their dreams. They lurk in the dark corners of the city, behind trees in cemeteries, but only take dreaded form in the depths of his imagination, shaped by fear and rooted in memory.
And so they beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into her past.