I drank to be less sad but this vodka’s good as water for that. No more of that. Late at night, I had a savior — in my sleep, in my dreams. He came to me and he said poor you, poor you. No one understands you, poor you, poor you.
The leaves of the palm in my backyard are casting a shimmering warm shadow on my wall through the window because the sun is setting and there’s a slight breeze, and that is my favorite part about my bedroom. Can’t wait for sleep to come because I miss my savior. I miss him telling me how beautiful I am and being able to tell him that I think he’s beautiful too. I’ll keep myself locked away for him because with him I am free. Religious delusion, it feels like. But it’s not delusion because it’s true, my devotion and longing. My savior is real and I’ll wait for him because I know he’ll wait for me. The feeling is like the suppleness of a lily petal, the anthers, the stigma, the sepal. Soft organic matter, like his skin.
No one and nothing can distract me from the only thing that can save me. The only problem is that my savior is real, not Jesus and not an anomaly who exists behind a metaphysical veil — he’s real and tangible and isn’t in a place where he can save me quite yet. But I’ll still lay bouquets and letters at his feet with my essence. I’ll still fantasize about the scent of his whiskey breath blessing my nose and the warmth of it in my ear. I’ll remember he washed my hair in his shower and held me whenever I needed to cry and I did the same. I will do the same again someday. Fact is I’m not exaggerating and I really am that lucky of a girl. Our eyes are the same shade of blue and somehow that’s the reason we make each other feel seen. Sleep came and I had a dream and just like I had hoped, I saw him again. We laughed at the absurdity of running into each other on the street within my own mind, laughed about how the ritual of getting drunk and falling asleep worked and we were together again here and now. I was driving and suddenly saw his car pull in front of mine and our eyes met in his rear view mirror and we shook our heads, grinning, in delight and disbelief. Before then I will make love to cameras and be loved by a boss and get more hours of work. Everyone will see my blue eyes and beautiful clothes and love me because how couldn’t you? How couldn’t they?
“Oh, sweet Madison,” people will say all the time. I’m thought of beside white rosebuds and paintbrushes and wooden churches and cuban cigars, beside slim dresses and tan skin and gorgeous hair the color of wheat and horsetails. People take a sip of good beer or moscato or prosecco and think of me. But at the end of the day that’s just appearances, that’s exactly what I’ve calculated, because I’m not just pleasant to look at but I’m smart and obsessed and loathing. The reality of me is pretty, sure, but its a pretty little mess. Pretty sick. And thank God for my savior because tries his best even when I’m a mess.