7th Avenue Cigars

7th Avenue Cigars
by Susan Pogorzelski

He’s sitting on the front steps of the museum as I walk out of the 24-hour store, my purchase tucked safely under my arm, my shame, my savior, hidden inside a plain brown bag. The sun is just starting to rise behind the wide expanse of concrete, painting the city streets in an orange glow I haven’t witnessed for over a year.

I step closer to the curb, my eyes squinting against the sunlight, and for a minute, I think that I’m imagining him. His feet rest flat on the step below, his hands folded in his lap; his gray hair is thinning but his peppered beard is full, and even from here I can see the reflection of the sunlight on his glasses.

I would know him anywhere, I think, and the thought builds something inside of me that is too familiar. My fists clench as I pass between the bikes and cars parked along the 7th Avenue sidewalk, my strides long and purposeful as I cross the street. I climb the stairs and stop just in front of  him, my chest heaving, though not from the rush, and my jaw tightens.

He doesn’t so much as glance up at me.

I look around, try to figure out if anyone else can see him, but it’s too early for even the security guards at the front entrance and only a few runners pass below, oblivious to the world save for their own racing heartbeat.

I climb another step, daring him to say something, but he still doesn’t turn.

“You son of a bitch.”

I can see his eyebrows raise, but his light blue eyes are watching the quiet street below.

“Where have you been?” I edge closer, my shoes scuffing the concrete. “Where the fuck have you been?”

His eyes hold their focus on the street, and for a second, I pause and follow his gaze.

“What the hell are you looking at, look at me, I’m talking to you!”

He turns then, takes off his glasses, concentrating his eyes on me. Something unexpected and unwanted wells up inside of me, and I reach for the bag under my arm, reassuring myself that it’s still there, still waiting, trying to suppress the urge to take a swig right then and there.

“It was our wedding day,” I say slowly, precisely. “She was going to be my wife.” I shake my head; I want to look anywhere but at him, but I don‘t break his gaze. “Why did you do it; why did you take her away from me, just answer me that one question, just that one.”

His face is expressionless as he stares at me.

“Yeah. Ok,” I turn to walk away. “Fuck this. Fuck this, and fuck you! I waited for you. I waited for you then and you did nothing. And now you’re sitting here now?” I cross the steps again toward him. “Where were you then. Can’t you give me that? Where were you when she needed you, when she asked for you? When she fucking prayed to you?”

He shifts then, and I hold my breath for a moment as he reaches into his shirt pocket.

“What-what the hell? A cigar?” A disbelieving laugh escapes my lips as I throw my hands up, wondering why there isn’t someone else here to witness the absurdity, wondering if I’m not already passed out and lying on the floor of my apartment, dreaming everything I’m seeing. “You smoke? You smoke. You smoke cigars. Of course you do.” I shake my head and sink onto the step next to him. For a second, I hold the bag in my hands, knowing the comfort that lies beneath a black and white label, an amber vice calling, beckoning. I know I can’t hide it from him. I set it on the step between us.

“Why are you here now?” I ask, my voice low, the question buried in confusion and regret. “Why now; why after all this time? I’ve been through hell and I needed you. Fuck.”

Across the street, more patrons enter and exit the store, clutching their own pockets of temporary salvation from the long hours of night and the awakening of the dawn.

“Look at my life,” I say quietly. “This wasn’t supposed to happen. Was it? Was this what you planned? Is it supposed to happen like this?” I glance at him. “Right. You won’t answer that. You won’t answer anything now, will you? Not then, not now.”

He raises an eyebrow and exhales, the smoke evaporating into the cool morning air.

“Is she happy, at least? Is she safe? She-” I choke back the words and hang my head, my elbows resting on my knees. “She’s not in pain anymore, is she? Peace and all that? Because she was good, she was a good girl. And she deserves that, at least.”

I stare at the street below, where cars move slowly and vendors begin to unlock their storefronts. Clanking bottles echo as a trash collector disposes of the recycling, and a bicyclist speeds past, narrowly missing the parked cars below.

“Where do I go from here?” It’s barely a whisper, but I know he hears me. “Every day is another day I wake up without her beside me. How do I keep doing that.” I turn to him; his eyes are raised to the sky where a flock of geese cut through the clouds above the museums and apartments and corner delis.

I sigh and stand. “Fuck this,” I mutter, though all the anger is gone. “You don’t give a damn. Just like you didn’t give a damn then. Why are you even here?”

I pick up the bottle, hold it steady in my hand. “It’s no good now. You’re too late.”

“Am I?”

I pause, mid-step. When I turn, his blue eyes — those eyes that I swear could match the sky — are holding mine.

“Now you wanna talk? When you haven’t said a god-damn thing in a year? Now you want to talk?”

He stares at me, and suddenly, I remember her whispering words in my ear as I clasp her hand, her musical voice drowning out the steady hum of the machines. She’s laughing as I try to catch a glimpse of her in her wedding dress three hours earlier, as she pushes me out the door and back into the halls of the church. She’s there at my nephew’s baptismal, holding my hand at my father’s funeral, offering a sly wink at my best friend’s wedding. She’s kissing me goodnight, wiping spaghetti sauce off her cheek, reaching out to accept the single purple tulip as I show up at her door.

I don’t say a word; he nods.

Then he lifts the cigar back to his lips and turns his gaze away.