Summer lies like a deflated hot air balloon over the grey stairs to Europe’s apartment door. Every Saturday he reaches up with a clever idea and rings the doorbell. Europe sets Nietzsche down next to the adolescent wine, struts to the fish eye in her door and looks through annoyed to see Summer’s white sailor’s cap and rumpled yellow tie.
I do not want you anymore, she mutters to her faded red door.
Summer cannot distinguish whispers through all the traveling he’s done to arrive here. He chooses to hear that she just needs to tidy up a few things. He remembers in these minutes all the flowers and airplanes he’s given her. He remembers the way her hair shined like brunette certainty when she let it down and how she would lay stately on the beach in a shade of purple he had never seen.
She returns to the kitchen, slits her wrist over a sparkling crystal glass and sighs,
If I let you in, I let in everything I hate about the world.
After some months, he turns the handle to find the door is unlocked. He pulls himself in slow, lies with her limp body on the blue tile floor for a moment, then raises a glass filled up half way on the kitchen counter to his lips. The mouths between cameras and sunglasses in his basket smile widely, asserting with shaky fingers that they have found the truth. He congratulates them from a voice deep as time, recommending through his teeth that they secure accommodations for next year.
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