1
Do you hear that? No, not that. That.
The humming laughter. It buzzsaws through the airless night. Windows tremble beneath it. Car sirens go off. There’s a tiny crack in the floor now that wasn’t there previously.
I can’t believe you don’t hear it.
Do you see that? No, not that. That.
Swinging glasses ricochet off one another. Champagne creates little waves within flutes. Potboiler words are exchanged beneath the guise of prosperity. Tuxedo tails drift by. Mannequin-shaped beings approach me. Wild boutonnières and dresses stitched from impossible colors pass with no definition beneath them.
I can’t believe you don’t see any of this.
This house. It’s all glass. The ceiling, the four walls, the floor.
It’s not a home.
It’s a giant window.
You’re as much a part of the soirée standing inside it as you are driving past it. No more a guest than the cars drifting by outside.
There’s a buffet table where the crowd gathers and moves from dish to dish with robotic synchronization. Each one, a plate in one hand, takes the same fare in the exact same serving sizes. So precise there mustn’t be a pulse inside any of them.
I walk past it.
The window behind overlooks an ocean. A gray early evening hangs over the water. Rain dissolves into the sea, but none of it stops by the window.
I wonder why.
I turn to point it out to you, but where are you?
A thump reverberates through the room.
Just another champagne bottle being opened.
I cringe.
Wild applause follows.
My eyes close in a wince.
2
Have you ever seen lightning through the roof of a home?
I have.
It wanders from wall to wall, ceiling to ocean, ocean to street. Each flash feels like a thousand cameras turning at once, desperate to photograph the room from a different angle.
The storm wants in.
And I want out.
I pass a latrine with glass walls. A thin transparent cloth does little to disguise the absence of modesty within. Men kneel at glass counters, some with rolled dollar bills, others with cocktail straws.
A privy sits occupied in plain view.
A woman lies passed out, slumped upon it while her five-inch heels dig deeper and deeper into the transparent floor below.
Thunder roars outside.
Cigarettes are lit.
One of them nearly flicks a match at me. When I turn my brow upward in response, I finally see you again.
Just beyond his shoulder.
Your head tilted toward the ceiling.
I approach and place a hand on your lower back.
You don’t speak.
You don’t move.
You don’t react.
You continue staring upward.
Betwixt one of the square panes and the outside air above rests a tiny imperfection in the glass. No more than two or three inches of discoloration or a scratch.
Yet you’re completely fixated upon it.
I call your name.
I snap my fingers.
I wave my hand before your blinking eyes.
There’s no one there anymore.
Your neck muscles tighten.
Nothing breaks your stare.
This is your meaning now.
“Goodbye.”
3
Trumpet notes erupt from somewhere.
They’re so loud I cannot determine the direction.
People cheer and, as one collective, surge toward the east side of the room.
A grandiose cake is wheeled out. Candle flames dance above it. Slices are handed to grasping hands by a man in another tuxedo, distinguished only by the enormous white chef’s hat resting on his head.
Through a chain of passing hands, a slice eventually reaches my hands.
Hunger gets the better of me.
I take the accompanying fork and begin to cut a bite.
It’s not cake.
It’s nothing more than a plastic decoration resting on a clear plate.
No different from the staged coffee spills and condiment stains displayed in furniture showrooms to demonstrate how easily a fabric can be cleaned.
I pick it up, turn it, and realize it’s hollow underneath. Nothing there. Just plastic.
Why, then, are the rest of them able to cut tiny slices from it and eat?
I set my plate on the ground and notice it.
Maybe it was the laughter.
The champagne cork.
The applause.
The woman’s heel in the bathroom.
The trumpet notes and the stampede that followed.
Whatever the cause, the tiny crack in the floor grew.
It divided like a lonely highway through the various panes of glass until a hole large enough to walk through appeared in the center of the room.
The mannequins finish their cake and coordinate once again.
In one brief blink, phones fill their hands as they collect snapshots of the night.
Content, one walks absentmindedly toward the opening.
He falls straight through and vanishes from sight.
Another follows.
And another.
Then a couple.
A glowing screen occupies one hand. The other holds each other.
They fall too.
Watching them descend, I notice they don’t seem to notice.
Their faces remain fixed upon the worlds they carry with them. Smiles emerge from some. Carefully practiced expressions from others.
I wonder if they’ll realize it before they reach the ground.
One final time, I look back at you.
Your head remains tilted toward the sky.
Still studying that tiny flaw in the ceiling.
I point toward the growing fracture beneath your feet.
“Can you see that?”
Your delicate hand rises and points upward.
“No. Not that. That!” I shout.
As I watch the crack spread slowly around you.
written by dustin glackin
five-to-midnight.com 