To hear one’s voice in the hollow night is really something quite spectacular. I walk down Clark Street in darkness. It is five in the morning, and all bars are closed. Good people of Chicago are sleeping, dreaming of a girl they left behind, a man that treated them kind, children wondering what’s in the closet, the joys of life before sunrise.
City plows move swiftly throughout the town, blocking in parked cars whose owners were forewarned of such tragedy. A few men out cursing with shovels and brooms in their hands, making a path in the snow, shaking their fists as plows go by, and stars twinkle above them.
I am walking east on Diversey now, kicking snow and on a mission. There’s old Goethe standing above us all; few cars on Lake Shore Drive. I walk till I come to my old place of nesting, Kurtz’s Tower. The blinds are drawn, and I see a silhouette of a woman doing turns and stretching her body as if she were a contortionist. The form is so beautiful that I begin to cry. I watch, captivated by her shadow. Long and tall, lean, naked during her morning exercises. I stand in the alley and long for her. I can’t stop looking. If there was ever perfection, this was it.
The blinds are rolled up, and she looks down at me, a peasant who waves at her. To my surprise, she bows and opens the window.
Beautiful morning, isn’t it? She asks. I tip my hat to her. I’ve been caught and begin to walk away at a hurried pace. Wait, she says. What’s your name? I turn around and look up at her. I don’t know what to say. My face is red from the cold, blowing snow and embarrassment. Tell me, she whispers in the hollow morn, Who are you?
An admirer, I say. She nods and laughs. My name is David. I used to live here in this magnificent place. It was my home for a short time.
Why did you move? She asked. I got a better offer, I tell her. Well, what I thought was a better offer.
Oh yeah? What’s her name? I laughed and told her about Cleo. Are you in love? I shake my head. Sad, she says. Everyone should be in love.
She closes the window and pulls down the blind. I walk on in pure in delight. What is her name? I wonder. Does love have a name? I’m no longer sure.
