Garage Door in a Dream II

 
The man who comes to pull me out of the wreck of a building through the garage door looks more like a terrorist than the terrorists do. Mid forties, grimacing, small eyes like a slash through his face. His hulking form is built out of pieces of black military gear, his face is built out of ex-military stories. A rough stubble head, a jagged stitch-scar from his eyebrow to his jaw.

His voice, low and gruff: “Come on, girl.”

No helmet, no radio, nothing that would designate him as SWAT, as a recon marine, as my father’s people. I have no reason to let him take me anywhere.  

But. His face is damaged and solemn, like he’s spent his life fighting and hated it. This is what makes me look right into his squinting, colorless eyes. This is how I put my hand in his, when he reaches in to pull me out. He makes me feel vulnerable, like I’m allowed to rely on him. So I do.

 We battle down towards the garage doors through fires and fire fights; I hide behind his left shoulder, clutching a handgun I don’t know how to use. He drops men like we’re in a videogame, takes their ammo, flawless consistency in his gait. Not a superfluous movement, not a spine flex out of place. He creeps forward, gun leveled, perfect form. Stop and rolls, clipped precision. Each surging muscle uncoils at the correct moment. He’s so cut. He’s been cut. He gives me his bulletproof vest, takes fire in his bare skin and wife-beater.

We pause in a stairwell, wait; I am faced with his sweating chest and the muscles of his throat. Crosshairs are tattooed over his jugular. There is blood over his eye. I am catching my breath in the space where his body radiates heat and the smell of metal and burnt and. Cologne?

“What’s your name?” I ask. He looks down at me. He has a softness in his upper lip that says he used to be good-looking.

“Don’t know.”

He’s a mystery to himself as much as he’s a mystery to me. If he ever loved anybody he can’t remember it now.