An excerpt from the upcoming autobiography following socialite it-girl, April Martzon and her life in 1980s New York.
April Martzon (she/her) // Author and Socialite
Anna Israfilova (she/her) // Illustrator
I believe it was love. I mean, what else could love be?
Staring at the water-damaged ceiling of my seventh-floor studio, laying in his arms, in nothing but the cheap top sheet I stole from the Marriott three years ago. The silence runs thick through the space, any attempt to break it would just be cruel punishment.
I felt him inhale deeply before standing up to move to the fire escape. I quickly followed suit, throwing on whoever’s shirt I had next to me.
Pulling out a fresh pack of ‘Kool’s,’ he lit one. He took a puff before handing it to me, taking in all my features with those big eyes of his before dropping his gaze down to a steaming sewer below. Taking my own long drag, I was overwhelmed by the scene. The city was alive as always, but I couldn’t help but feel like we were the beating heart of it all.
Staring at every window, every car and every life in sight, I sat in awe. My eyes refocused on him as I passed him the cigarette. Following his gaze to the dirty grate.
“Quite the mystery, huh?” I offer. He smiles, locking eyes with me. “Oh yeah?” he responds with a playful tone.
“Such a big part of the city that never sleeps and we’ll never really know what’s not sleeping down there.” He turns, focusing on my words and his infatuation with the lips that speak them.
“All that steam. Could be a whole ‘nother world and we’d have no clue. All wrapped up in the go-go-go of our lives above.”
He nodded slowly, plucking the cigarette from my fingers.
“Could be people, could be plant-hybrids, could be large, mutated amphibians for all I know.”
“Wow. That’s quite the theory,” he comments.
“Although, if that were the case I doubt they’d be able to survive on their own. They’d need some sort of familial guide to maintain order and teach them what to do with their newfound strength and abilities.” His eyebrows furrow as he blows out smoke.
“Due to their mutations, they’d grow large and strong. But they’d still require training and learning of control. Those types of mutations don’t just come with maturity and focus. That’s all taught by their mentor. It has to be.”
He looks puzzled. “And would that be you?”
I scoff. “Of course not. I don’t have the knowledge to lead a group of beings like that. Walking around at over six feet with the brain of a young adult, I wouldn’t know what to do with them.
It would have to be an elder, also mutated, kind figure. Perhaps another species but who knows. Someone who can share their experience but understand the city in a deep way to keep them safe. Teaching them not only right from wrong but also how to channel their energy into a positive outlet like a form of martial arts or something.”
As I finish, I notice he’s dressed and back inside. He grabs his bag heading for the door, not looking back at me, muttering something about sobriety. My heart clenches, hoping he won’t turn the knob.
“Wait.” I exclaim, surprising both of us.
He turns, slowly, watching me fumble and rack my brain to find the sentence that will make him stay.
“I’m sure they’d love pizza.”
I feel the breeze of the door slam on my face.
—
That was my last night with him. Of course, I’d heard whispers of his name from time to time but I’ll never know where he ended up. I’m grateful I got to experience true intimacy and closeness with someone like him. A piece of me will always be his to hold.
Cowabunga.
—
Adapted from ‘Stories from The Menthol Goddess at 16th Ave’ by April Martzon.