Max and Rose

Andrew Bourelle

 

Rose looks tired. I notice this as our limousine pulls up in front of the hotel. She is reclined on the leather seat, her eyes sleepily gazing out at the city. I can’t read her mind like I can other people’s. She’s developed a resistance to me; I guess it’s because she’s been around since all this started. But it occurs to me that maybe she’s not happy. Maybe she doesn’t like this new life of ours. It’s ridiculous. But maybe.

The driver opens the door. We get out. She takes my arm. We walk up the stairs to the lobby, which is beautiful and filled with rich, smiling people, the kind of people we could never be among before. The lobby is vast and spectacular with more green vegetation than a city park, more shining marble than an ancient Greek palace. Both the employees and the guests turn to look at us. I could read their minds, but I don’t have to. They sense me, what I am, that I am not like them. They know they are in the presence of greatness.

“Wow,” Rose says, looking upward.

I look up too. The inside of the hotel is hollow, with the rooms only along the outer shell, and rows and rows of parallel balconies running up the inside. A cluster of glass elevators glide up and down a large pillar. At the center of the ground floor is the restaurant, accessible from a series of walkways spanning large pools of water and spraying fountains on the basement level.

“I told you it would be nice,” I say.

She nods.

We cross a catwalk toward the restaurant. The maître d’ stands where the catwalk meets the restaurant, like a guard just inside a castle gate, waiting as we cross the draw bridge.

“What’s the name?” he says, smiling, beaming at me.

“We don’t have a reservation,” I say.

“Uh, sir.” He’s flabbergasted. He wants to let us through, but his sense of duty prevents him. “I’m sorry, sir, but you have to have—”

I look away from him and walk forward, pulling Rose. He puts out his hand and touches my shoulder. I grab it and squeeze. He gasps. Bones crack. I let go then extend my arm, palm out, like I’m opening a door. The push sends him off the balcony like he was hit by a car. He holds his scream in, trying to please me in at least this way. He splashes into a pool below.

“Max,” Rose says, her tone shocked.

I turn to her and smile. I take her arm and lead her into the restaurant. No one tries to stop us.

“You could have just made him let us in,” she says.

“The old Jedi mind trick? I know. But that was more fun.”

She shakes her head.

“How about this table?” I say.

“Sure.”

I pull out her chair then sit across from her. Her dark hair is done up nicely with long, curling locks hanging around her shoulders. Her blue dress hugs her body, showing off her nice figure. The new necklace I gave her hangs around her neck, pretty next to her golden skin. She is the sexiest woman I’ve ever been with; I’ve always thought so and even now, when I could have any woman I want. But she looks so very, very tired. Puffy bags hang under her eyes. Her face is slack.

“Are you okay, honey?”

“Mmm-hmmm.”

A waiter comes, carrying two menus. He is excited and eagerly lists the night’s specials. We order wine, the most expensive bottle on the menu. Who cares? They’re not going to make us pay. And the waiter leaves. Seconds later, he returns with the bottle, filling our glasses and taking our order. I have steak; Rose has a salad.

“You think they’ll call the cops?” Rose says, referring to the host down in the fountain.

“No. They’re not even going to call an ambulance. They’re making a busboy drive him to the hospital.”

“You know this?”

“Yes. They’re so fucking excited right now. They don’t even see that as a bad thing.”

“Neither do you,” she says.

I smirk, giving her the look I sometimes give her, trying to tell her not to be a bitch without actually saying it aloud.

“That host wasn’t too excited about you,” she says.

“He was. He was just confused.”

“Maybe,” she says, taking a drink of her wine. “And maybe some of these other people around here can think for themselves too.”

“I’m not making them be excited about me,” I say.

“Are you sure?”

This stops me. I never thought of that before. Since this began, I assumed people treated me this way voluntarily, sensing something about me, my superiority, but not based on anything I did. Like I secrete a pheromone that pulls people to me, making them desire to be around me. The idea that I could turn this off hadn’t occurred to me.

“I’m not sure,” I say, reaching for my glass. “I’m still figuring all this out.”

The waiter brings bread, and we sit silently as he delivers it.

When he leaves, I say, “And I’m sure it hasn’t stopped yet.”

“Stopped?”

“You know,” I say, “my development.”

“Your super powers?” she says.

“I don’t like to call them that, but yes.”

“It’s not enough for you?” she says, reaching for the bread.

“I didn’t ask for this,” I say.

“But you’re sure enjoying it.” She puts a piece on her plate, but then, she doesn’t touch it. She peers at me.

I shrug. “Yeah. So?”

She shakes her head sideways, as if I’m supposed to know what that means. I take a piece of bread and grab my knife to butter it.

“You think you’ll be able to get all stretchy like that guy from that comic book The Fantastic Four?” She smirks. “Or maybe you’ll turn into that rock guy.”

“I don’t think so,” I say, giving her the look. “Although I would like to be able to fly.” I grin as I say this; I can’t help myself.

“Have you tried flying, Superman?” she says sarcastically.

“No. But I didn’t try to read minds or become stronger either. Those just happened.”

“What happens if your powers just fade away?”

“That’s not going to happen,” I say. “They’re only going to grow.”

“How do you know?”

“I just do. I can feel it.”

She tears off a small piece of bread and pops it into her mouth. She shakes her head, looks away from me. I follow her gaze. The restaurant is abuzz with excitement. The people love having me here. They don’t know who I am. Or what I am. But they can sense something is special. It’s like a drug is floating in the air, and they’re all inhaling it, high on my presence.

“What makes you so special?” she says.

“Excuse me?”

“What makes you so God-damn special? Why do you get to have this happen?”

“I don’t know, hon. Are you jealous?”

“No,” she snaps then stares at me.

“I don’t know, baby. Maybe I’m just lucky.” I say this, but I don’t believe it. “You’re the scientist; you tell me.”

“I studied biology in college before dropping out. I’m no scientist.”

“You’re scientific,” I say.

She’s quiet.

“Do you wish I didn’t have this?” I say, thinking again if it might be possible to just turn my abilities off, turn my aura off so no one around us would sense what I am. The idea of this hurts me a little. I wouldn’t want to do that, but I say it to Rose anyway. “Maybe I can just learn to shut it off. Not be this person all the time.”

Rose looks at me, staring silently. I find myself wishing I could read her mind. The waiter comes, setting down our plates. He’s enthusiastic, wanting to please. But he senses that we don’t want to talk, and he walks away quickly.

Rose picks at her salad, hardly eating. I devour the steak.

“Isn’t this nice?” I say. “We could never eat in a place like this before.”

Rose shrugs.

“Honey,” I say, “you’re happy, aren’t you?”

She looks at me sadly.

“I was happier then.”

I drop my knife onto the table. “What?”

She nods, confirming this.

“Living in that shithole? No money to eat? No money to do anything?”

She keeps nodding.

“We were so unhappy.”

“It’s all relative.”

“I can walk into any store in the city, and they’ll give me a suit. Give. That necklace you’re wearing. That dress. All free. All because of who I am.”

“It’s all taking,” she says. “It’s all stealing.”

“That,” I say, “is all relative.”

She gives me a look like the ones I was giving her earlier: Don’t be an asshole.

“Only once since this has started has anyone really tried to deny me anything,” I stress the word “really” to make her know I’m not talking about the dumb-ass maître d’ of the restaurant.

“Yeah,” she says, “and you put two cops in the hospital.”

“So,” I say. I lean forward. “They’re not going to come after me. I’m untouchable. Why is that a bad thing?”

“Why is that a good thing?” she says.

I lean back in my chair, frustrated. I wad my napkin up and toss it onto my plate. I pour myself more wine. Rose’s glass is still nearly full.

She shakes her head. “What if someone comes along, someone who’s developing like you, just in a different way? What if that person can keep you from doing whatever you want?”

“I’m not worried.”

“You’re not invincible,” she says. “Not yet. Probably not ever. Every super hero has a kryptonite.”

“Hon,” I say. “This is the real world. I can’t fly to the moon, and I can’t survive a nuclear explosion. I’m not saying I’m God. But I am godlike. And I’m getting better and better every day.”

“What if you got shot? You know, with a bullet?”

“I don’t know. But I’ll probably be able to survive that soon if not already.”

“Could you survive a fall from up there?” she says, pointing to the top balcony some fifty stories up.

“Not yet, I don’t think. Soon maybe.”

“Do you think you’ll be immortal?”

“Maybe.”

“Do you think you’ll go and find another woman, one who’s better looking than me and doesn’t ask all these questions?”

I smile. So that’s what this is all about.

“Honey,” I say. “I want only you.”

It’s true. I could take and fuck any woman in this restaurant. In this city. But I love Rose. The two times I’ve messed around on her since all this began were emotionless conquests, like games, just to see if I could. But the games were too easy. By the second one, there was no challenge. And there was certainly no feeling, no love.

I take Rose’s hand and wish I could will her to look at me like I could anyone else.

“Baby,” I say. “I don’t want things to be like they used to. But I want us to be like we used to be. I want to lay on the couch all day and watch TV. I want to have kids, raise a family. I want—”

“I have to go to the restroom,” Rose says, standing quickly.

She takes her purse and walks away.

“Jesus Christ,” I say.

I want to punch the table, but I might split it in half. The waiter approaches.

Get the fuck away! I say with my mind. He stops and does an about-face. I take a deep breath, exhale. I feel better. I stand.

“How y’all doing?” I say to the next table.

There are two couples. Young. Good looking.

“Great,” they say, almost in unison. “How are you?”

“Good,” I say, smiling.

I am not controlling their minds. But they love me. I walk through the restaurant. I say hi. The people are exuberant. They want to talk. They want to love me. I am a celebrity, a star athlete, a super hero. And this is all just me. I’m not forcing their minds to think a certain way. I’m not twisting their arms behind their backs. I could do both. But I don’t have to.

I approach a table where a waitress is taking a couple’s order.

“Hi,” she says, smiling.

She is pretty.

“I think this nice couple would like you to dance for them,” I say.

“What?” she says, confused.

Dance, I think toward her.

“Oh,” she says, and begins jumping around, moving her hips and her arms. There is no music, but she dances as if there is.

The couple laugh.

Do a handstand, I order the woman.

She tries, balancing for just a moment, her skirt falling down, showing a glimpse of black underwear, before she falls. She hops up off the floor. She’s ready to try again, ready to please me, but I release her. The couple applaud and thank her. The waitress keeps smiling, unaware that anything is unusual about what she just did.

I walk to the bar. I hop easily onto it and start walking down its length, my shoes clicking on the marble top. The people seated grin at me, lift their drinks to toast me. The bartender applauds. I say hi. I wave. I see our table, Rose’s and mine, about thirty feet away. I bend my legs and jump. I rise into the air, soaring forward and up, enjoying a feeling of weightlessness. I go as high as the second-floor balcony and then start to descend. I land right next to the table, sticking my landing like a gymnast. The table shakes. The restaurant applauds. I raise my wine glass and hold it up to them. I’ll be able to fly soon. I smile. I read their minds. One man thinks that was the greatest thing he’s ever seen. Another wants to send over a bottle of champagne, but he’s nervous that I wouldn’t be moved by the gesture. A blond woman at the bar is imagining herself getting fucked by me.

I see Rose walking back from the restroom, her purse slung over her shoulder.

“Rosebud,” I say, using my old nickname for her. “Let’s not fight anymore.” I kiss her cheek. I inhale her scent; I’ve always loved how she smells.

She sits. “Max,” she says. “Let me just ask you one thing.”

“One thing and then we’ll stop fighting?”

“Yes.”

I can tell by her manner that she has been practicing this in her head.

“Okay,” I say, but I know that we won’t stop fighting. Whatever she wants to ask is going to cause us to keep arguing.

She takes a deep breath.

“It sounds silly to use these words,” she says, “but I’m going to. Are you…” She stops, apparently nervous. “Do you realize that you aren’t behaving like a super hero? You’re more like a super villain?”

“Honey!” I say. “That’s a mean thing to say.”

“Well, you’re not out stopping criminals and pulling people out of burning buildings.”

“If I see something happening, I’ll help out,” I say. “Just because I haven’t signed up with the police force to get a junior G-man badge doesn’t mean I’m a bad guy.”

I hold my arms up, trying to say, Come on. Cut me some slack here.

She just stares at me.

“I admit I’ve been a little selfish,” I say. “But I’m still just learning about this stuff. I’m still developing. Besides, I think we’re entitled to have some good things happen to us for a change.”

She nods, but it seems reluctant.

“I don't know what’s going to happen next, honey, but it isn't like I’m Dr. Doom out to take over the world.”

She nods, smiles.

“Okay,” she says, holding her hand across the table for me to take it. “Let’s not fight.”

I can’t read her mind, but I think she’s up to something. It has nothing to do with my abilities. It’s that she’s been with me for so long; I know her. I reach across the table and take her hand.

“I’m sorry we were fighting,” she says. “I love you.”

“I love you t—”

As fast as she can, she brings her other hand up from beneath the table. It’s holding a syringe. She tries to stab me in the wrist, but I’m too quick. I let go of her other hand and easily grab her wrist as it comes down in a stabbing motion. I could squeeze until her hand comes off, but I don’t. I hold it just firmly enough that she can’t stab me and she can’t get away.

“What the hell are you doing?” I say.

She says nothing, just releases the syringe. It falls into her salad plate.

“Is that tranquilizer or poison?” I say.

“Does it matter?” she says. “Would either have worked on you?”

“Probably not,” I say and release her wrist.

She collapses back into her seat, looking exhausted.

I want to take our table and throw it across the room. I want to take that blond woman and make her fuck me. I want to take our waiter’s head and crush it between my hands.

“Why?” I say.

She shakes her head, saying nothing. Tears rise in her eyes. She looks up, blinking, trying to keep them from falling down her cheeks.

“Rose, I really do love you,” I whisper. “I would never try to hurt you.”

“You love yourself,” she hisses.

“How can I prove to you that I love you?”

“I shouldn’t have to tell you.”

“Rose, you—”

“I want to go up there,” she says, gesturing to the upper levels of the hotel. She wipes her eyes with her napkin. “I assume I’m going to be returning to our old lifestyle after tonight. I’d like to look down from up there. Like I’m rich and famous and can afford to stay in the top floor of a big hotel.”

I look at her, saying nothing. It’s over. My relationship is over. All my powers, and I can’t save this.

“Okay?” she says.

“Okay.”

She stands, taking the syringe and putting it in her purse.

“Don’t want anyone to pick this up,” she says.

I let her. I know she won’t try to stab me with it again. I rise.

She takes my arm as we walk, leans into me. She is loving in her tenderness. It’s genuine. She loves me still, somewhere inside of her. I wish I could reach in, find the part of her that still loves me, and enhance it, give it power just the way something has given me power. I feel sad about this. Yet somewhere, somewhere deep inside of me, I’m relieved. I’m ready to get on with my new life. It’s like I’ve been running with a weight belt—what will Rose think?—and here’s a chance to go forward, free of that load.

The people smile as we walk by. Rose clings to me. She puts her hand in mine, wraps her fingers in my fingers. I wish I could know what she’s thinking.

The elevator comes, and we step inside. We face the glass bubble wall. Rose turns to me and smiles, then the elevator lifts off like a rocket ship. My organs seem to move inside me. Rose clings tighter to me. We’re flying up and fast, and through the glass, the world around us changes. The restaurant gets smaller. The people shrink. My heartbeat quickens. The balconies zoom by rapidly.

“So you’ll be able to do this on your own?” Rose says. “Fly like this?”

“I hope so,” I say. “I think so.”

“It will be pretty.”

“You could be there to share it with me, you know?” I say it, and part of me means it.

At the top, the elevator stops, and we step out. Rose still holds me. We walk to the edge of the balcony and look down. The drop is frightening. The people below are just specks, the restaurant tables no more than black dots. Soon, not only could I fly up here without the elevator, but I could leap from up here and land just like I landed earlier jumping in the restaurant. Soon.

“I never expected something inside to be so pretty,” Rose says, putting her hands on the balcony, looking down. “Something human-made.”

“It is pretty,” I say, looking down at the inside of the hotel, its architecture like something out of a science fiction movie.

“I guess,” she says, staring down, ignoring what I said, “when you look at anything from a new perspective, it can be pretty.”

She turns toward me. Her eyes look more awake than they’ve seemed all night. Her face has a red flush. She really looks beautiful in this moment, and I feel like I’m making the wrong choice. I should be doing whatever I can to keep Rose, to retain what we have. Give up my powers. Never use them. Whatever it takes.

“I’m sorry I can’t see you from a better perspective,” she says.

“Rose,” I say, “I’m still the same person I always was. I’m the same person you wanted to have a family with, the same person you wanted to spend the rest of your life with.”

“I know,” she says, taking a few steps away from me. “You really haven’t changed at all. That’s part of the problem.”

“I don’t understand.”

She smiles. “Well, Superman doesn’t know it all, does he?”

“Rose,” I say, not knowing what else to say.

“I love you, Max,” she says. She looks at me as she says it, then she turns and looks back down below. She steps farther away, leaning on the railing as she walks. “I always will. I can’t help myself.”

“Rose,” I say.

She looks at me, still taking slow steps away, leaning on the railing, gliding it.

“I love you, and I don’t want to be apart,” I say. “I mean it.”

“You mean it?” she says.

“Yes.”

“Then prove it.”

With that, she kicks off her shoes and, with surprising dexterity, climbs up onto the railing. In her bare feet, she balances on the six-inch beam like an acrobat.

“Rose!” I say, and then she opens up her mind to me.

I see her sadness and her hatred of me, and I see her hatred of herself. She was excited about my powers in the beginning, happy to partake in whatever I did; then her conscience grew as well as her guilt for her complicity. She suspects everything I’ve done, even what I kept hidden from her. I saw none of this until now. And I see her plan, clear and simple. She will jump and either fall to her death alone, or I will jump after her, thinking I can save her, and I will die along with her. If the latter happens, she will have saved the world from me. If the former happens, she won’t have to see what I will become. She doesn’t want to live either way.

She smiles at me, looking strangely peaceful. And then she jumps forward into the air, into nothingness, turning as she goes so she can look back at me. I want to fly after her, but I stop myself, hands gripping the railing, watching her go. She falls quickly, growing smaller and smaller. I reach out to her with my mind and I see through her perspective, looking upward, seeing me, mouth open, at the top level. I grow smaller and smaller. The emotions she feels are unlike any I’ve ever felt in a person before. Such exhilaration. Such fear. Such happiness and relief mixed with regret. She loves me, and she hates me. I hate myself. I pull away from her before she hits, too afraid to stay with her at the end.

I see her, from the top of the building, just a speck on the floor. Screams come from below, so far away they’re hardly audible. A pain is in my chest, hard and sharp, like claws opening me up. I haven’t felt pain in a long time. It’s crippling. Like part of her was in me, and that part is now dead. I’m dizzy, and I step away from the balcony. I need to get out of the hotel; I need to run. I look around, to orient myself. My head clears a little. Rose’s shoes are lying on the tile by where she jumped. Her purse is there too. I think of the syringe inside. It’s poison; I’m sure now. Poison as potent and deadly to me as my love was to Rose.

I run over to the elevator and press the button to go down. I hate this. I want to be able to jump from up here, to survive the fall. I want to be able to fly. I want to be able to pick Rose up off the floor down below and make her live. Just make her. But I can’t. The elevator begins to descend, my stomach tightens, and the view of the world changes again. The levels of the hotel whir by. The ground floor grows. I can see Rose’s body clearer and clearer, lying facing up as if she’s sleeping. I want to be able to control my thoughts right now, take hold of my emotions and keep myself from feeling guilt and self-loathing and relief. Yes, it’s there: relief. And I can’t stop it, just like I can’t stop the pool of black-red blood growing around Rose.