I met Violet early in my first year of college. That was back in the eighties. Raised upstate, I had long dreamed of moving to New York City, spurred by stories I'd heard and romanticized depictions in books, movies and TV. None of these had prepared me for the city's grinding realities: the rotting garbage and ammonia pervading the sidewalks, the homeless people begging for money, sirens reminding you of the danger lurking everywhere.
I remember first seeing her when visiting a friend in the lounge on his floor of the dormitory. She had short, ink black hair, red apple lipstick, and thick black mascara that clumped her lashes so they looked like insect legs. With a carefully cultivated, flamboyant morbidity, she embodied the city's vibrant allure, its riskiness and extremes, as if she were loitering behind the yellow tape of a crime scene, piquing my prurient curiosity.
She claimed she was from Wichita, but I later learned she was from Detroit. She seemed to get sadistic pleasure from shocking someone who she perceived as dull, middle class, and uninteresting as me, casually mentioning that she might have AIDS or preferred women lovers. She didn't even seem to like people, only tolerated them, making any interest she showed in me all the more intoxicating. No one had paid me much attention back home—I was just a bit better than average, notable for nothing.
One night, I ran into her on campus, obviously ready for a night out. She'd spiked her hair, put on dark eye shadow, and was wearing a short black dress with a faux fur jacket.
"Are you doing anything tonight?" she asked.
"I've got nothing planned,"
"Come out with me, then."
I tried to conceal my eagerness as we walked back to the dorm. Once in my room, I rushed to take off my sweats and find a button-down shirt while she waited downstairs.
"Where are we going?" I asked as we set off.
"I'm not telling."
We took the subway, transferred at Times Square, and got out at the Union Square station. She led me down a dark, grungy sidewalk, stores locked behind roll-down metal gates covered in graffiti. Everything seemed damaged, corrupted, neglected. When we reached a crowd lined up inside police barricades on the sidewalk, she declared, "We're here!"
"But I don't have a fake ID."
"Don't worry about that," she said and led me confidently along the sidewalk outside the barricade and past the thick line, two or three deep, to the entrance under the awning of a converted old theater, where she waved at a bouncer with a long, tired face.
"I brought a guest today."
"Oh?"
"Don't worry; he's just a friend."
He waved us in with a frown. The wide staircase inside the entry had lighted steps that made me feel like I was ascending into a spaceship. After we checked our coats, Violet led the way to a cavernous main area with a massive dance floor teeming with people. Flashing columns of lights pulsed to a driving, thundering beat while giant grids of TV screens hanging from the ceiling played artsy videos unrelated to the music. I felt completely out of place, a docile sheep in the shadow of someone who was important, there to be seen by other important people.
On the dance floor, I tried to mimic what I observed in those around us without being too obvious about it. Whether I succeeded or not, no one seemed to notice me. When we took a break, I went to the men's room, where people of all genders were drinking and chatting as if it were a lounge. Upon opening the first stall, two young women snorting coke off the toilet seat snapped at me. Finding an empty stall further down, I resolved not to mention the incident.
Back at the bar where we'd agreed to meet, I stared at the quirky mix of trendy street kids and the fashionably wealthy passing by. Standing by myself, I felt like a collegiate intruder, as if I were there to observe the night culture for a paper I was writing.
Violet, holding a tall glass with a stirrer in it, joined me and nodded at a woman who walked past, commenting, "She's gorgeous."
I shrugged. "She was okay."
"Am I gorgeouser?"
"You are the georgeousest, if that's a word."
"I say it is."
"What did you get?"
"A Long Island iced tea. It'll be enough for the two of us."
We climbed to an upper section of seats. "So what do you know about me?" she asked, her lipstick staining the edge of her glass.
"Not much."
"If you heard not to get mixed up with me, you should probably listen."
I took a long sip of the drink, hoping to get a buzz. "No one said a thing to me," I answered, which she seemed to find disappointing.
"There are so many wannabes here."
"Like me?"
"No, you belong here because you're my guest."
"Thanks for that," I said, embarrassed by the gratitude I was feeling, the alcohol already going to my head.
When we returned to the crowd, I finally started to gain some confidence. It was long past midnight when she finally suggested we leave. On the walk back to the subway, the traffic now thinned, sidewalks deserted, I wondered whether someone like her could really be interested in a bland, inexperienced guy like me. But then, on the subway platform, she leaned into me, so I put my arm around her. When we sat down on the train, I put my arm around her again and she didn't refuse it. Riding back uptown together, I felt elated, knowing this memory would be etched forever in my mind, like a photo in a museum I could always come back to admire.
When we arrived back on campus, Violet walked me to my room. I was considering how to kiss her goodnight when she surprised me by acting first, leaning forward and touching her lips to my cheek. "We had fun tonight," she said abruptly, "but it's just a night out, okay? Nothing more."
After that night, I didn't see much of her. I tried to move on and forget her, telling myself that our date was simply a fun night out and trying not to admit what seemed to be flashing like a marquee: I wasn't good enough for her. But one night, as our first year wound down, I gathered the courage to knock on her door.
"What do you want?" she asked flatly.
"Just to see if you were in and say hi."
"Hi."
"Are you busy?"
"Yes, I'm feeling sorry for myself."
"Would you like to go out?"
"I don't feel like it tonight. What are you doing here anyway?"
"Finishing up my job. You?"
"I'm staying; I have to go to summer school."
"I'll be around, too," I said, doing a poor job of masking my excitement. "I got an internship at a publishing house and found a room in the East Village."
"Oh," she said, intrigued.
"Maybe we could get together."
"Maybe."
We exchanged phone numbers, but she never answered when I called. Most of my friends had left for the summer. With a lot of time to myself, I fantasized about her often, with me as the stable, steady hero saving the beautiful wreck of a woman. As much as I recognized the foolishness of this cinematic fiction and tried to push her out of my mind, Violet was a lingering, sickly-sweet scent I couldn't get rid of. Then, one Saturday evening, she called to ask me out again.
She came to pick me up at my apartment and, although my roommates were out, she insisted on leaving immediately to head back to the same nightclub. We hardly said a word on the way, and when we got there, she seemed disinterested, barely looking at me. We ordered separate drinks and hardly spoke. I couldn't figure out why she had decided to invite me.
"Do you want me to leave?"
"Of course not. I brought you, didn't I?"
"I thought you might want to be free to meet someone else."
"I don't want to meet anyone else," she insisted, but I had no idea what she did want.
We danced and lingered until past three in the morning. As we walked down the deserted street, the summer stench of the city muted by the cool night air, she asked if I could bring her back to her place. "You can stay over, if you want to," she said.
"Sure," I answered, trying to hide my thrill at the prospect of spending the night with her, even if I wasn't sure what it meant.
As we traveled uptown, I looked for some sign of interest in me, but she just fell asleep, her head drooped down to her chest. We walked silently to her building. Once inside, I looked around her undecorated room as she grabbed a tee shirt and some toiletries and then left, indifferent to my presence.
She came back wearing only the tee shirt and gave me her toothpaste and an extra toothbrush as she directed me toward the bathroom. When I returned, she was already in bed, curled into a ball and facing away from me, the thin blanket pulled up to her neck.
"Where should I sleep?" I asked as coolly as I could.
"You can come in my bed if you want. Just turn off the light."
When I climbed in, I moved close and put one hand on her hip, then pressed up against her, clearly aroused. She didn't respond at first, but after a couple of seconds she sighed heavily and shifted away. "Sorry," I uttered, humiliated, and rolled to face the other way. I was in bed with someone I was wildly attracted to, but she was uninterested, if not repulsed. I'd never been so hurt, but also didn't want to leave. The last thing I remember before falling into a troubled sleep was the sky beginning to brighten through the blinds.
I was woken by Violet climbing over me. "Sorry," she said, "keep sleeping, but I have a busy day."
"What about breakfast?"
"It's already past eleven. I have things to do."
Heavy-hearted, I lay in bed waiting for her to return from the bathroom. When she came back and put down her toothpaste, she seemed irritated, so I hurried to get dressed and returned to find her sitting on the bed studying her planner. "I guess I'd better go," I said, then added, hoping to find a glimmer of hope, "I always have a good time when I'm with you."
"I like being with you, too," she answered, softening. "But I don't want to get involved."
"You said you like being with me."
"I really don't know what I want right now. Now, go away. We'll talk later, maybe."
Disappointed, I shrugged and turned toward the door. "Call me."
"I might."
One of her roommates, sitting on the couch, scrutinized me as I walked toward the exit, causing me to wonder how many guys she had seen leaving Violet's room like this. Was I the first, or only the first to leave in such disappointment?
Over the next few days, I called many times, but Violet never called back. Once the school year started, I ran into her on campus, but her lack of interest in me was clear. It was a wound to my pride that someone I wanted so desperately was neutral toward me, at best, but there was nothing I could do but live with it. I went on to date others, but no one gave me that feeling of giddy elation I'd had with Violet.
After graduation, I began an entry-level job as an editorial assistant and was living by myself in the city, subletting a tiny studio apartment on the Upper West Side. Early in September, I was browsing the long clearance table in the basement of a bookstore near Columbus Circle when I heard someone say my name.
Wearing a simple red sleeveless summer dress with white polka dots, her hair down to her narrow shoulders, lipstick a vibrant strawberry red, Violet sashayed to my side and asked with a wide smile, "Do you live around here?"
"Not too far," I answered, trying not to let my enthusiasm show. "I have a place a few blocks up. How about you?"
"Oh, I've been drifting here and there."
"Would you like to get some coffee?" I asked without even thinking about what I might be starting.
"I don't drink coffee, but I'll have a cup of tea."
We found a cafe to get some drinks and walked to Central Park. I was euphoric but on my guard, reluctant to let her know how excited I felt.
"You look great," I said, like any old friend would.
"You're looking good, too."
"I don't think I've ever seen you in a dress."
She laughed. "Yes, I've transformed. I've discovered the wonders of color—and the virtue of a dress is that you only need to choose one piece of clothing. Do you like it?" she asked, giving a quick twirl.
"Very much."
We strolled silently along a park lawn packed with couples and families. Violet seemed comfortable being with me as we watched the people playing Frisbee, the dogs and children running.
"We had an interesting time together," I ventured.
She gave a little groan. "I was terrible to you. Do you still hold it against me?"
"I did for a while."
"I'm sorry. Will you accept my apology?"
"Of course."
"Good," she said, and then turned to hug me. It went on longer than I thought friendly, raising my expectations even as I warned myself not to go down this path with her again.
As we walked, I told her about my job and how I hoped that working in the publishing industry would help launch my writing career. She'd been working at a boutique clothing shop in Greenwich Village, but had recently quit and wasn't sure what she wanted to do next.
We chatted into the late afternoon, with none of the tension we'd often had before, and decided to have dinner together, where the conversation was easy and natural.
"Are you seeing anyone?" I asked, as we shared a tiramisu.
"I was living with someone, but it was an awful relationship. It's over now."
"Would you like to come up to my place after dinner to hang out?"
"I'd love that."
On the way to the apartment, I bought a bottle of the nicest Chardonnay I could afford. When we sat on the couch, Violet immediately eased against me so that it was only natural for me to lift my arm and put it around her.
"This is nice," she said.
"It is," I answered, and leaned over to kiss her. I half-expected her to pull back, but she met me without reserve.
After some time, I paused to say with some irony, echoing the very words she'd used with me, "You can stay over, if you want to."
"I'd like that."
"We're sitting on the bed."
"Let's open it, then."
That done, she took off her dress and underwear without ceremony, sat down, and signaled for me to join her. After I undressed and sat by her side, she took my hand and, leaning back and closing her eyes, guided it downward and used it to begin stroking herself. She didn't seem to want me to do anything else, so I remained a passive participant even as my own excitement grew. When she was finally done and opened her eyes to see how aroused I was, she promptly pushed me away with her feet and used them to make me ejaculate, after an embarrassingly short time, onto my own chest, causing her to chuckle in amusement.
My apartment was a cramped, outdated space that belonged to an elderly woman whose family had moved her to a nursing home. Aside from the red velvet sofa bed, they had otherwise left the studio apartment unchanged. It had an old but well-preserved wood dresser, an armoire with a small TV inside, and a narrow but functional kitchen with gas appliances that hadn't been replaced in decades. With Violet there, it all seemed to have a special charge.
She had a small tattoo on her left hip of a violet plant, with three prominent flowers atop some leaves. "It's a blue violet, like me," she said as I studied it the next afternoon. "Do you like it?"
"I love it."
"Will you call me your Violet?"
"My Violet," I repeated.
"No, call me mia Violetta—I like it better in Italian."
"Okay, mia Violetta," I said in an awful Italian accent that made her smile.
As dinner time approached, she said she could stay for longer if I would have her, and of course I agreed. "But I need to get my things," she said, and led me to a coin storage locker in an isolated corner of Penn Station, where she pulled out an old, battered canvas duffel bag. "Done!" she said.
"I thought you were staying at a friend's."
"I was, but these days I never know where I'm going to be next, so I always have to be ready."
I called in sick the next day, and we spent the day idly watching people around Central Park.
"What do you want to do with your life?" she asked as we sat at an outdoor cafe table.
"I don't know. Get married, have kids. Buy a house with a yard."
"The American Dream," she said, throwing her head back in mockery.
"I guess it is. What about you?"
She sighed and looked up at the open blue sky beyond the tall buildings. "I want to buy an old villa in a small European village and spend my life fixing it up. Or maybe marry some wealthy old man and live out his last few years together in a mansion perched on a cliff overlooking the sea."
"Seriously," I insisted. I was disappointed that she was still being so inscrutable with me. However fun Violet was to be with, I still wanted to get inside that wall she'd built around herself.
"Oh, I don't know. I never seem to be happy for very long, no matter what I do."
"How about right now?"
"I like spending time with you," she said, but added nothing more. I knew I was punishing myself by being with her again, but justified it by telling myself that love is madness.
I called in sick again the next day and then for the rest of the week. I tried to indulge the fantasy that we could be together, knowing full well that she was only stringing me along until something better came along. Adding to my unease was that we still hadn't had intercourse—she would go only so far. "It doesn't feel right," she explained. "I don't like the idea of having something inside me like that. It's not sexy."
"Maybe you haven't tried it with the right guy," I said, laughing off my own bravado before she could insult me.
After one interlude, as we lay in bed together, I told her that I loved her.
"You don't love me," she answered, moving her hand, nails bright red, through my scraggly chest hair. "You lust me."
"How do you know what I feel?"
"You don't even know who I am. How could you love me?"
"We've known each other for years."
"That doesn't mean you know me. I change all the time; it's my habit."
"You're still the same person at heart."
"The illusion you've created of me may be the same, but not me. When you look at me, you see what you want. Underneath, I'm nothing at all."
"No, I love you for who you are."
"Oh, do you? What would you say to your parents about me?"
"I'd tell them you're spontaneous," I improvised, "interesting and caring."
"You could say that about anyone."
"I like being with you," I said dumbly.
"Well, I like being with you, too."
"You don't feel any love for me?"
"I don't know you, and I haven't even tried."
Sensing that she had hurt me, she seemed almost pleased. "I'm pretty heartless; honestly, I don't think I even have a soul."
I realized then that I didn't feel safe with Violet, but that danger was like a hypnotic drug. Unrequited love is a particularly addictive means of self-torture.
The next morning—the last before I was to go back to work—she was browsing through a newspaper at the kitchen table while I scrambled eggs at the small gas stove. "Look at this couple," she said, holding the page so I could see the elderly pair. "She had an incurable cancer, so he shot her and then himself."
"That's terrible."
"I think it's romantic. She didn't want to live anymore, and he didn't want to live without her. That's the most pure expression of love I can think of."
"It's morbid."
"You wouldn't do that, even for love?" she teased.
"I couldn't kill anyone."
"I could—not only out of love. I would kill you if you asked me to."
"Really? Why?"
"Because you asked me to."
As I smelled the toast beginning to burn, I couldn't help but think that it symbolized our relationship, overdone and turning to ash. That afternoon, we went to an art house theater downtown to see a stylish urban love story filmed in black and white. I enjoyed it, but when we emerged into the dull glow of a slate gray sky, she said, "That was a waste of time."
"I thought it was okay."
"What does that say about you? I thought you said you wanted to be a writer. Are you going to write that kind of mindless crap?"
I could only shrug. The conversation dead, we walked aimlessly.
At dinner that night, she was quiet and pensive. "What's on your mind?" I asked, trying to find some opening.
"Do you really think you love me?"
"I do."
"What would you do to show it?"
"What would you want me to do?"
"Oh, I don't know. How about you get a tattoo—like mine, so we'll match?"
"Are you serious?"
"Why not? I got mine done nearby. We can go right after dinner."
"A tattoo isn't me."
"What is you, then?" she asked sardonically. "Being with me?"
"Yes, it is."
"So will you come with me when I decide to leave?"
"You're thinking of leaving?"
"Eventually."
"Where would you go?"
"I don't know. Wherever."
"Would you want me to go with you?"
"I just asked, didn't I?"
"What about my job and my apartment?"
"What about them?"
"I couldn't just leave."
"Why not? If you love me so much, which you say you do..."
"It's not that simple, Violet."
"What is that simple?" she snapped, throwing her napkin down on her plate, the food barely eaten.
She became silent and refused to even look at me. On the subway platform, we stood apart like two work acquaintances traveling to a meeting. After I sat next to her on the train, she got up and moved two seats down. I looked away and wondered what I could say to smooth things over.
At the apartment, I followed her as she stomped into the kitchen, where she took a jelly jar from the cabinet and filled it with water.
"Why aren't you saying anything?"
She took a gasp of air, as if she'd just surfaced from underwater, and asked, "What would you like me to say?"
"You're asking me to change my entire life."
"I'm not asking you to do anything!" she shouted and threw the glass down. To my relief, it bounced off the pliant linoleum floor and hit the plaster wall without breaking. Seeing this, she cried out at the top of her lungs, a primal scream that caused me to recoil. Then she grabbed a smudged glass from the counter and, her arm like a windmill, flung it straight upward, where it hit the light fixture, causing it to crack, fall, and shatter on the floor around her.
I was chilled by the sight of her poised under the harsh glare of the exposed bulbs, her eyeliner smeared. As I stared, frozen, she started past me and walked across the broken glass, her flats crunching the shards.
After she'd left the room, I swept and gathered the fragments, listening for the front door to open and rehearsing what I might say to get her to stay. What hurt more than anything else, I realized, however much I tried to reason it away, was knowing that she was disappointed in me.
When I'd finished cleaning, I slunk into the main room to find her asleep, or at least pretending to be. She lay on her side without covers, meticulously exposed in her slight summer dress as if posed for a photo. While I may not have known who this woman in my bed was, I thought, I was entirely lost without her. All that seemed clear to me was that I wanted her in my life.
She was still asleep when I left for work the next morning, and I spent the day distracted and sleep-deprived. When I returned home, all traces of her were gone. For weeks afterward, I listened for the sound of her footsteps approaching my door, hoping she would appear unannounced. I walked the paths we'd strolled together and searched the crowds, struggling to make sense of why she had lashed out that night and become so enraged at the slightest glimpse of my meager armor, of the fragile will I still had to protect myself.
I never saw her again, but somehow she'd seeped into my skin, my blood, and as much as I resolved to forget her, for some time afterward I saw all relationships through her eyes: as tests of loyalty, possession, and sacrifice. I spent years trying to convince myself that she was just a footnote in my life story, as I surely was in hers. Brick by brick, I built a fortress around my memory of her, but while I thought I was blocking her out, I was really constructing a temple to enshrine her. No matter how much I seem to have moved on—I've been married for years now and have two teenage children—I've never been able to shake her off completely.
In the end, I suppose Violet eventually settled down much as I did—the nomad and dreamer, the tragic widow and heiress lost, as I was, in the feigned banalities of a busy, distracted life. Maybe everyone has had someone like Violet, who destroys a piece of them, leaving a void that's never filled. What scares me the most is knowing that, given the opportunity, I'd probably do it again.
