Last Letter from Soho by Alessandra Salisbury

LAST LETTER FROM SOHO

I wonder what you've been up to since you left the neighborhood, ninety-four days ago.

This was supposed to be our place. You moved me here to lower Manhattan, dribbling your nonsense about how whatever we can’t bargain for in New York, we’ll find in Soho. You made up my mind that here I’d get a job on an off-Broadway stage, go trendy shopping, meet cool people with brilliant minds. All this crap, for what? I’m without you now. And I still miss you like craving vanilla bean ice-cream on pineapple fritters at 2 am when you are pregnant. I know I shouldn’t, but I miss the beginning of us here in Soho.  Our nights walking drunk at Houston Street, our date at Pegu Club, when I spilled the blend of bitters, gin, and lime juice all over you, our late dinner at Navy when we didn’t have money to pay the bill and did a runner like two foolish teenagers. I was so madly in love with you I couldn’t think straight.
           I remember my heart beating fast when I saw your black Porsche pulling over in front of my building on our first date. I was unsure what perfume to choose, then I looked at my Victoria Secret's Love Spell and thought “Yes, perfect sign.” Sprayed it all over my body. My hair wasn’t dried enough but I thought ‘maybe he likes the last minute shower type of girl.’ My purple skirt didn’t match my black boots, but there was no time left to choose another outfit. When I finally got to the footpath, you smiled and said ‘you look sexy, babe.’ I felt so nervous I tripped on the broken kerbside, and fell right on top of a dog diarrhea poo. ‘Oh shit!’ I cried. You quickly came to my rescue. “Shit all right!’ you said laughing. I was so pissed off I couldn’t even smile. The Love Spell became shit enchantment. I had to get changed. You insisted on coming up.
           You couldn’t wait until I finished my shower. Remember? You came inside the bathroom, picked up my towel, and started drying me. My body tensed with expectation. I was blushing. I couldn’t look at you. You started kissing my neck, my collar. Your lips touched my nipples. My legs were trembling. You lifted me up and carried me to bed. I still remember your words right inside my ears ‘Relax, babe, I will teach you everything. Just enjoy the ride.’ Then you popped a pill inside your mouth and kissed me. My tongue twisted yours. I tasted the sweetness of hell. I was insanely excited. I wanted you to tear my body and penetrate my soul. After that first time, I begged for doses of ecstasy, like a child cries for cotton candies at the park.
            I don’t miss the things you made me do that fucked me up. Like sucking those damn sweet pills to get high when you wanted to have fun, gulping whisky without the rocks when I was sad, and smoking pot every night before bed because you couldn’t fuck without a hit. You were very clever at getting me to act exactly the way you wanted. I’d say ‘I don’t feel like smoking tonight.’ You’d pull your killer comment ‘I hadn't realised you were so prissy, babe.’ You made my mind a mess, and turned me into an addict who couldn’t stand up for myself. I hate you for showing me off to your intellectual friends as if I was your precious dumb doll.
            I’m surviving though. I have been clean for the last four weeks. Exactly twenty- eight days without drinking, being stoned, or getting high. I don’t need those gloom days in my life anymore. I stopped making myself miserable. “How the hell can she survive one day without it?” I imagine you saying this out loud, laughing, and shaking your head, holding your cock like you want to take a piss. I hate having these vivid images and memories of you: the way you walk these streets as if you know everyone; our pride at introducing yourself as a contemporary writer to every producer you meet, your self-righteous talk. Your smart-ass middle-aged look, your old pair of ripped Lee jeans smelling of cigarettes. You are an asshole. You eat shit and burp caviar. Why can't I just delete you from my mind? Stop calling me for damn sake! Just stop! I don’t need flowers and red wine at my door every fucking weekend. This is ridiculous. I’m not your Barbie anymore. Let me be a normal person! You owed me this.
         There is nothing you can do to change what you did on that horrible night. You ruined me! You fucked that scrawny fake blonde Houston Hotel receptionist at the back of the bar on my 21st birthday party! I still hear your drunk words to me: “Come on Sugar Plum, she is nothing compared to you. I’m a dupe. I’m smashed. Everybody is. You’re too high to make sense of it, babe …” I was high, but I was there! I saw you banging that bitch from behind, pulling her brassy yellow hair back, slapping her white potato ass full of cellulite …  You pressed her hips against yours, bent your head back, and groaned “I’m coming!” I ran away from that pub, in the rain. Spent the night inside Lafayette St. subway station. I woke up the next day, face down on my own vomit. I came back to the apartment and you were gone. Your guilt almost killed you and you had to leave. It sucks that my last memory of you is this.
            Since then, I have been crazy trying to get over you. The absence of drugs doesn’t help, but I need to keep strong. I want to think for myself, to make plans. I want to go back to Uni and finish my Degree you made me stop saying ‘Uni’s bullshit babe, a total waste of time.’ I need to believe you never really loved me. You loved to control me. But I can’t be controlled anymore. Some days, like today, I want to yell at you, punch you on a face, then choke you until your skin loses colour, your mind faints, your eyes droop down, and you die, helpless. Or maybe strike a sharp knife right into your heart and watch you bleed to death. But then, I realize I must let go of this exterminator feeling, because I’ll never be emotionally able to kill you, even if I physically could. So I decided to write you this last letter, and so you know I’m trying everything I can to forget you.
           I met a guy two weeks ago. A good one, I guess. He’s younger and hotter than you. He came along by surprise and spoke to me on my audition day for Carl’s production. I got in, by the way. And I didn’t need you to put a good word in. I did it, alone. For the next four months, I have a job. And a new boyfriend. He is in the play too. We see each other every day and spend hours rehearsing. Yesterday, I played the piano for him. Then I felt hungry. He went to the kitchen, opened the cupboard, and reached for the fig jam. He looked at me with a cheeky smile. I was almost certain about what he was thinking. I was still sitting on my piano seat. He brought the jam over and sat on the keyboard in front of me. The sound of the harmony from the C sharp to the F flat echoed in the room. I smiled.
           He started feeding me. Indicator finger full of jam right into my mouth. I licked it a little. He licked the rest and dug in for a bit more. I giggled. He moved his body and sounded the G key. My favourite! I asked for more. A jam covered finger again into my mouth. This time, I accidentally bit it. He smiled. I licked the jam around my lips, then got up. He pulled me over to him and kissed the rest of the jam off my lips. Twisted tongues. Sugary. He told me the Latin word for honey is mel. I laughed. He laughed. Another kiss. He lifted me on to his lap. My legs crossed around him. He pressed me closer. Three fingers traced down under my dress. Slippery. Soaked undies down to the floor. Mel dripping down my thighs. He licked his honeyed fingers. Slid down his zipper. Moved my hips a little. Inside. Gentle. Slow. Then rough. Heat. G sharp key echoing. Fast. Faster. Rhythm. Finally, the G higher! Tremor. Ecstasy – the real one.
            He takes me to a place sunnier than Soho. A place where things feel real, safer, where I don’t need to pretend to be someone I’m not. I still think about you, but I’m leaving Soho at the end of the week. I’m moving back to the centre of Manhattan which I should never have left. I’m going back to my neighbourhood. The place that reflects who I am. I’ll leave behind all the reminiscences of you. The cool impression of Soho you created quickly became dark. Unbearable, actually. Soho became an underworld to me. I used to enjoy living here with you, but your dirty habits stained this charming atmosphere forever. I’ll never come back.

Bio: Alessandra Salisbury is a Brazilian journalist with major in entertaining arts. She has background works in dance and theatre. She has been living in Australia for the past 9 years where she graduated in Associate Degree in Creative Writing. She is currently studying Bachelor of Arts/Education majoring Drama. She is the founder, director and choreographer of Starlettes theatre productions in the Far North Coast area of New South Wales www.starlettes.com.au. She has written and produced a few theatre plays in Rio de Janeiro (Brazil). She has published her first kids book called Naughty Nana which is for sale on Amazon.

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