The Janus-Man
by Jai Clare
The Janus-man is waiting, the Janus-man is pushing; it's a lilting road with the Janus-man; he wheedles and rides as smooth as surf. He has goals and purpose, a voice as silky as crème and a touch insistently sensual. But the Janus-man is bothered in his perfection. He lives by rules, a brittleness of living. The Janus-man he takes you by the hand, opens a door and another door, you're not expecting such warmth of voice, such tongue tickling delicacy of touch, such cradling of your very skin, such rapport of excitement and his giggle is addictive—every time you hear it, every time you see the corners of his eyes lift up, crinkle, you move closer to him. As if he pulls you along on a string, grabbing your recalcitrant yet needing shape towards him. Each giggle is a shift of emotional space, a shot of chemicals straight through your ears, your eyes like he instills himself into your bloodstream, your headstream, your empty spaces. How you convince yourself those empty spaces are hidden, pathetic and illusory.
So the Janus-man holds your hand. He shows you the road, he talks about himself, you, he wants to understand what makes you—this flattery is more potent than drugs. And the words he guides you over are charming words. This is where we are going, he says, these are the possibilities, these are the dreams and the plans, sweetness, he says, sweetness. The words lilt, the words lilt, lilting love. You wonder what else of himself he has left inside you.He sits in his car, the Janus-man, the wanting man, the positive man, his spirograph is out, he says, holding his keys, as he phones you, looking up to the space you are in, am I driving?
He thinks only of you, he is out of control, he thinks only of you. Am I driving, he asks all day, he asks, who is driving? The smile is huge. The heart panicked.
And the Janus-man—swift turn of the head, yanked, firm, resolute like the lid of a steel helmet, a knight's helmet clanking shut, shunt—closes down, clangs the doors, the road is lilting, the road we travel has humps and mountains, some words are more powerful than others, some effects are more powerful than others and he gives you no room to breathe, to glow in the beauty of what it has been for you, his closure is steely. He has closed you off in his metallic panic, his brittle grasping for perfection. The Janus-man with his Gemini-soul, the faces to the moon and the sun, he is only beginning and only end, has gone.
And the Janus-man is trapped, just as you are, in the illusory words of love.
Jai is the author of the short story collection The Cusp of Something published by Elastic Press 2007. She lives in London.