Her apartment complex sits just beyond the edge of the river of lights. Just beyond the incessant procession of cars and buses filled with those faithful and curious souls on dutiful pilgrimage to see the Great Mouse that built Anaheim. Even at two in the morning a steady stream of supplicants pass by and break the otherwise silent darkness of the night. And like a thousand faithful before her, some time ago she came to do homage to the mouse and decided to stay. This gated apartment complex was like a Russian puzzle, a series of rectangular boxes set inside one another, sits comfortably unnoticed by the stream of lights that circle at its edge. But were it not for the mouse, it might not exist at all. 

I sat on the stairs that led to her apartment at two in the morning pondering why this complex was here, what attraction this place had for her and why I was here. The latter of the three questions was the easiest to answer. I was here because she had an uncanny knack for making me happy in a most unsatisfactory way. And until I solved that puzzle I vowed to myself to continue my periodic pilgrimage to this place, just like the other poor slobs down the street who were on their way to see a mythical mouse. 

So I sat alone at two in the morning looking at the yellow lights in the hallways and the abrasive surface of the stucco. I was waiting for her to come home. She had gone out with her girlfriends and I had been out with my buddy. I knew that she wouldn’t be home, but I was just drunk enough to stop by to see. My knocks on her door unanswered, I sat on the steps to compose a note announcing my arrival. 

I was halfway hoping that she’d arrive mid-composition. I could hear a couple giggling in the jacuzzi while I struggle to get my thoughts to lay down in straight lines on the torn sheet of scrap paper. Being witty after five Long Island Ice Teas was no big deal, it was just trying to make it sound like English. I looked at my watch. It was now two-thirty and she was still no where to be seen. I concluded my illegible scrawl with an equally illegible signature and tucked the whole literary masterpiece into the door jam just above her dead bolt. 

What if she is home and doesn’t want to answer the door because she isn’t alone? That was an unnecessary wicked thought. I didn’t see her car when I had made my march around her complex looking for an open gate. On my march I felt like Joshua circling the city of Jericho, foolishly letting one step follow the next in vain hopes that this exercise would lead to broken walls, or at least in my case, an open front door and her smiling beautiful face.

Oh, and she had a beautiful face. Captivating dark eyes and beguiling smile. She was all sincerity and mystery. Mystery and unavailability, unavailability at least to me. And so I sat on her steps at two-thirty in the morning waiting for nothing. Fortunately I was drunk enough not be concerned about how stupid I must have appeared to be, sitting there on those steps at two-thirty in the morning. But this was just like me.

Whether her compliments contained any genuine sincerity or not, I couldn’t quite reconcile my position on her pedestal with my standing alone outside her door. I walked over to the railing overlooking the now empty jacuzzi and thought about the first time we had gone out. She was so bubbly and comfortable in my arms as we sat watching the move and later when I drove her home, all bubbly and smiles. I thought it natural to end that perfect evening with a pleasant goodnight kiss at her door, at this door I was standing next to. My lips only momentarily found their destination and then she turned away like there was something strictly forbidden about a simple goodnight kiss. That turned out to be a very long cold night walking down these steps. There was a familiar anxiety coursing through my veins as I relived that confusing moment. Two-forty-five. I looked out at the lights of the silent complex from my second floor perch. 

She was out having fun with her friends and I was foolishly leaning on the railing outside of her apartment. What sort of reception would I find should she suddenly appear? What if she wasn’t alone? Wouldn’t that dwarf the unsatisfactory feelings of that first date? Oh, nothing had really changed following that first date. The first kiss was still an elusive carrot to be chased and anything more involved should be pondered only at the risk of complete frustration and emotional self-hatred. 

She did manage to explain later that her tentativeness with regards to lip-locks were due to her indecisiveness about becoming involved with any man at this given moment. Translation: this is suppose to mean that I shouldn’t take her ill-timed looks to the left when I go in for a kiss personally. Funny, I can’t help but wonder if I’m not attractive enough to her for her to seriously consider ending her boycott on lip-locks. Well, I’m not going to find out tonight. Damn. I probably shouldn’t come back unless we have actual plans to go out. As I trudge down these cold steps, I doubt that I’ll be using them ever again. 

Sources:

  • Questions at the Edge of a Stream of Lights by Joseph Bruce Bustillos (1987, re-written 2025-06-15), https://josephbrucebustillos.com/2025/06/questions-at-the-edge-of-a-stream-of-lights-a-short-story/
  • image: Photo by Mak_ jp on Pexels.com

Tags: 1990s SoCal, dating failures, Joe Bustillos short stories, sex and the single brain cell, short stories 

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