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Volume 2 Number 2 • Fall - Winter 2010-2011
The sensation of her cotton glove along the length of my leg, and up my back lingers between gusts of midnight breeze. She's been wearing the gloves for weeks now; they never feel like her actual hands. This doesn't mean she keeps her distance. I'm not icy to the touch. She doesn't experiment though. We haven't tried one glove on, one glove off sex. I still wipe the blonde ringlets from her face, she continues looking me in the eyes.
We both threw out our cell phones when she returned from the doctor. It's been nothing but problematic. The house phone just rings and rings because people can't get a hold of us: my mother, her sister, some cousins.
I haven't been able to tell anyone the results.
That first night after we learned was the first with the gloves. She put
them on after we'd torn our way through two rooms, and fell, exhausted by
each other, onto our bed. She said her skin was too dry; it was flaking and
how disgusting is that, dead skin all over? The gloves keep her hands moist in the stale night air.
I hate this stupid house, she says from the corner of the kitchen.
Me too.
But I've always hated it, this stupid view and when it rains—
It barely rains—
When it rains, I always hear the water rushing down the gutter. It sounds like flooding. I can't escape the feeling that we should be running away, it's awful.
Should we go out for dinner? Maybe to that new place down the street.
I hate all the streets too, she says.
Our kitchen desperately needs paint. All our cooking has sweated the colors, leaving a brown tinge in the room's sharpest corners. The oven works like a dream; we've each roasted a duck to beyond perfection. Both times, we surprised each other with the bird. She made mine the Friday of my first week in a shirt and tie. We were barely twenty-five. I made hers over a year later, sometime in winter, when the duck was harder to find. It was to reconcile after our first failed ovulation, when we were still trying.
Right now, the heat from the stove, and the brown tinted walls are popping the blue of her eyes. They're the size of plates, and when she takes steps in my direction I can do nothing. Mumble, maybe. But not once she's this close. Six years in and still, not when she's this close.
You'll take me upstairs? She asks.
I will, yes.
Your face is beautiful when you do what I want.
Are you gonna shut off the stove?
It's off, she replies.
It's still steaming.
I'm not afraid, she says. My hand is already a snake along her collarbone, my mind already scared, scared, scared.
Her body's a marvel. There's a thin scar along her stomach, its fringes stark, and barren of color; there's another inside her mouth, where her tooth punctured clean through her lip, but that's from a car accident. Those scars unseen seem less a clear definition of survival. I lay her gently on the bed, though I can tell she hates that. The master suite swallows us in darkness, yet she slaps my face with accuracy.
Show me you're a man, she says.
I am, see how I put you down.
Her fingers slice along my side as I lick them. We claw and sniff our way into a familiar passion, but now—since—each time, I'm wary of her. I concern myself with how her body angles, which part of her seems jammed at an unorthodox way; listening for winces of pain between those of joy. I conjure sweat with worry as she buries her teeth into my neck. This is how it's always been for us. We're something of a sex anomaly according to my friends, according to her former college roommate, as well. We have to shower afterward. Even if we've been drunk, or too stoned before, we stand under the staccato rush of hot water to slowly return to the people we are: the post-grad student, the sales manager, the cooker and oil changer, respectively.
I'm out of the shower last. She's already started a small trashcan fire; the slight orange flame blackening the plastic sides she's standing over.
It's only my medical stuff. The bracelets and files we've been saving, she tells me calmly.
We might need those, ahead of us somewhere, the government or the people will need us to prove things and that's the proof.
We can lie to them?
I hate lying.
She smiles at my coyness before loosening my grip on my towel. She turns me around, and, in half-light, finishes drying my back.
Thanks—
—Welcome.
The streetlights are on now. We're used to being so
tired that going to bed early has become routine; it's another thing
like body weight, or when you have to shit right in the middle of
something important, that seems desperately near our control, yet at the
last moment, is not. This hasn't stopped our tucking in and pillow
fluffing. She eases her gloves on so I can fall asleep under her synthetic
graze.
The morning opens with a bang on the front door. Followed quickly by another bang, followed by her absently grabbing a book off the nightstand, hurling it into the hall.
That'll get'em Sweetheart, I say through vaguely open eyes.
What is it?
Bang-bang-bang!
Honey, I don't wanna start my Saturday with violent thoughts, see what's going on out there.
I peek from the window: the mailman's at the door, in his Jamaican-style summer hat, impatiently holding a moderately sized package and electronic clipboard. I crack the window open, whistling down in the shrill way I know how.
Hey, you gotta sign for the parcel.
Tell him to fuck off, she says. Tell him he's bothering our together time.
Can you just leave it?
I'm sorry?
Leaning back inside,
Did you even order anything from anywhere?
No, I hate waiting for packages.
The mailman steps into the yard for a better view. He's waving the package as if the sight of it will escalate my interest.
Yeah, sorry, but we don't want that. Can you just bring it back to the post office?
I can't leave it, it's gotta be signed for.
I know. I don't want the package though.
She pulls me inside by the foot, biting down on my calf as I watch the mailman's head shake back to his truck. My nerves fire toward her teeth mark, I lurch away to the sound of her throaty morning cackle.
I'm not going to kiss you today. You're on punishment, I claim.
For what?
Everything. You're a dumb woman and I loathe our time together.
She weaves across the bed, curling the blankets around her as she moves.
I'm not kissing you either, because your face looks ugly when the sun hits it, she retorts.
That's a terrible reason.
Wars have started for less.
They have not, I tell her.
Okay, what's a good reason for me not to kiss you?
Sometimes I orgasm before you do and then I don't go down on you until you orgasm.
A smile thins out across her face; she's starting to crack. This insult game is her creation, something devised to determine who makes breakfast. I always end up going to the store for sausages. We eat them a package a sitting, and haven't yet figured to buy two at a time. She's about to break character, jump on my torso to fake strangle me before diving inside my mouth for a kiss. I'm on the cusp of my first victory since pre-diagnosis, the restorative prize of an extra thirty minutes of slumber awaits.
Then a thin trail of blood drips from her nose, gathering between wrinkles of fabric, and I end up trolling the frozen meat section. She isn't hungry when I return home. We both undress, retiring to the thickness of our sheets and the warm scent of slept-in blankets.
It's just from the temperature change, she says.
The dramatic drop, yeah, you're right, I reply.
My nasal membranes are just drying and cracking, that's all. That's all.
That's all, I say.
As another night tightens around us, we haven't tired
of being in bed. We're still rolling over and onto one another,
half-tangled, mildly sweating; our breath, once reeking of morning, now
stale, hangs between our sentences like a third lover.
I listen for her coughing from my desk at work, twenty miles away. This week there's been meetings and luncheons, I suppose. My pouty secretary reminds me I made a large commission, by also reminding me she's taking the vacation I promised as a result. She's a young girl, barely from college.
Marcy, I call after her.
Yes, she replies, turning back toward my desk: something else?
Where are you going for your trip?
Oh, my boyfriend booked us a last minute to Trinidad & Tobago.
How exotic, what do they do there?
Whatta you mean?
Puerto Rico has rum; Cancun has the women, the crystal waters. What's your place known for?
I'm not sure. Maybe it's just real pretty. We're gonna spend a bunch of time just chatting and stuff I guess, y'know, bringing some excitement back. We've been dating for a year now.
When she's run out of things to say she often smiles before leaving the room. This time is no different, though briefly after she's left, a conclusion comes over me with such sudden intensity I immediately chase after her. I fly down the halls, past the human resources people poorly hiding their affair, past the break room, mailroom, server room. She clearly took the elevator, but I have to reach her. I use the last of my fading stamina to hurtle down seven flights of stairs, my tie flapping into my mouth. She's crossing the parking lot when I spot her, and without shouting her name as to make a scene, I speed walk toward her until my coughs and wheezes alert my presence. When she turns around, I'm red faced, laughing with a near circus guffaw. She offers an odd look, one a cheerleader might give the chubby kid as she braces for his prom inquisition.
Sorry, I finally say, my laugh calmed.
Did I forget something? The timecards, I always forget something huge and try to leave on this graceful note, but never actually can.
I'm not going to be here when you get back, I wanted to tell you.
Oh…are you going somewhere? Is there a trip I forgot to schedule, oh Jesus?
No, no not all. I just won't be here when you get back. I've just decided it. I might not even go back upstairs. You'll either have a new boss or new desk. I wanted you to know why.
Ok…why?
Because I'm quitting. I'm going home.
Those last seconds of awkwardness with Marcy, as well as the week it concluded dissipate once I cross the threshold into our home. My lovely is wiping her mouth as she comes around the corner from the bathroom. Her flannel shirt asunder, her stretch pants cutting her into the shape of desire.
I quit today.
Quit what?
Work. I'm done.
She isn't baffled or surprised by the whole idea. She keeps a glass of water steady in her hand the whole time I'm explaining my news. Once I've finished, she considers me for a moment, then she runs out of the room, leaving me holding my tie and coffee thermos. First stars are popping in the distant horizon, their appearance like early onset darkness. She sprints back into the kitchen, a rolled sleeping bag under her arm.
We can camp in the living room. We'll be like teenagers. We can order pizza with extra meat toppings.
Did you hear what I said?
You made the decision right?
She's letting the sleeping bag unroll casually while she waits for my answer.
Yeah, of course. I didn't even go back after I told my secretary.
Then we must camp in the living room.
Because I don't have a job anymore?
Because there was blood on my pillow, and I decided we're not answering the phone anymore.
Let the machine get it, I reply.
No one has anything to say, anyways.
She's right. I can't pretend; to celebrate we forgo pizza, and instead she's cooking a chicken, which keeps staying pink near the bone.
Stop checking it, leave it covered, I tell her.
I have to check it.
Not that much.
You'll be mad if it dries out.
If you stop opening the oven, I can promise to never be mad at meat again.
We're wrapped in the sleeping bag before seven-thirty. The television's turned off almost immediately after we're situated. We twine ourselves into the other roads of love until we're past the point of embarrassment, which leaves most of the furniture slightly greasy.
Does the way I feel when you're inside change? She asks.
Sometimes.
Maybe the way I feel changes the way I feel; this could all be my fault. My body overreacting and ruining me for you.
She lunges for a kiss, sharp panic in her eyes as she clasps my face between her palms; mid-kiss she coughs into my mouth. It's an accident, a body jerk so quick she could never have stopped it. Our mouths burst apart. I'm choking on spittle and phlegm as we both forget she isn't that type of sick.
I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry—, she keeps saying.
I have to kiss her again to speed up time. I snatch her face, brush her eyes closed, and kiss her mouth so we don't notice anything. We stay in this kiss for days. She stops looking for jobs, the milk spoils unopened, our answering machine picks up what seems like a hundred calls. When we wake there's a tiny bit of dried saliva at the corners of our mouths. We've managed to pick our way through a whole chicken, and the neighborhood has decided to cut their lawns. All of them, it sounds.
It's Wednesday before we consider what day it is. We've continued camping in the living room, letting our souls hang out as we sloth around in boxer briefs and cotton panties. After cycling through all of our recorded shows, we start going through our collection of movies.
We should read to each other, she says over breakfast.
That'd be cute, I say, unable to keep my hands to myself even as I'm chewing.
You better not fall asleep when I'm doing it.
I won't. I promise. What are we reading?
Something we already own. One from the shelves somewhere.
Fiction?
Isn't it all?
She has trouble picking a book. She traces a thin
finger along each shelf; occasionally pulling one out an inch to further
examine before sliding it back. The idea expires as she plops down on
the couch.
A week later we've stopped picking up our mail. We set up a post office box for bills and such, but we no longer are interrupted by packages and notices. We decide to disconnect our computer after she's had a fever for a few days. All our shows are on season hiatus so we cancel the cable. We insolate ourselves from distraction. This gives her more energy; she's bouncing from room to room, flitting around with pop songs on her mind. There are a few hours late into the night that sleep finally slides through her; if I can, I prop myself on my elbow and watch her dreamily brush thin strands of hair from her face, before she tucks a gloved hand back under the sheets.
We eat all our leftovers, and frozen meats throughout the next week. We stop checking our bank account, opting for a running list of expenses on a legal pad. There's been talk that our original starting number may have been incorrect. We've stopped asking each other how we're doing, how we're feeling, because we know neither of us would ever say bad, or terrible, or complain my stomach, my neck. We've begun living in a household free from questions.
The frequent murmur of the ringing phone is like the
beat to our house. It's stinging repetition carries all the well wishes,
kind words, and selfish assurances from those who care for us; sometimes
we stop talking to listen, silently confirming we're among the thoughts of
others, and still capable of living forever.
It's nauseating, can't we unplug it? She asks from the bathroom, as I'm climbing into bed.
Just leave it. It's like a night-light, only it's sound.
We'll be fine without it, she says, while pulling at her eyelids in the
mirror, checking to see if her eyes are bloodshot, or if all her retching has
burst any blood vessels, before coming to bed.
The following morning, my cousin leaves a message about my other cousin, his older sister. Her car was found flipped near a slick curve. She's dead, he finally manages to squeeze out among his ramblings of: who would've thought, how could this happen, I'm sorry, call me, and we miss you. The machine cuts him off as he's losing to a string of stutters and sniffles, followed by the long minute the grieving often take to hang up.
I'm still staring at the machine when she comes
downstairs. I collapse momentarily under the news. It passes quicker
than expected: I'm leaning against the wall; she's coming toward me
with a glass of water when a shadow wipes a portion of her in
darkness. The flash-forward of her absence fills me. I guzzle my
water only to spit part of it back up.
I know there's something to say but I don't know what, I just love you and
love you and things will be great, she tells me.
I know they'll turn out great, I reply.
That afternoon we clean the house for the first time in months. She moves through the kitchen into the bathroom. I spend time organizing our movies, and arranging the bedroom. When I'm done, over the running dishwasher, I hear her vomiting into the toilet she just cleaned. Her eyes are rubbed raw when she comes out, still she muscles her way through a dinner heavy with root vegetables and lean proteins.
We're out of lubricant, she tells me as I'm climbing into bed.
We had a bunch in your bedside, over there.
Gone.
Gone?
I've got the bruised perineum to prove it.
So I gotta go to the store?
I'm not fucking you until…
No, Sweetheart. I'm not fucking you until—so there's that.
She fluffs the sheets to reveal her breasts, letting the covers fall softly to illuminate the lasting curve at her torso. I'm supposed to melt, and I'm supposed to be the man and tell her I'll get the damn things.
The gloves are coming off then—
No.
They're coming off.
…Fine, she relents.
Just leave them on the nightstand, Sweetheart. We can burn them later.
I'm staring at a wall of rubbers and associated products. The available selection is vast, and complicated; products that cool, ones that heat, prolong, and enhance are still piled into a distant, secure corner of the vast grocery store. I usually take the clear, generic bottle—cost effective—but today, I grab something vibrant from the top shelf. I continue aimlessly wandering the aisles, struggling to think of something else to bring home, something better than flowers. I'm fingering a stash of farm fresh melons, when a hand grabs my shoulder.
I knew that was God damn you!
My sister rips her glasses off in clichéd frustration. She's already taking deep breaths, revealing as well, the dangers of living and dying in the same town.
I've called you a thousand times, what happened? Actually don't answer that, I'm so God damn mad at you…
She trails off as she clenches her fists, her body quivering randomly. I give her some space for a moment of collection, but end up hugging her as she starts sobbing. It's okay, everything happens and we have to be strong, I say.
You didn't come to the funeral.
I'm sorry—
No card or flowers. No call.
I've just been so worr—
Don't you dare use her as an excuse.
She forces a silence between us, grabbing onto it. I return to shopping, edging my way from fruits toward vegetables; she follows closely, patting tears as they well up. The distilled pop music of the grocery store, the hum and bustle of carts, shoppers, and sale announcements grows to an unsettling decibel. I let out a short scream right as my sister starts speaking. She yelps in return, quick and sharp. People around us decide to shop elsewhere.
You know you look terrible. You're pasty. Are you sick now, did she spread it to you? Is that what's happened to you?
She's becoming hard to ignore.
Are you even going to tell me how she's doing? Are you both rotting somewhere no one can see you?
Shouldn't we only be with people who make us happy?
What?…Yeah, I guess. It's not like that—
We should, I say, cutting her off. We should and we're living so close together I almost never want to go out again. Imagine that, to never want to be outside again.
She holds my face with her eyes like only family can before saying: That doesn't sound as beautiful as you think.
It does. I'm sure of it.
I jam my basket of fresh fruit into her limp hands, and walk out holding just the lubricant. The big bottle.
I drive quickly home and through the following week; it's the start of spring, when the sun is out long enough to grill outside. We can nearly finish a bottle of wine before she becomes too cold. She's been staying in bed longer, sleeping less. Instead of talking, or rambling about something nostalgic, something we could never have or do, instead of anything else in these languid days, I read from the small accent chair beside the bed, and between bouts of sleep, she often looks softly at me while I do.
You're so serious when you read. Your lips squished together.
There's big things happening in here, I say.
She doesn't care what they are, doesn't even ask. She draws her knees to her chest purses her lips to mock me. I flip a few pages as though the small font were a celebrity magazine before she starts pulling at my book, at the bottom of my shirt; she crawls into the open space around me and it's more than enough.
I wake out of breath. Another gasp before my oxygen returns. She's still atop me, stretched down my length. A thin sheen of sweat glosses over her exposed parts. She jerks awake. A moan swells from deep inside her. She clutches her abdomen. Tucks herself tight, rolling side to side across the bed. I'm by her waist, bracing her neck, looking for her eyes to reveal something. She doesn't speak, just bellows. Her guttural groans smash around the room. I offer water, a hand to grab. She wants nothing. She endures, clutching herself until it passes. These cramps, as she's called them, rip through her, leaving the afflicted area tender and twitchy for hours.
That afternoon, while she's napping, I go to the
bank to withdraw all of our remaining money. It's enough for a short while.
I return to my car to find the doors locked, and my keys jangling in a
taunting interior wind. My laughter swells as I take the first steps of
a five mile walk home. Most of the afternoon is gone when I return. She's
pacing limply, her hair up off her shoulders.
I've been worried—
Sick?
That's not funny.
I locked my keys the car.
You didn't call AAA, did you?
I set it on fire.
You didn't?
No.
You should have.
I wanted to.
Her bracelet slips off her wrist, giving us pause as
she gathers it.
You're the only man for me.
She smiles, revealing a streak of blood at the corners of her gums. The crimson is startling. She sees the ghost cross my face.
It's from flossing too hard.
…I figured something like that, it just—
I know, it's—
Neither of us finishes our thought, as we fall into a silent cadence walking through the living room.
Remember this, she says, kicking my heel as I step.
I tumble into the lamp, which breaks. I snatch her at the waist, yanking her atop me on the couch. We plunder into the coffee table, spilling magazines and used coffee cups onto the carpet. We tussle and throw each other around the living room, knocking into the curio cabinet; her Grandmother's figurines chip pieces off each other. The few hollow spaces of our home fill with the rattle of our clashing bodies. I stand up in a flurry of action to regain my coordination. She's wheezing now, but still insistent on sparring. She comes at me from an obtuse angle, trying to take my knees. She's too high, I slide step her, but my footing's off, and I spin into the end table at an awkward slant. My pinky finger dislocates instantly as I'm bracing my fall. I come up wincing like a man who's endured sports injuries, holding my hand, tucking my finger away from sight. She rushes to my aid, but I'm distracted by how red her forehead is. I check for a fever, letting her tend to my bent finger.
Please don't say we're done, I tell her.
I can pop it back in.
Are you hot, should we sit down or something?
I'm fine. Let me do this.
What?
Fix this. I can fix you.
It's gonna fucking hurt.
It is, but I love you.
Shut up—
She presses without warning against my lower knuckle. It makes a small pop; instinctively I almost punch her face.
Shhhh…she says, cupping my hand inside hers. For several minutes she tends only to me. A chill in the room forces her to leave me briefly to bundle up, but her return is akin to that of spring. A long winter in a few moments ceased by the simple pleasure of my eyes landing upon her. She's less this time. Each time, for months, when she leaves a room, she loses fractions of herself. The sun off her angled jaw, a blouse hanging shapeless; her skin looks drawn in milk as I begin to feel the thump of my swelling joint.
The phone cuts into our moment, we close our eyes against it. She blows softly on my face, I kiss her cheek. The ring continues slashing noise until, in a burst of action, she breaks for the kitchen, yanking the machine from the wall. She skips, barely touching the carpet, back to me. We grab each other at the joints, trying intently to return to the moment prior, but that time is already lost, and before we can properly file it away, there's a knock at the door.
When we don't reply, the knock turns impatient. We huddle together. Our parents—my mother, her father and sister—appear at the front door. They're peering in like monsters; their images distorted by the frosted glass. We scurry to the kitchen at first, and then upstairs, being careful not to creak the wood as we're tucking behind the bookshelf in the den. Their chatter bleeds through the spaces of our aged house.
They're calling to us. We tighten to our hiding spot. They're banging on the doorframe now, and someone's rattling a nearby window. We remain out of sight, but they're not leaving. They've split up; I can hear my mother cawing from the other side of the house.
The doors from another car slam shut, followed shortly by the sharp click of heels approaching on the pavement. I edge closer to her. My breath labors from the awkward crouch we've settled in. She rubs her hands together; her sweaty palms whisper a soft coo, before she places them forcefully around my cheeks. The heat is magnificent and impossible. She runs her hands down my neck, settling her spread fingers under my shirt, and along my shoulders as she says:
When you tell this story later, tell your friends or my family, remember to say this was always how I wanted it. Just like this.
Douglas has returned to the Northeast, after years exploring the South and West coasts. His experiences range from managing a boutique coffee shop to fitness video production. He prefers not to be in one state for too long, and maintains a keen respect for accuracy of statement.