say. “Are you—?”
But she gets up quickly and changes into her flannel pajamas.
“Wait a minute,” I say again. “Was that—?”
She hops deep under the covers. “Too late. I’m freezing.”
I push the laptop aside and hurry to the bed. But I don’t get in, not yet.
“Too late!” she says. “You saw it. You blinked.”
I start to rub her back. She closes her eyes and makes purring noises, in her way. I let my tuxedo jacket fall from my back and onto the floor. How silly to wear a formal costume like that to a funeral. And the suit isn’t even mine, it belonged to Jess’s father. I kiss her neck.
“Too late,” she says.
I pull off the bow tie and undo my fancy shirt.
“You could just do my ...” she murmurs.
I reach under the blankets and rub her bum.
“Mmm ...” she says.
I worm my way out of my suit pants and socks. Then I slip under the blankets beside her.
“You’re not going to leave my dad’s clothes on the floor,” she says. A whisper. With an edge.
“They all have to be dry cleaned anyway,” I say.
I kiss her neck again. Why are my lips still cold? Because I’m so skinny. I lose heat easily.
But she has stopped purring. Right. All the clothes had been her father’s. I groan but get out of bed anyway and pick them up. I race across the freezing room and hang the tuxedo in the closet.
“We could not have been more stupid,” she says. “Dressing up like that for Peter’s funeral.”
“Well, everyone knows Peter and I have ... had ... a comedy act,” I say.
“But they didn’t get the joke, did they?”
Suddenly the door blows open and lets in a blast of icy air. Is the lock broken now? I dash up the stairs, slam the door shut, and stare at it, as if that might keep it closed. Then I dash back into bed and run with my legs to warm up the sheets.
“Did you break the lock?” Jess asks. She wants to fight. She wants to fight. Why is she in such a mood?
Because of Peter. Maybe we need to talk about Peter. So I say, “How could he just wake up dead like that?”
“Are you trying to be funny?” Jess says.
“I’m sorry,” I say. I stop running and reach for her. She is warm already, and soft, and good to hold.
“He isn’t going to wake up.” She turns off the light.
We breathe together. I think about what I almost asked her on the bus. But timing is everything. Better to stay quiet now. Go to sleep. I just need to ... nuzzle closer. But she keeps an inch between us. The cold has crept into the blankets.
“He was only twenty-eight,” she says. “A few years older than us. I’ve never had a friend just, like, die before. He had a nice body. How could he—?”
Sleep, sleep. How can she not be bone tired? Because she slept on the bus. I move my thigh against hers. That’s all I want now.
She has the sweetest voice. A man could ... could get lost in a voice like hers ... “Hey!” She elbows me, not hard, just hard enough. “I can’t believe you’re asleep already! I was talking about Peter.”
“I heard you,” I sputter. It’s dark here in the cold. I don’t really want to open my eyes.
“What did I say?”
“You said he had a nice body.”
“What else?”
“And that you were lusting after him,” I joke, “and now that he’s dead ...”
“Shut up!” she says. She pulls the blankets around her body. My feet stick out in the night. Now I really am awake.
Jess is winding me up. So I say, “You wondered how a guy who can sing ‘O Canada’ in Pig Latin can just have his heart stop in the middle of the night. And he wasn’t even, you know, with anybody.”
“There was no nooky,” Jess says.
“No necking, no nibbling ...” I try to nibble her neck.
“Stop it!” She turns her head away but I follow. I kiss her hair, her shoulder. Search for her mouth. She pushes my arm, and my hand ends up around her small wrist. But she tears free and slaps me. God!
Hard. Right on the face.
I can see her in the light coming in
But she gets up quickly and changes into her flannel pajamas.
“Wait a minute,” I say again. “Was that—?”
She hops deep under the covers. “Too late. I’m freezing.”
I push the laptop aside and hurry to the bed. But I don’t get in, not yet.
“Too late!” she says. “You saw it. You blinked.”
I start to rub her back. She closes her eyes and makes purring noises, in her way. I let my tuxedo jacket fall from my back and onto the floor. How silly to wear a formal costume like that to a funeral. And the suit isn’t even mine, it belonged to Jess’s father. I kiss her neck.
“Too late,” she says.
I pull off the bow tie and undo my fancy shirt.
“You could just do my ...” she murmurs.
I reach under the blankets and rub her bum.
“Mmm ...” she says.
I worm my way out of my suit pants and socks. Then I slip under the blankets beside her.
“You’re not going to leave my dad’s clothes on the floor,” she says. A whisper. With an edge.
“They all have to be dry cleaned anyway,” I say.
I kiss her neck again. Why are my lips still cold? Because I’m so skinny. I lose heat easily.
But she has stopped purring. Right. All the clothes had been her father’s. I groan but get out of bed anyway and pick them up. I race across the freezing room and hang the tuxedo in the closet.
“We could not have been more stupid,” she says. “Dressing up like that for Peter’s funeral.”
“Well, everyone knows Peter and I have ... had ... a comedy act,” I say.
“But they didn’t get the joke, did they?”
Suddenly the door blows open and lets in a blast of icy air. Is the lock broken now? I dash up the stairs, slam the door shut, and stare at it, as if that might keep it closed. Then I dash back into bed and run with my legs to warm up the sheets.
“Did you break the lock?” Jess asks. She wants to fight. She wants to fight. Why is she in such a mood?
Because of Peter. Maybe we need to talk about Peter. So I say, “How could he just wake up dead like that?”
“Are you trying to be funny?” Jess says.
“I’m sorry,” I say. I stop running and reach for her. She is warm already, and soft, and good to hold.
“He isn’t going to wake up.” She turns off the light.
We breathe together. I think about what I almost asked her on the bus. But timing is everything. Better to stay quiet now. Go to sleep. I just need to ... nuzzle closer. But she keeps an inch between us. The cold has crept into the blankets.
“He was only twenty-eight,” she says. “A few years older than us. I’ve never had a friend just, like, die before. He had a nice body. How could he—?”
Sleep, sleep. How can she not be bone tired? Because she slept on the bus. I move my thigh against hers. That’s all I want now.
She has the sweetest voice. A man could ... could get lost in a voice like hers ... “Hey!” She elbows me, not hard, just hard enough. “I can’t believe you’re asleep already! I was talking about Peter.”
“I heard you,” I sputter. It’s dark here in the cold. I don’t really want to open my eyes.
“What did I say?”
“You said he had a nice body.”
“What else?”
“And that you were lusting after him,” I joke, “and now that he’s dead ...”
“Shut up!” she says. She pulls the blankets around her body. My feet stick out in the night. Now I really am awake.
Jess is winding me up. So I say, “You wondered how a guy who can sing ‘O Canada’ in Pig Latin can just have his heart stop in the middle of the night. And he wasn’t even, you know, with anybody.”
“There was no nooky,” Jess says.
“No necking, no nibbling ...” I try to nibble her neck.
“Stop it!” She turns her head away but I follow. I kiss her hair, her shoulder. Search for her mouth. She pushes my arm, and my hand ends up around her small wrist. But she tears free and slaps me. God!
Hard. Right on the face.
I can see her in the light coming in
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