Beg by C. D. Reiss Page B

piano. She had a jazzy
way of rolling her fingers across the keys, creating a melody from nothing,
building on it, and landing into something else without a hitch. Her bag was
open on the counter, and I did what Darren and I always did. I took out her
meds and made sure she had one less Marplan than she
had last night. Ten milligrams, twice a day. Eleven pills in the bottle. Darren
had texted me this morning with the number twelve. Good.
    I called him. He was headed out for another date with this girl
whose name he wouldn’t reveal.
    “Hey, Mon,” he said.
    “Eleven,” I said.
    “Thanks.”
    “What are you doing tonight?” I asked.
    “Date.”
    “Are you going to tell me her name?” I sat on the torn pleather
chair, letting my short skirt ride up since I was alone. My hair was up, and
red lipstick coated my lips like lacquer. I looked like a 1950s pinup.
    “Not yet,” he said.
    “Is it an early date or a late date?” I swallowed hard. I was
about to ask a lot.
    “Maybe both. Why?”
    “I wanted to…” I drifted off, because I wanted to meet Jonathan
and relieve the ache he created, but I didn’t want to get into too much detail
with Darren.
    “Ask. I’m shaving and it’s messing up the phone.”
    “I wanted to see Jonathan Drazen tonight. After the gig. Right
after. I can be home to watch Gabby by eleven.”
    “Can’t. Her boss got her tickets to Madame Bovary .”
    Great. A date including a musical would go from dinner at seven
p.m. to curtains at eleven thirty. He must like this girl.
    “Sorry,” he said. I heard the water running.
    “No problem.” I hung up.
    Eight months before I ever worked at K, I found Gabby sitting at
the kitchen sink, on the high stool I’d used to get cereal as a kid. Her head
was on the counter and one wrist had flopped over, spilling blood onto the
floor.
    I’m so sorry I messed up
the floor, Monica, she’d said the next day, in her hospital bed. That was
what she was worried about: That I would be mad I had to clean up the floor.
I’d just ripped up the whole thing and put in new press-on vinyl tiles. I
couldn’t find another way to think about something besides how dead and cold
she looked when I pulled her off the stool, or the blood trapped in the drain
catch, or the way I’d screamed at her the day before for eating graham crackers
in the living room, or the way she’d wept when Darren and I broke up, eons ago.
I cried over cracking linoleum flooring because the ambulance had arrived a
full nine and a half minutes after I called, and I spent them slapping her
because it made her groan and I didn’t know what else to do to prove she was
alive.
    So though I wanted Jonathan to treat me like his own personal toy
for a few hours, I had to get Gabby home and stay there until the next morning,
when Darren would show up.
    The lights kept me from seeing any of the diners. I smiled at a
bunch of silhouettes because even though I couldn’t see them, they could see
me.
    Gabrielle hit the first song, Someone
To Watch Over Me, then went to Stormy
Weather. I had my groove on then. I sang with the feeling she and I had
practiced, but as I got to the middle of Cheek
to Cheek , I caught a whiff of cologne I recognized: Jonathan’s. Someone was
wearing his cologne, and the weight between my legs came back from the memory
of the afternoon. I sang about his cheek on mine, about the scent and feel of
him. Under My Skin came out like a
seduction. I sang the words, but all I could feel was sex, the need for it. I
begged for it with the lyrics, the snappy little Sinatra tune gone, replaced by
a moan for gratification.
    When my voice fell off the last note, I was ready for that hotel
room.
    They applauded, quiet but earnest. You weren’t supposed to clap
at all at these types of gigs, and I said, “thank you” with an embarrassed
smile. I was convinced they could see my arousal like a dark patch soaking
through my dress. I looked back at Gabby, and she gave me a thumbs up. I