Down to the Dirt by Joel Thomas Hynes

no one else on the planet. I could kiss her, deep, first thing in the morning, her breath sour and shitty and me not mindin’, knowin’ I tasted the same or worse. Now I can’t look at her in the morning ’cause morning breath has become somewhat of a window for attack. You comes to a point somewhere along the way where them things are no longer accepted, but pounced upon and used against you. Like fartin’. When we first met it seemed almost like a competition of who could let the biggest one go. We were that easy with one another. Now it’s just another bad smell in the room.
    My stomach turns at the thought of her menstrual blood for lubrication.
    All at once I feels like my bladder is gonna let go, like I’ve been needin’ to go now for hours and just never noticed. I jumps up out of bed and rushes upstairs to the toilet.
    —Keith? Sweetheart, where’re you going? I’m alright with it you know.
    Sweetheart.
    —I’m bustin’, girl. Am I allowed to have a goddamn piss or what?
    I expects some sort of nasty response to this but it don’t come. She’ll wait for me to apologize. But I won’t. I pisses and I can see the chemical from the mushrooms, or maybe what’s left of my soul, collecting on top of the water in the toilet. Thisis what I’ve amounted to. I brushes my teeth ’til my gums bleed.
    On my way out of the bathroom I almost trips over the cat. He’s sittin’ in the middle of the floor, starin’ off at nothing. He’s gotten a lot thinner, but he’s still a gorgeous little tom. Charcoal grey and shiny all over.
    —Hello, Puss-Cat.
    Puss-Cat don’t acknowledge me. I goes back downstairs.
    —We should get Puss an appointment with the vet. Or a psychiatrist. He’s weeks like that now.
    Natasha don’t acknowledge me either. She’s curled up in the corner of her bed, huggin’ her pillow. Asleep. Jesus, feels like I was only gone for a minute. But it’s possible that I zoned out for a while. It’s beyond me how anyone can get to sleep so easy when they’re fried on mushrooms.
    I spends the next couple of hours fadin’ in and out of consciousness, never knowin’, when it seems like I’m wakin’, if I’ve been asleep or not. Somewhere in the back of my mind a creature screams. I pictures it swingin’ around on scraps of stringy membrane, Tarzan fashion, back down deep in the creepy pockets of my brain. Now I remembers why I’ve sworn to never do mushrooms again. Comin’ down is too fuckin’ retarded.
    I watches Natasha sleep. I feels sad for us. We used to be so good for each other. It was loads of fun when we first got on the go. But I s’pose you can only pack so much into it all before the bottom falls out. Now it’s nothing short of a tug-a-war, and neither of us is strong enough to win or walk away. Weaknesses, fears once confided to the other are now preyed upon. It’s all about who can take the most pain, who suffers hardestin the face of the other’s suspected betrayals. Who can walk away but won’t, who can’t walk away but wants to. It’s a warped, miserable pattern of anger and resentment, fear and make-up sex. Always the prospect of this intense, needy make-up sex to reel you back in. Just when it feels like it’s over, like this is it, that there’s nothing left to give, our emotions drained, our heads and hearts about to explode with frustration, that’s when we wants each other the most.
    A damp patch of drool has collected on her pillow, her eyes fluttering beneath the closed lids. I tries to imagine bein’ with her in a few years’ time. Can’t see it. I doubts we’ll even squeeze another six months out of it. But I can’t imagine goin’ on without her either. I nuzzles into her, spoon fashion, and eventually, despite the screamin’ creatures in my head, I drifts off to sleep.
    What feels like ten years later I’m roused out of bed to the distinctive sound of Natasha blarin’ from the top of the stairs. Suffering Christ. At least I’m sure it’s