wearing a rat packer black suit, white shirt, black tie, his cuffs shot. They were back in style. Aloof expression, hair slick, a trimmed van dyke.
I danced with her most of the night but every time I went for punch I came back to find him talking to her. Afterwards, when I was about to drive her home, she got into his car instead. For months after I thought he would use her, break her heart, and she’d limp back to me a wiser woman ready to receive my genuine love. It never happened.
“If he doesn’t have a job where’s he at right now?” I asked.
“Over at the Dugout.”
Christ, I thought, the Dugout. It was a hole in the wall dive where me and my buddies used to hang out Friday nights shooting pool. I could imagine her husband in there, in the middle of the day, with the place packed wall to wall with similar silent, stewing, jealous men. I would fit right in. Maybe he and I could finally be friends all these years later. He would break down and weep into three fingers of Jameson’s and explain to me how life had gone downhill since that night at the rec centre. That’s when he’d been at his coolest. I’d rub his shoulder and say I understood. We’d come back here and scrape together enough money to rent one of those Asian teenie bopper assassin flicks and laugh our guts out while we ate his mother-in-law’s munchies.
“Let me in,” I told her.
“I can’t let you in.”
“Just for a minute.”
“Why?”
“Why do you think?”
“I have no idea.”
I thought of bulling my way inside. I thought of pressing my new slim body up against hers and letting her feel the corded muscles of my chest. I could take off my jacket and show her the veins bulging in my arms. My hands were still soft but they were strong, finally. I thought I could grab her by the wrist and lead her past her three kids and tell them not to disturb us for about an hour. I’d drag her into her old bedroom. I’d never stepped foot inside it. I would stand at the edge of the doorway and glance inside while she finished brushing her hair or putting on her shoes. Her mother would hover nearby waiting to crack a vase over my head.
“You have to go now.”
“Can’t I just talk to you for a little while?”
“We have nothing to say to each other.”
It was probably true. Besides, I didn’t really want to talk to her. I wanted to haul her onto her bed and brush the hair away from her jaw line and kiss her throat gently. I wanted to work my lips in deeply and gnaw. There would be nipping. There would be biting. I’d kick the door shut and shove the dresser in front of it. I’d take off her top and maul those tits. They were still large with some nice bounce. I’d cup them and hold them up to my mouth and suck them until she whimpered. I’d tear her jeans off and shred her panties. I’d be rough. I was never rough, I wasn’t aggressive, I hardly ever made the first move, not even with my wife, but I would be rough with her. Maybe she’d want it that way, maybe not. It wouldn’t matter. We’d fuck like terrified lemmings about to go over the cliff. She’d mark my chest with her nails. I’d have half-moon scars forever. Her jealous, drunken husband would bang on the door and ask in a liquor-spattered voice what the hell those weird sounds were. The kids would describe me. He’d remember. He’d throw his shoulder against the door and the lock would rattle and the dresser would dance while the mattress rocked insanely. She would scream. It would be part bliss and part cry for help. She’d be begging him for rescue and begging me as well. I’d do my best. I’d ride her across the mountaintops of hell. He would wobble into the kitchen and go through the junk drawer looking for a hammer. He wouldn’t find one. He’d have to check the garage. He’d get his hand on a ball-peen but it would be too small to do any real damage. He’d take up an awl, a socket wrench, a tire iron. Finally, he’d find a huge claw hammer and
I danced with her most of the night but every time I went for punch I came back to find him talking to her. Afterwards, when I was about to drive her home, she got into his car instead. For months after I thought he would use her, break her heart, and she’d limp back to me a wiser woman ready to receive my genuine love. It never happened.
“If he doesn’t have a job where’s he at right now?” I asked.
“Over at the Dugout.”
Christ, I thought, the Dugout. It was a hole in the wall dive where me and my buddies used to hang out Friday nights shooting pool. I could imagine her husband in there, in the middle of the day, with the place packed wall to wall with similar silent, stewing, jealous men. I would fit right in. Maybe he and I could finally be friends all these years later. He would break down and weep into three fingers of Jameson’s and explain to me how life had gone downhill since that night at the rec centre. That’s when he’d been at his coolest. I’d rub his shoulder and say I understood. We’d come back here and scrape together enough money to rent one of those Asian teenie bopper assassin flicks and laugh our guts out while we ate his mother-in-law’s munchies.
“Let me in,” I told her.
“I can’t let you in.”
“Just for a minute.”
“Why?”
“Why do you think?”
“I have no idea.”
I thought of bulling my way inside. I thought of pressing my new slim body up against hers and letting her feel the corded muscles of my chest. I could take off my jacket and show her the veins bulging in my arms. My hands were still soft but they were strong, finally. I thought I could grab her by the wrist and lead her past her three kids and tell them not to disturb us for about an hour. I’d drag her into her old bedroom. I’d never stepped foot inside it. I would stand at the edge of the doorway and glance inside while she finished brushing her hair or putting on her shoes. Her mother would hover nearby waiting to crack a vase over my head.
“You have to go now.”
“Can’t I just talk to you for a little while?”
“We have nothing to say to each other.”
It was probably true. Besides, I didn’t really want to talk to her. I wanted to haul her onto her bed and brush the hair away from her jaw line and kiss her throat gently. I wanted to work my lips in deeply and gnaw. There would be nipping. There would be biting. I’d kick the door shut and shove the dresser in front of it. I’d take off her top and maul those tits. They were still large with some nice bounce. I’d cup them and hold them up to my mouth and suck them until she whimpered. I’d tear her jeans off and shred her panties. I’d be rough. I was never rough, I wasn’t aggressive, I hardly ever made the first move, not even with my wife, but I would be rough with her. Maybe she’d want it that way, maybe not. It wouldn’t matter. We’d fuck like terrified lemmings about to go over the cliff. She’d mark my chest with her nails. I’d have half-moon scars forever. Her jealous, drunken husband would bang on the door and ask in a liquor-spattered voice what the hell those weird sounds were. The kids would describe me. He’d remember. He’d throw his shoulder against the door and the lock would rattle and the dresser would dance while the mattress rocked insanely. She would scream. It would be part bliss and part cry for help. She’d be begging him for rescue and begging me as well. I’d do my best. I’d ride her across the mountaintops of hell. He would wobble into the kitchen and go through the junk drawer looking for a hammer. He wouldn’t find one. He’d have to check the garage. He’d get his hand on a ball-peen but it would be too small to do any real damage. He’d take up an awl, a socket wrench, a tire iron. Finally, he’d find a huge claw hammer and
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