Fitting Ends by Dan Chaon

follow.
    We’d known for a week or so that she was back, but I hadn’t seen her. In that dark weather, I couldn’t even be certain it was her—I’d caught only a glimpse of the face, the pale skin and short black hair. I drifted behind the car as it headed out toward the edge of town.
    The town we live in is small by most standards, little more than a cluster of trees and buildings in the middle of the Nebraska prairie—a main street the teenagers drive up and down at night, with a few storefronts in the center, the town wisping away at both ends into gas stations, motels, and then open road. The car was going under the viaduct, to the west side, where I knew Rhonda was staying.
    Rhonda lived in a low-income tract called Sioux Villa, and most of the residents there were pretty bad off—destitute elderly, single mothers, alcoholics. If there was a murder in St. Bonaventure, it usually happened in Sioux Villa. The apartments were in rows of six, so that the place looked like the old one-story stucco motel my family had owned until I was seven, when my father bought the more elegant Bonaventure Motor Lodge.
    I didn’t know which apartment was Rhonda’s, so I cruised in and out of the rows until I saw that white car parked in front of one of the unnumbered doorways.
    I stopped the car. That was all—I didn’t have any plan in mind. I idled the car outside, listening to the rain, to the rhythmic wing-beat of the windshield wipers. The defroster was on high, and the car smelled heavy with it.
    Then I pulled up the hood on my jacket and opened the car door, but I left the engine running. I thought, Why not be a good person? I thought, Why not go ring her bell and tell her welcome back? I imagined myself saying, “If there’s anything you need, give us a call,” though I knew Susan, my wife, wouldn’t want anything to do with her. Susan would probably hang up on her if she called.
    I hesitated there on her stoop, thinking of this. I remembered Susan telling me, “If I see her, I have half a mind to kick her ass. Seriously.” The rain trickled from my hood, and I wiped the droplets from my glasses, leaving a blurry film before my eyes. Maybe this wasn’t even her place.
    I opened the screen door and pressed my face close to the little diamond-shaped window in the inside door. I cupped my hand over my eyes and peered in. The window was fogged over; droplets of condensation ran down the steamy glass, leaving thin bars through which I could spot an old Naugahyde couch, a crumpled bag of potato chips lying on it. Then, just at the edge of my vision, I spotted an arm. I leaned closer, and the rest of her tilted into view: she was standing at the mouth of a dark hallway, with her back to me. I saw that she was shirtless, and as I watched, she pushed her jeans down to her ankles and stepped out of them. She was a small woman, yet her body was hard-looking, almost muscular; different from the shapes of women I was used to seeing around St. B. She stood there in her underwear and stockinged feet for a moment, looking down at something I couldn’t see. Then her shoulders tightened, and her arms contorted behind her back as she unhooked her bra. My own breath was fogging up the outside glass, and I passed my hand over it as she turned, startled. She crossed her arms over her bare breasts: she’d seen my face at the window, I thought, and my heart leapt. What was I doing? Peeping in—a person could get arrested for that. I let the screen door slam and backed away quickly, hurrying toward my idling car. How could I explain myself to Rhonda now, or worse, what would Susan say if she found out? My body felt luminous, visible.
    I put the car in reverse, and my wheels spun in the wet gravel. I sped out of the row of houses, and as I turned the corner, I caught a glimpse of her as she stumbled to the door. I stepped on the gas, and as I roared away, I could see her