Fragile by Chris Katsaropoulos

but still they stay away. They know him, know he is someone to make them not frightened, but only give him a shy smile. He is a remembered stranger.
    â€œCome here girls and give me a big hug.”
    They go, but only Zoe goes first with short small steps. He stoops down and brings her to his chest, dressed in a pair of blue jeans and a plaid shirt, a country gentleman in for a visit, but how did he know? The bells of St. Monica sound out loud from across the block: one, two, three times, the stroke of the big iron bell, we used to run to the tower and watch it toll back and forth, its slow swinging like being in the hammock back and forth, it seemed to pause at the top of each end of the swing and hang there, slow and without effort, when you get to the top the earth will pull you back down. The big iron tongue clanging seven, eight, nine, it is nine already, the August light goes too soon. The youngest girl releases herself from him and the oldest one steps forward, leans in, and lets herself be held by small degrees. He reaches over and around her shoulders and pulls her close, and still she shies away.
    â€œI came to see you girls, stopped by for a visit,” he says, arching his back to its full height again. “I brought you something from the stables. See,” he says, and hands her a rusted brown horseshoe. “I know you like horses.”
    The youngest one turns away and says, “I want to go out to the swing again, can we?”
    It is only just outside, only the bells have stopped tolling, and the last fragment of their sound is still sending across the houses and trees, sending its note to you, its solemn hollow note says I am still here, I will always be here with you, we will always be together. The rope was frayed at the end when you pulled it and nothing happened, too heavy, then we both jumped up and grabbed on as high as we could fall down in a heap of writhing lust for each other right here in the damp alley behind the kitchen but that would not be right, not keeping with the plan for tonight, Holly thinks, what has happened to the plan? She was going to be in control tonight, in control of the cruel wanting need she has, but here she is with a man in her arms pressing her self against him, running her hands up his back, his broad strong back, rubbing her breasts against him. He bends to her and puts his mouth on her. His hands are on her ass, finding their way there, and she must get it under control. She says, “No, wait,” and pulls her self away from him. “Not here.”
    She can make herself wait for him, she must prove it, to herself. She will wait for him until midnight or later, until after he closes. It is a test she must not fail, she is trying to gain control of her self, to push away the latticework of her need, to crawl out from inside it.
    â€œIsn’t there someplace we can go?” he says, his voice low, nearly a whisper. “I have a few minutes. They can handle it while I’m gone.”
    Through the filminess of her dress, he latches on with two fingers to the taut elastic of her panties and drags it up her bottom, like pulling a cord that turns on the electricity to a certain finely tuned instrument. Her mind is swept by a cold blankness that clarifies her thinking. She grabs his hand and removes it from her, then leads him down the alley, damp with humid night air and the dull resonance of reverberating bass notes seeping from the bars and nightclubs. One of the clubs actually has its main entrance on the alley, a bright doorway where a cluster of young drunks staggers beneath a neon sign that flashes T HE C ASBAH . A bald, puffy-looking bouncer in a leather jacket calls out to them as they hurry past.
    â€œFifty cent pitchers and two dollar shots! No cover for the lady.”
    Holly has been in the Casbah before, trolling. Now that she thinks about it, she may have met Rick there—it’s only been three weeks, but it seems like a very