ever eaten with blue cheese, some kind of fancy bacon, and thick slices of heirloom tomatoes. I sit across from Thor, but he focuses entirely on his plate. Bert starts to say something, but Jean shoots him a look that could freeze the sun, and I’m pretty sure she kicks his good leg under the table. The bed warmer is leaning up against the wall in the corner of the kitchen and seems to taunt Thor because every once in a while he looks back at it and sneers.
“Whatcha got for dessert?” Bert asks after he polishes off his meal.
“Don’t make me kill you, old man,” Thor says. Nothing makes a he-man, ex-SEAL more pissed off than standing on an antique bed warmer for forty-five minutes.
“Come on, Bert,” Jean says, standing. “Let’s get those floorboards done.” She shuffles to his chair and pushes him out of the kitchen on the double. I don’t blame her. I want to get out, too. Thor might not be standing on a landmine, but he’s ready to explode.
“What did I do wrong?” Bert complains, as he’s being wheeled out. “Sitting there with a jailbird, but I’m the one he’s going to kill?”
I can feel Thor’s eyes bore through me like lasers.
“I’ll clean up,” I offer, standing and avoiding his gaze. “You can go…do, you know.” I pick up the dirty plates, but Thor doesn’t leave.
“Jailbird?” he asks. I whistle and look away.
“I find that term offensive.”
“But accurate?”
I focus on a crack in the ceiling. “Well…”
“What did you go to prison for?”
“None of your business,” I say, dropping the dirty plates into the sink.
“It is my business. I’m in business with you. Therefore, you’re my business. I need to know.”
“It’s bad manners to ask.” I turn on the water, and I’m grateful for the terrible racket, which drowns out our voices. I don’t want to have this conversation. I don’t want to be the ex-con. I don’t want to be the jailbird. That’s not who I am. Not that I know who I am these days, but I know I’m not that.
“Bull hockey. I want to know,” he says, hovering over me, as I wash the dishes. He’s more than a foot taller than I am, and I’ve felt his muscular arms around me, his warm hand on my ass, and his talented tongue in my mouth. But now he’s looking at me like I’m less than he is. It’s the brand I was given the minute that my ex-boyfriend framed me, and I was imprisoned because of it. As long as I don’t escape this life and get a new one, I’ll always be known as a criminal and society’s outcast. I hate this, and I want to escape as soon as possible. My soapy fingers let a glass slip out of my hands and fall into the sink with a crash, breaking the glass into tiny pieces. The water turns red as blood from a cut on my thumb runs down my hand. Thor turns off the water and gently takes my injured hand, wrapping it in a towel.
“Come on. Let me fix that.” Helping me to a seat, as if I’m going to break like an egg in a spoon race at a picnic, he takes a small first aid kit out of a drawer and puts it on the table. Gently, he unwraps the towel and cleans my thumb, stopping the blood flow. “So tell me,” he says after a minute. “Why were you in prison?”
“Fine,” I say, annoyed. “I’ll tell you. I cut off a man’s penis.”
Thor drops my hand and leans back in his chair, as if he was hit. “You…what?”
“Snip. Snip,” I say, scissoring the air with my fingers.
He puts his hands in his lap. “You cut off a man’s dick?”
“He annoyed me.” I shrug. “He kept asking me irritating questions. So, I cut it off.”
Thor’s face is drained of color. He looks more scared than when he thought he had stepped on a landmine. “You cut off his Johnson?”
“No,” I say. “I didn’t. I was kidding. But now you don’t really care what I did. Right?”
He’s not totally convinced. He still bandages my thumb, but he keeps a penis-distance away from me at all times, as if I could whack it off
“Whatcha got for dessert?” Bert asks after he polishes off his meal.
“Don’t make me kill you, old man,” Thor says. Nothing makes a he-man, ex-SEAL more pissed off than standing on an antique bed warmer for forty-five minutes.
“Come on, Bert,” Jean says, standing. “Let’s get those floorboards done.” She shuffles to his chair and pushes him out of the kitchen on the double. I don’t blame her. I want to get out, too. Thor might not be standing on a landmine, but he’s ready to explode.
“What did I do wrong?” Bert complains, as he’s being wheeled out. “Sitting there with a jailbird, but I’m the one he’s going to kill?”
I can feel Thor’s eyes bore through me like lasers.
“I’ll clean up,” I offer, standing and avoiding his gaze. “You can go…do, you know.” I pick up the dirty plates, but Thor doesn’t leave.
“Jailbird?” he asks. I whistle and look away.
“I find that term offensive.”
“But accurate?”
I focus on a crack in the ceiling. “Well…”
“What did you go to prison for?”
“None of your business,” I say, dropping the dirty plates into the sink.
“It is my business. I’m in business with you. Therefore, you’re my business. I need to know.”
“It’s bad manners to ask.” I turn on the water, and I’m grateful for the terrible racket, which drowns out our voices. I don’t want to have this conversation. I don’t want to be the ex-con. I don’t want to be the jailbird. That’s not who I am. Not that I know who I am these days, but I know I’m not that.
“Bull hockey. I want to know,” he says, hovering over me, as I wash the dishes. He’s more than a foot taller than I am, and I’ve felt his muscular arms around me, his warm hand on my ass, and his talented tongue in my mouth. But now he’s looking at me like I’m less than he is. It’s the brand I was given the minute that my ex-boyfriend framed me, and I was imprisoned because of it. As long as I don’t escape this life and get a new one, I’ll always be known as a criminal and society’s outcast. I hate this, and I want to escape as soon as possible. My soapy fingers let a glass slip out of my hands and fall into the sink with a crash, breaking the glass into tiny pieces. The water turns red as blood from a cut on my thumb runs down my hand. Thor turns off the water and gently takes my injured hand, wrapping it in a towel.
“Come on. Let me fix that.” Helping me to a seat, as if I’m going to break like an egg in a spoon race at a picnic, he takes a small first aid kit out of a drawer and puts it on the table. Gently, he unwraps the towel and cleans my thumb, stopping the blood flow. “So tell me,” he says after a minute. “Why were you in prison?”
“Fine,” I say, annoyed. “I’ll tell you. I cut off a man’s penis.”
Thor drops my hand and leans back in his chair, as if he was hit. “You…what?”
“Snip. Snip,” I say, scissoring the air with my fingers.
He puts his hands in his lap. “You cut off a man’s dick?”
“He annoyed me.” I shrug. “He kept asking me irritating questions. So, I cut it off.”
Thor’s face is drained of color. He looks more scared than when he thought he had stepped on a landmine. “You cut off his Johnson?”
“No,” I say. “I didn’t. I was kidding. But now you don’t really care what I did. Right?”
He’s not totally convinced. He still bandages my thumb, but he keeps a penis-distance away from me at all times, as if I could whack it off
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