Sweet Nothing by RICHARD LANGE

in me,” he says. “But I’m saving them up for when I really need them.”
    He asks about Lorena and Brianna, how they’re doing at the new place, and wonders if I’m lonely now that they’re gone. I admit that I’m not.
    “You get used to being by yourself,” I say.
    “Yeah, but that’s not the same as enjoying it,” he replies.
    I like the way we talk to each other. It feels honest. Things were different with Manuel. One of us always had to win. Husbands and wives do that, worry more about being right than being truthful. What goes on between Rudolfo and me is what I always imagined flirting would be like. It’s kind of a game. We hint at what’s inside us, each hoping the other picks up on the clues.
    I didn’t learn to flirt when I was young. I didn’t have time. One year after that party I was engaged to Manuel, and the last thing I wanted him to know were my secrets.
    A moth flutters against the bare lightbulb suspended above us, its wings tapping urgent messages on the thin glass. Rudolfo tells me about something funny that happened to him at Home Depot, how this guy swiped his shopping cart. It’s his story I’m laughing at when he finishes, but I’m also happy to be here with this handsome man, drinking this beer, listening to this music. It feels like there are bubbles in my blood.
    A song my mom used to play comes on the radio.
    “Hey,” I say. “Let’s dance.”
    “I don’t know, it’s been years,” Rudolfo says.
    “Come on.” I stand and wiggle my hips, reach out for him.
    He puts down his beer and wraps his arms around me. I pull him close and whisper the lyrics to the song in his ear as we sway so smoothly together. You forget what that feels like. It seems impossible, but you do.
    “Blanca,” he says.
    “Mmmmmm?” I reply.
    “I’m seeing a lady in Pacoima.”
    “Shhh,” I say.
    “I’ve been seeing her for years.”
    “Shhh.”
    I lay my head on his chest, listen to his heart. Sawdust and smoke swirl around us. Qué bonita amor, goes the song, qué bonita cielo, qué bonita luna, qué bonita sol . God wants to see me cry. He must have His reasons. But for now, Lord, please, give me just one more minute. One more minute of this.

The Wolf of Bordeaux
    For Patricia Barbe-Girault
    THE NEWSPAPERS CALLED HIM “the Wolf,” but his real name was Armand, or perhaps Louis. He gave both when he was captured. He didn’t look like a wolf; he looked like a schoolteacher or a customs agent, a clerk of some sort. His hands were soft, his pale eyes unremarkable, and he barely cast a shadow when a light was shined upon him. The authorities said he’d murdered eight children.
    “Do you believe them?” he asked me once.
    “If they say it’s so, it must be so,” I replied.
    “But of course,” he said.
    “Shut your mouth,” I said.
    He dwelled in darkness during his stay in Fort du Hâ, entombed deep in a section of the prison that we called the pit, locked in a dank, miserable cell far from the other inmates. How he wailed when they first brought him in, how he raved, sending up mad, desperate prayers to the saints, then working his way through various devils. He beat his fists bloody on the stones, tore out his hair, and covered himself with his filth.
    “A light! A light! Mother! Father! A light!”
    I couldn’t bear to hear it, had nightmares even, so I offered him a deal: If he’d remain quiet while I was on duty, I’d open the feeding slot in the door of his cell and hang a lantern near it. He readily agreed, and for part of the day, at least, his blackness was broken, and he could see the hell he’d tumbled into.
      
    HE ANGERS ME, I told my commander.
    Not for long, my commander replied, drawing a finger across his throat. Justice will be swift.
    He scares me, I told my wife.
    Shhh, my wife replied. The children can hear you.
    He knows me, I told my priest.
    Only God knows you, my priest replied, while demons seek to deceive.
      
    WE WERE WARNED not to talk to