Do Si Do

I wake up to my cell phone buzzing in my hand. I see that it’s Leda, hit ignore and roll over. It’s been two months since the last time I used, 5 months since I nearly overdosed, 9 months since I have had sex, and a year since she left me. The window in the corner of my bedroom must have been leaking a draft all night. I feel the goose bumps on my arm and pull the blanket up over my head in effort to warm myself. I pull the pillow closer to my face and feel something on the edge of my thin mattress. I feel around and my hand knocks my bowl and a bunch of papers off the mattress which luckily is lying on the bare hardwood floor. I pick up my bowl and push the papers across the floor. I am a little too tired to hate myself this morning.
It is unlike Leda to call me in the morning. She usually calls in the evening when she is done with work. She claims she is checking on me and will assure me from time to time that everyone still asks how I’m doing. I don’t care about anyone but Franny but I pretend “everyone’s” concern still makes me happy. Leda is Franny’s younger sister and Franny happens to be the one thing I have yet to hate in this hate-worthy world. Although, Franny’s hatred for me is palpable, and I know it grows with every lie that I tell Leda. We all know younger siblings are just messengers for the older ones. So, Leda’s and my conversations are usually spent tip-toeing around all the things we really want to say to each other. So this dance and exchange between Leda and I is my ritual. We both feed each other’s obsessions and get what we want. Every time I ask about Franny, I know the answer and every time she calls I am sober and bettering myself.
“Cigarettes? Yeah like a fucking crack whore. I am actually smoking one as we speak. How is Franny?” I laughed while taking a drag.
““She’s doing great—and no, I meant pot. Obviously you’re still smoking cigarettes,” Leda says with a hint of annoyance.
“Well, you know Benny—you know my sponsor? Well he said it’s alright to kinda wean slowly,” I lie to her.
I don’t have a sponsor named Benny. I don’t even have a sponsor.
“Yeah ok, well, I dunno things are pretty crazy here right now. I am so busy this week, Franny is up for the holiday and my mom needs help cooking.”
There is a long pause after she says Franny’s name and all I can hear is Leda’s soft breathing on the other end. I can tell she doesn’t know what to say next. It is weird for both of us to hear her name in such normal terms. Our ritual has been shattered.
“Are you coming home for Thanksgiving?” Leda stutters over her words.
“No, I’m all set. I am trying to avoid visiting home if I can. People at my meetings tell me it’s a really fragile time for all of us with the holidays here,” I say trying to scare her.
I pick up my bowl to see if there is anything left to smoke. There isn’t even any resin left. I put the bowl down on my mattress and look at the pages of my nonsensical rant at my feet. I pick them up, take them into the other room and shove them in the drawer of the coffee table. I open my phone to see if Leda left a message. 0 Voicemails. 0 Material to make bad choices.
Leda’s call this morning is just out of worry, nothing more. I will let her wait it out. It wouldn’t be the worst thing if she thought she might be the catalyst for my next self destructive move.
I decide against showering this morning. The water will probably be freezing and it will aggravate my fragile genital situation. After getting high last night and not being able to fall asleep I put on a tape from Phish tour and masturbated until my dick was swollen and red from my dry hand. I was proud of myself though, I didn’t think of Franny the entire time. I look at my watch and realize I am going to be late for the morning meeting. I grab my fleece and leave the apartment.
The middle of winter in Vermont is a great excuse to kill yourself. The mile walk to the church will be brutal this morning and I am dreading it. I begin walking down the tree-lined shortcut path and I wonder how long it would take to find someone out here. I picture myself taking off my clothes and laying in the snow, having one more really good time before all the anxiety would float out of my body. I wonder if I would turn blue and if crows would peck out my eyeballs for dinner. Maybe Franny would find my ranting letter that I wrote to her last night and start using again too. The wind starts to make my eyes water and it feels good to feel like I am crying. It feels good to convince myself I am not dead inside.
“How is she doing?”
“She is doing great.”
My brother, Brian, told my dad I was a heroin addict while I was outside husking corn in the Hamptons on our family vacation when I was twenty-five. That was the first time I got sent to rehab. Brian found a Costco sized bag filled with unused needles in the trunk of my car. I wasn’t planning on using the needles in my car. They were only there for a little security. What they didn’t know was that I had actually kicked it on my own for a couple months. I had gotten it down to taking a Dilaudid here and there or an occasional Xanax and just overdosing on pot. My brother and I both got something out of my first trip to rehab. Brian took over my day job of dealing weed to the high school kids in town and I finally had concrete evidence I was “clean”.
Three rehabs later, a near overdose, and my parent’s finally pseudo kicking me out of the house I now live in Vermont, alone. It’s isolated enough and seems to be an accepting place for a sad little druggie. So now I am living the recluse dream. I’ve got a mattress on the floor with an old fleece blanket, dirty clothes, a nice brown rim around the tub, and nothing but saltines and ketchup in the pantry. My father thinks Vermont might do me some good. Once I remove myself from what he refers to as my “triggers” he promised his checks would follow.
It’s been about two months since I was shipped off to live here and about twenty-eight years since I was voted out of my family. Although, my dad claims that if three rehabs hadn’t worked out, it was my way of telling them I wanted out of the family. So this is my one big chance to make it right. I will spend my days walking a mile to my meetings so I can lie and tell myself that I am OK. My dad just needs me to take care of it. Take care of it. Your mother and I can’t have this. I know he just wants me gone so my mother’s drinking can get under control again and he can continue to build houses with a clean reputation. Too many people were finding out about me. Like mother like son I guess. I didn’t want to be at home anymore anyway. I was sick of being twenty-eight and still painting houses and getting high in the old tree house in my parents backyard.
The sun speared through the gaps in the shades and spread across her sleeping body. Her jaw bone was pulsating while her eyelids fluttered wildly. I ran my hand through her hair and kissed her forehead. I told her I loved her while she dreamt.
I finally make it to the old grey church and notice that, of course, no one has chipped away at the ice. These church folk are getting pretty lazy when it comes to God’s work. Where were all these good Christian servants I always hear about? Probably out molesting small boys with one hand and saying the rosary in their other. I fell down the church steps two days ago because of my sneakers. So, I decided the next check my dad sends will be spent on boots and some more heady nuggets. I still can’t believe I smoked my entire stash for the week last night.
The kid who lives above me in apartment 3C is my new supplier. I am not looking forward to seeing him two days in the same week. He makes me hang out with him and play video games while smoking bowls. Every time I leave I want to throw up though. It smelled like cat piss in his apartment and he smelled like greasy fast food with a hint of chlorine. He’s a fucking pig—all fat and shit and he does that fat person breathing that I cannot stand. This is the understanding between dealer and buyer. Be nice, act like he’s the man for dealing, and then bounce. Sometimes you may even get some free shit out of it.
I grab onto the freezing metal railing and start pulling myself up the church stairs. I look down at my white arms and smile at my large protruding veins. They are perfect; I might as well be the poster child for dope, except for the scars that are still fading. I had to stop shooting into my arms after awhile and plug in between my toes. I loved any kind of ritual, but my drug ritual was my favorite. When I transferred to my third college my use was at an all time high. I lived alone and would spend hours just chasing a good time. I would put on a Phish tape while smoking a cigarette, cook it up, and watch it morph into the perfect little pool of liquid. Take the filter from my cigarette and watch the liquid fill the porous little tan stub. I would stick the needle into the filter and draw it out slow and steady. I was a master of safety. Overdosing was never part of the plan.
My friends and I all started out the same during our teenage anxt years. We would drive around smoking out of my blue bong named Tweezer, trip our balls off in the run down Mill from the shrooms I got from some creep, get wasted off my mom’s liquor cabinet and then throw golf balls in the back of car windows, or on good nights score some molly or tabs at Phish, Disco Biscuits, or The Meat Puppets. It was the best times of our lives. Now they had moved on to suits and ties, a couple beers after work, and watching the game on a Saturday night. Back then I didn’t know I would become my friends’ best accessory—the token damaged addict that gives them something to talk about.
Once they all graduated from college and I graduated from coke to smack some of my friends were even lucky enough to watch me do it. It was the best gift I could have given them. Their stories could have topped anyone’s anywhere. Oh, well nothing compares to what I was put through. He actually cooked it and shot it up in front of me. No thanks were necessary. I put on the best show I could have for a bunch of rich white suburban kids. The story could have gotten even better if they had just given me more time. So instead, they had to settle for some skinny faggy looking kid in khakis and a Patagonia fleece shooting drugs into his arm. Looking back, I could have done better. They didn’t know that I switched on and off between veins and muscles because I was too scared to mark up my arms. My mother didn’t raise white trash.
You put your tarot cards away and took the feathers out of your hair. It wasn’t Halloween but you wanted to be whimsical for me. Everyone at the show looked at you like you were the most beautiful creature they had seen. Your brown eyes looked bigger than they usually did. You told me this was love and you were ready. I pulled the small piece of cellophane out of my pocket and we both stared at the black substance.
I start walking down the stairs to the basement and wonder if that girl from last week might be back for another meeting. God, what was her name? S—something, I think. She is pretty cheesy looking but in a—I want to have sex with you—kind of way. I want to stare at her tits and finally crack the case on them: real or fake? I won’t mind hearing about the fucked up shit she did either. This is the beauty of NA; everyone is fucked up. My guess is she probably did dudes for coke during her journey to rock bottom. She looks like a little whore that might do something like that. She probably started by being a stripper, then an escort, and then maybe did some porn. She probably got knocked up at sixteen too as a consequence of her being touched by daddy at some point. I’m sure that will end up coming out too. Daddy issues seem to be a main ingredient in the recipe for addiction. Add some abuse on top of that and you got a grade A addict.
I round the corner and the first face I see is Frank’s. Fucking Frank. No one wants Frank at the meetings, but he is always here five minutes early pretending to read a book written by some guy who knows a bunch of shit about life. He sits there, his clothes hanging off his paper-mache frame, using his new book as bait for conversation. We all knew better than to make eye contact with him. Frank is that guy at a party I like to call the trapper. If you see him walking towards you, and you make eye contact for more than five seconds, consider yourself fucked for the rest of the night. You’ve been trapped. Frank talked a lot at the meetings. He talked mostly about his step-father, Bill, who hit him once. This is what supposedly triggered his instability and alcoholism. I don’t think Bill sounded that bad. I mean, if I was stuck with a little shit like Frank, I would have definitely hit him more than once. I watch him look around in hope a new loser might join us this morning. Maybe another person will lower themselves to come here and talk about how much they suck at living. We could use some new blood at this point. This is why I hope fake/real tits will talk today.
The meeting is just about to start and I see that fake/real tits is back. She takes the empty seat next to Frank. Trapped. Her legs are crossed and I can see up her skirt a tiny bit. I can’t decipher if she is wearing pink panties or a light purple pair. Either way it looks delicious. Her legs are pale and thin with some scars here and there. Her hair looks like it hasn’t been washed in a couple days and she is chewing some gum and sipping on an iced coffee. Frank is staring at her, trying to catch her attention. She doesn’t bite, which makes me like her more. She stares at her nails and keeps checking her phone compulsively like she is expecting someone to call or she just feels uncomfortable. Frank of course stands up first. I slouch down in my chair, getting comfortable. He says he has an announcement to make.
“Hey guys—I mean good morning. My name is Frank and I’m and alcoholic.”
“Hi Frank,” we all say in unison except me. We all know who Frank is, minus fake/real tits it is always the same losers at these meetings. This is one of the many drawbacks of living in such a small place. No new blood for me us to judge.
“As you all know I am coming up on my one year anniversary of being clean and working the steps. An entire year has passed and it feels amazing,” he says in a soft voice while tucking his hair behind his ears. “So my roommate wants to throw me a one year sobriety party. I would be honored if some of you could make it. It’s this Saturday at 8:00 at my apartment on 107 Grande Street. I live in Apartment D,” he finishes while bowing his head awkwardly.
He starts walking around the circle and passing out little pieces of paper that I am sure he spent all of last night making copies of and cutting them out in neat little squares. Whatever happened to the ANONYMOUS part of this program? He stands in front of me smiling and holding out a little flimsy square. His hands are shaking and I grab it in disgust. He makes his way back to his seat and hands the last square to fake/real tits. I hear him call her Susanna. I knew it was S-something! She turns to him and it looks like she asks what she could bring? I can’t tell until I see Frank smile back at her and say, “Just yourself.” I want to throw up all over them.
We are all beginning to know each other’s bullshit. It’s funny, even in NA meetings there are still people you want to throttle. We are all supposed to feel bad for each other. I just feel bad I can’t use anymore. How can I try to feel bad for these idiots? I chose drugs, they didn’t choose me. I can’t do this organized shit, the whole talking and feeling important in front of a room of strangers was just weird. Getting my ego stroked and things not being my fault—I don’t buy it. I’m not even sure if I hit my “rock bottom” people always talk about.
You saved it for special occasions. Sometimes you would hide some underneath my pillow and then joke about how being the drug fairy.
Maybe my rock bottom is living in the middle of nowhere, being sober, and listening to someone named Frank talk about how he drank too many jack and cokes. He is going to NA meetings as a self-diagnosed alcoholic. AA was at St. Peters and he chooses to come here instead. But no one wants to upset fragile little Frank it might send him off the deep end. But the truth is we aren’t scared of sending anyone off the deep end; we are all pussies who don’t want to rock the boat. None of us even want to die we aren’t hardcore enough. We are a bunch of amateurs. We go to NA. We sold out.
My real life story is too boring. I was diagnosed as bipolar from a friend of the family psychiatrist. I started being fed lithium at the mature age of fifteen. My parents noticed me before they put me on lithium. Once they could call up and get refills I became invisible. Funny how they hadn’t noticed when I stopped taking it, or when I used to came home from soccer with bloodshot eyes, from fishing with a crazy jaw, or from a concert downing bottle after bottle of water. The signs were always among them.
When I was using, I rarely used everyday. I could even make it for a couple weeks without doing it. On the days I did use it could range from once to four times. I’d be dope sick for a good three days, holed up in my room with the “flu”. I wasn’t even good at being an addict. My parents believed anything as long as they could take their trips without phone calls from the police or my school. I probably would have had a better chance if I was born a little black crack baby. I have everything and nothing at the same time. It’s weird. All of the other people here have some abuse, tragedy, you know shit shit shit for lives except me.
So, when I started coming to these meetings I knew I had to create a new life. At my fourth meeting I thought I should finally speak. I told them my fat Uncle Larry used to diddle my privates. I thought molestation was the best reason as to why I loved heroin. I amazed myself at how convincing I sounded. I even managed to make my voice shake a little, like I was about to cry.
It wasn’t all lies though. I actually did have a fat Uncle Larry and he definitely might have touched me in my no-no special place. He is creepy enough. I set the scene up great. It could have started at my mother’s seasonal parties where Uncle Larry double fists cocktails. There are endless apple martinis in the fall, eggnog in the winter, cosmos in the spring (he would assure me he isn’t gay—real men drink pink), and mojitos in the summer. He could have passed out on our couch and made his way up to my room in the middle of the night. He could have slid his sausage-like fingers under my covers and went for it. I mean, I can really see it happening.
Maybe it’s so easy to lie because I do actually have PTSD and was indeed molested. Maybe it won’t hit me until I am eating a tuna sandwich on a Saturday afternoon reading the paper when I’m forty and balding. Then, maybe I will become a homo. Leave my wife and kids for a hot little Latino man from South Beach. Then there will be an actual explanation as to why I feel so mental all the time. I will shake my uncle’s hand for unlocking the door to my past. I will feel ok with being an addict after all.
The meeting today is fine. The floor really belongs to Susanna for most of it. It’s weird how my predictions tend to be right most of the time with these people. I was right about most of it except for her starting as an escort. I was also wrong about her drug choice. I guess cocaine was too high class for her. I knew I should have gone with meth. But I was right with the stripping and the minor league porno. No butt stuff or girls she said, only hetero stuff.
She said it was taking her a long time to not hate herself for what she did to her body. She started to cry at one point when she talked about her family taking her son away. While she was telling the story I started to feel bad because I had put her in my spank bank from last week when I first saw her. I had actually taken her out and used her a couple nights ago, when I couldn’t fall asleep. It’s always weird looking at the person you jerked off to in the daylight. You almost feel like you should apologize for putting them in whatever demoralizing situation you thought of the night before.
I didn’t want to go to Frank’s stupid party. A sobriety party? For real? If my friends could only see me now. It was like going to someone’s coming out of the closet party or those mother’s that threw their daughters period parties. Yay you’re a woman now. A year of being clean was a joke. What were we celebrating? That Frank was no longer a fuck up that got drunk off jack and cokes and made bad decisions. That now he is a pathetic excuse for a human who can’t use booze to have sex. All bets on Frank being a sexless walking shadow of a good time. I wonder if there would be virgin pina coladas, spinach dip, and endless amounts of cigarettes. Knowing Frank, I bet I wouldn’t even be able to smoke butts inside his apartment.
I was the last one to leave the meeting. Usually afterwards people hung outside for a smoke and to proceed with some small talk. Most of them talked about their kids, jobs, vacations, etc. No talk of hating ourselves left the church. It seemed just like an unwritten rule that we all were happy to follow. I lit one of my flattened cigarettes and felt my lungs breathing a sigh of relief. Susanna walked over and asked if she could bum one. I made a joke about the continual soft pack aggravation and I actually got a giggle out of her. She asked me where I lived, where I came from, and I did the same. So far, I was conversing just fine. It had been weeks since I had human contact like this.
Surprisingly, my personal skills hadn’t vanished like I thought they would. As we talked about mundane things I began zoning in on the details of her face. Despite her trashy over all look she had naturally beautiful features. Her jaw line was harsh but held a striking feminine beauty. I kept imagining softly grabbing her tits while I ran my lips from her mouth down her jaw to her ear. I tried to imagine what she would have looked like if she hadn’t been born into white trash. I liked her voice; it was raspy and a bit lower than most guys would like in a girl. Whatever she said sounded good.
“So do you think you are going to go to Frank’s party tonight?” Susanna asked me.
“Oh—Frank? I mean, I’m still kinda thinking about it,” I said being startled out of my little daydream about fucking her.
“Well, yeah I don’t really know anyone so I may just stop by for a—soda I guess?” She said laughing. “What do we even do at something like this?”
“I have no idea. I’m not a big fan of social things right now anyway. We can’t really do any of the things we really want to do in uncomfortable settings,” I said while giving her my boyish smile.
She flipped her hair and put out her cigarette. “You’re so right. This is going to be weird. But I guess I will go if you are going to.”
She buttoned the top button of her coat and hid her face from the gust of bitter wind. I looked over and saw Frank lurking at the church steps pretending he might ask someone for a cigarette. I knew though, he was making sure I didn’t steal what he thought might be a score for him tonight.
“Yeah I feel the same way. I’m bugging out about having to be social even with these people I see twice and sometimes three times a week.” I said looking at all my anonymous “friends” huddled smoking cigarettes. “But we can go together to feel less awkward. To be honest you’re the first person I have even talked to outside of the circle.”
I couldn’t believe I was being honest.
“That sounds great, I actually live right by his apartment do you want my number?” She asked while reaching into her pocket.
“Yeah, I can come get you before hand. That way we don’t have to walk in alone. Power in numbers, ya know?” I said while awkwardly lighting another cigarette.
We exchanged numbers and I prayed she didn’t see my hands shaking. She wasn’t as bad as I thought she would be. I didn’t even really think about her tits being real or fake. She realized I was the best option at the meetings which wasn’t saying much but it was good for now.
I awkwardly said bye to Susanna and told her I would call her to get directions to her apartment. I began walking back to my apartment and started replaying our conversation and I wondered if I seemed too eager. ‘I’ll come and get you beforehand.’ I might as well have begged her. I could hear my mother’s voice taunting me. If I tried hard enough I could smell the oaky chardonnay on her breath. Begging a white trash girl to be your friend? I was being too eager and that was ok for now. It was ok. I don’t think she seemed too put off by it. My hands were shaking though.
The clock said 11:07 AM when I opened the door to my apartment. The stench from the bathroom next to me made me gag. Oh shit. I forgot to flush the toilet from this morning. Well at least no one was here to smell it. This was the beauty of living alone. Taking shits and not getting caught.
I flushed the toilet while holding my breath and went into the bedroom and plopped myself onto the messy bed. I slipped my sneakers off and sprawled out still in my winter coat. I hadn’t budged yet to turn up the heat. I didn’t want my Dad to bitch about the bill. It was the last thing I needed. I closed my eyes and felt like I might be able to sleep.
No one ever tells you how hard sleeping will be once you stop using. Sleep was something that came with getting high. It was like the grand finale to a great ride. I closed my eyes but my heart wouldn’t slow down. I kept replaying the conversation with Susanna and trying to decide if she really wanted to go with me. Was she just treating me like she had treated Frank? Maybe Frank was staring at us because they were on the same team. Maybe Susanna and Frank wanted to embarrass me somehow. He might have had enough of me rolling my eyes and commenting under my breath and now he wanted revenge.
I sat up quickly and really felt the urge to smoke a bowl and relax. My mind was going fucking crazy and once it started there was no turning back. I wanted to squash the reality because if I didn’t I would end up stuck in a pile of shit for the next couple of hours. I needed to try and sleep. If I had any chance of seeing Susanna tonight and not acting like a total freak, I needed to sleep. I ransacked my desk, closet, underneath the mattress, sink, everywhere. I didn’t even have resin left in my bowl. Things were not good. I buckled and grabbed my phone and called the fat fuck upstairs. No answer. I put some Dead on and tried to mellow out. I lit a cigarette and grabbed my laptop and placed it on the kitchen counter. I began holding the smoke in my lungs pretending it was herb and secretly hoping to get lightheaded.
I signed into my email and ashed into a bowl of ramen inside the sink. I saw an email from Leda in my lonely inbox. I was a little nervous as to what this might do for my current condition. The subject line was not standard for Leda. It said (no subject). The only thing (no subject) could mean was “I can’t title this appropriately because you probably won’t open it if you know what’s inside” I have to open it though. Get it over with.
Leda’s email was only a couple of lines long. All it said was that she tried to tell me last night but she couldn’t get it out. She wanted to be the one to tell me first and she didn’t want to keep things from me. Franny finally got engaged a week ago.
This was the same Franny that I had been in love with since sophomore year. The same Franny that drove across country with me when we were eighteen. The same Franny that used to talk about our lives together of going on Phish tour until we were ready to start a family. The same Franny that wanted a simple life with me in it. The same Franny that tried dope for the first time with me. The same Franny that would have sex for what felt like hours during our binges. The same Franny that hated yuppie townies that wore pink pants.
A different Franny that now would be marrying one. A different Franny that now would be three years sober. A different Franny that now probably forgot about our plans, forgot the way she used to push down my cowlick in an unsuspecting way, forgot the way I used to kiss the beauty mark above her eyebrow, and forgot the way I used to roll her the best joints ever when she was feeling upset.
I close my laptop. Walk over to the drawer in the coffee table. I take all the papers out and find the envelope at the bottom of the pile. I open it and dump out the Xanax that fat-fuck from upstairs gave me two weeks ago. I was saving it, just in case. I throw it in my mouth and swallow it without any water. This shit will put me to sleep and that way I can be fresh as a daisy so I can ruin Frank’s party.
I don’t reply to the email. I don’t care if Leda thinks I’m dead in my apartment with needles sticking out of every vein I own. She mentioned at the end that she wanted to come up and visit. I know that cannot happen. She will find too much in the apartment. And she’ll want to sleep with me, but I won’t make that mistake again. I saw Franny’s face too many times. I’m better off sleeping with Susanna tonight and making her my new trashy girlfriend. Then I will reply to the email and tell Leda, I was doing great.

The Favor

Margot enjoys her job and knows that most people wouldn’t like carrying pitchers of beer and the occasional whiskey to the drunken and tired townies. When Roger’s father died and left him the Inn he thought by working, Margot might finally take care of herself. She might want to buy some new clothes, cut her ratty hair, or maybe even join one of those diet centers to lose that tire around her waist he didn’t remember marrying.

Last week Roger, her husband, fired the bartender that had been working at the Inn for the past four years because he caught him stealing dinner rolls in the kitchen. So he has hired Phil, who is considerably younger than Margot and Roger. Phil’s hair is dark with natural oils and his eyes haven’t seen sleep for days. Margot can’t tell if he is tanned or just dirty. She feels safer assuming he is dirty. She doesn’t mind pretending he might have lost all of his belongings in a fire and is starting over again in a small town at her small Inn.

It is snowing outside and Roger is sitting in the last booth near the entrance to the Inn’s kitchen. He takes a break from his fried cod sandwich, wipes away the smeared tartar on his chin, and glances up at Margot. She is carrying two pitchers in each of her chubby hands and is weaving in and out of bar tables and swaying customers. He notices her movement. Instead of hunching over with her eyes to the floor she is looks straight ahead thinning out her double chin. He wonders if her night off of doing laundry last night has elevated her mood.

Phil watches Roger’s face as he observes Margot. Phil remembers how Roger spoke of Margot two days ago when he walked into the Inn looking for a work. Roger wanted to share a laugh at Margot’s expense, calling her his cheapest investment to date. Phil faked a good chuckle. He figured he would compromise and listen to Roger’s idiotic comments and Roger would allow him to polish his skills and just stay out of his business.

During closing time, the broken jukebox is playing “Free Bird” on repeat. Margot doesn’t mind because the few locals that remain love Lynard Skynard. As the few stragglers leave the Inn and stumble home, Margot watches Phil move smoothly behind the bar. She begins wiping up pools of beer on the high tops and hears Phil hum along. She smiles because his voice sounds much better than Roger’s. Phil starts mumbling the words softer then louder until she can’t hear Ronnie Van Zant’s anymore. Margot blushes. She turns around; wiping her hands on her apron and meets his eyes. She can’t help but focus on the scar running from the top of his eyelid up through his eyebrow. He blankly stares back as his hands shine one of the dusty highballs.

Phil catches himself staring as well. Social situations with women were never his strong suit. He tries to imagine what she must have looked like before having kids. All he sees now is an old empty vessel that’s been hollowed out. She doesn’t have the personality of a woman with kids but he figures she must have popped out some big screaming babies over the years. So, he decides to place her in the category of unattractive but something you’d like to have anyway.

He begins noticing her English features and thinks of his first wife. He remembers her pale skin with splashes of freckles here and there. Over time those freckles that initially perked his curiosity became too much of a distraction for him. He had lost control of the other part of him. The part that made him crave darkness. He convinced himself that he needed those freckles more than she did. They were his. He wanted to rub them between his fingers like soft swatches of velvet.

Margot stands by the high tops fidgeting with her apron strings unsure of what to say. She hasn’t talked to a young man in what seems like decades but she can still recognize an awkward silence. All she can do is stare at his scar, even if it is impolite.

“It’s from a skiing accident, took a pole right through my goggles,” he explains while his dirty hands rub the scar.

“It doesn’t look that bad, you’re lucky the hair grew back,” she says with hesitation.

Phil licks his thumb and starts to smooth out the hairs on his eyebrow.

“But you could use some Vitamin E to help the scar,” she adds while trying to untie her apron.

Phil watches her struggle with the strings on her apron and he likes the way her lips purse together. He assumes it was something she did out of frustration. He thought it was probably one of those little ticks that only her husband began noticing a year into their marriage.

Phil slowly walks up to Margot and places his brown, callused hand on her warm forearm.

“Let me help you with that,” he says looking down at the knot.

“Thank you. This darned thing always gets knotted up,” she huffs. “I used to be a lot stronger when I was your age,” she smiles at him.

“My father taught me how to tie and untie square knots as a little boy. Probably the only useful thing the son of a bitch did,” he responds with a chuckle.

Margot can’t help but notice his perfectly white, symmetrical teeth. She finds it strange that he would have a mouth like wealth and the body of a vagabond. However it was one more thing they have in common. She too, takes pride in a clean mouth. She starts to think of always having to remind Roger to brush and floss. Her thoughts are interrupted as her apron falls to the floor. It give the sensation of clothing being yanked off. A feeling she has never had before.

Phil bends down and picks the apron up off the old bar floor.

“I am so sorry I startled you,” he says with a friendly smile.

Watching her chest rise in shock and face fill up with the color of a sweet rosé sends warmth into Phil’s groin. He wants to know what it would feel like to see his thick hands wrapped around her wrinkly neck. He wants to feel her body beneath him fighting, squirming, and then silence. He would relish the sweet sound.

Margot grabs her apron and begins walking to the back of the bar towards the kitchen. As she reaches to turn the lights out, Phil calls out to her.

“Hey—Margot is there any place close by to grab a haircut and shave at this time of night?” He asks with an innocence.

“Oh no—no that at this hour but I can see you do need one.”

“You bet,” Phil says acting embarrassed and pulling on his beard with a smirk.

“Why don’t we just fix you up back here,” Margot says pointing to the kitchen behind her, “I can grab some scissors and one of the knives. Let me just get some soap from the bathroom.” She thinks it’s the least she can do for a newcomer in this unforgiving town.

“Margot, I would be forever indebted to you,” Phil says while jokingly bowing his head.

Margot grabs a tattered bar rag that was draped over the huge sink. She places it over Phil’s chest and tucks it into the top of his t-shirt. She re-ties her apron and Phil drags one of the tall bar chairs into the kitchen. Phil sits down and leans back underneath the industrial kitchen lights.

He closes his eyes and asks, “You have done this before correct?”

“Oh of course. I used to shave my father as a small girl when mother drank too much. Her hands weren’t steady enough.”

Margot takes large chunks of his beard in her hand and slowly begins to cut. She can feel his warm breath funneling out his nostrils and spreading across her cheeks. She hadn’t been this close to anyone in years; not even her husband. She takes a cooking brush, used to apply marinade, and begins to dab the soap and water mixture all around his jaw. Phil flinches at the cold temperature against his skin. He doesn’t open his eyes, but instead smiles a bit while goose bumps cover his arms. Margot paints the soap on his scruffy skin like it is a landscape.

With the knife in her right hand, she slowly tilts his chin with her left. She applies the tiniest bit of pressure and then begins grazing his right cheek. With every stroke she wipes the blade on her apron and steadies his face again. She moves from his right cheek to his left with stable and steady hands. Phil loves the slight sting he feels with every stroke of the blade.

Margot places her hand on Phil’s forehead, her pointer finger touching his scar, and slowly pushes his head back further. She then applies the soap to his neck. During her second stroke the blade catches and nicks Phil above his adam’s apple. Blood begins to flow down his neck and onto her hand. His eyes remain closed and his body tingles. Her hands start to shake while she places pressure on the cut. Her breathing starts to accelerate and his adrenaline begins to pump. The air in the kitchen seems to spin and whirl around the two like a tornado. Margot starts to feel dizzy.

Phil opens his eyes slightly while his hand reaches underneath her floor length skirt and begins to graze up her calf. An electric current runs up Margot’s leg following the path laid out by Phil’s hand. She takes a deep breath and closes her eyes while her hand continues to apply pressure to the cut on his neck. Phil imagines a balloon inside himself where he keeps his dark secrets. It begins to grow at an uncontrollable rate. He knows while his hand reaches higher and higher up Margot’s leg that the balloon will burst like it always does. His heartbeat quickens and little drops of sweat accumulate above his lip.

Margot stands frozen. No one has touched her leg like this. His touch is slow and filled with mystery; there is no predictability in his movements. Her mind is drenched in excitement. She doesn’t even think about the dirt under his finger nails or the calluses that are lightly scraping her smooth skin. Higher and higher his hand rises and the blood begins to fill up her face. She can feel herself becoming moist underneath her skirt. She remembers feeling this way as a young woman reading dirty romance novels underneath her covers while Roger was passed out from having one too many scotches.

Phil runs the tips of his fingers inside the waistband of Margot’s underwear and she sucks in a great deep breath, but Phil’s hands just move faster. He can feel her body begin to fight off his touch and his desire builds. Phil stands up quickly and kicks the tall bar chair over with his leg. The noise startles Margot and before she can open her eyes Phil grabs the fat around her hips and pushes her into the stainless steel counter behind them. As Margot’s body gets shoved against the counter a stifled moan exits her mouth. The hairs on her brow shuffle together in a look of pain as her eyes squint shut. A smile spreads across Phil’s mouth and he reveals an entirely different one than Margot had seen before. His teeth that looked once inviting now look predatory and his eyes that looked tired now look dead.

As Phil slams Margot’s body into the counter a milky taste seeps into her mouth from the pain. The blood begins to slide slowly from Phil’s cut on his neck. She cannot make sense of the throbbing ache and yet the slight pleasure she feels from a man’s hands on her curves. As his hand reaches for her ponytail, she remembers standing naked in front of the mirror as a young girl. She would take off her clothes slowly after watching her parents drive down the tree-lined driveway towards the main road. She felt embarrassed and naughty looking at her parts. She felt like one day they had just appeared, ready for exploration. She had lumps and bumps and dark hair beginning to take over. Getting married at nineteen, Roger was the only other person that had seen her naked. On their wedding night, he was drunk and covered Margot’s face with his hand as his body twitched and spasmed over her.

She knew, as Phil forcefully lowered her body to the floor by pulling her hair, he felt her curves and appreciated them. She felt at ease thinking someone saw her the way she wanted to be seen. This is the day she had been waiting for her. God finally had answered her pleas and delivered Phil. He wasn’t what she pictured in her fantasies over the years, but if this is what God had designed this is what she was willing to accept.

Beads of sweat form across Phil’s forehead as he straddles Margot. The bar stool is lying on the concrete floor next to them. Margot’s back aches from her body being slammed into the counter and now pushed into the unforgiving concrete floor. Phil looks down at her and realizes she is more of a mystery than he anticipated. The last dumpy old lady he took out put up quite a good fight, she had managed to grab a picture off her night stand and smash it across Phil’s face causing the scar down his face. He applauded himself for being so quick on his feet with the skiing story. He wasn’t surprised she had fallen for it and in the morning someone would find her body and he would be on his way north.

He leans down towards Margot and a drop of sweat rolls off of his nose and softlyShe realized he was probably nervous as well. He grabs her blouse and starts pulling on it. Her fake pearl buttons bounce and clatter all over the floor. She begins to smile thinking about the naughty cover art of her forbidden books. It was just like she imagined except without the ruggedly handsome man and the ripped bodice. Phil still fit the criteria of her predatory lover.

Phil stares down at her. His eyes take it all in. Her torn blouse, gaping open, revealing what seemed like cascading flesh. Falling and falling. He felt blinded yet tantalized by her blazing white skin and liked the red line across her belly from her wool skirt. He notices her missing stretch marks and realizes she has been untouched by the curse of children. She was a curse to her own body, an untouched woman. Anger began to rise in Phil, this kill was not going as planned. Who would miss this old woman, he though. He realizes he isn’t even holding her down anymore. He thinks he even notices a slight smile on her wrinkled face. He winds up his hand and slaps her hard across her bloated cheek. She doesn’t yelp or shutter. Her eyes are closed and her face remains expressionless.

He doesn’t like misleading women. His intuition is wrong for the first time. She fooled him and punishment would be given harder this time. He pulls down her skirt and her underwear in a fever. Margot’s eyes are still closed and half of her head resting on the concrete floor. She doesn’t want to move or make him angry again. She couldn’t make sense of his sudden frustration with her. She was complying with every move he made. She thought maybe he wanted a struggle. She can remember her mother telling her, ‘boys always wanted a chase.’

Margot lifted her head up a bit and watched Phil as he struggled with her underwear around her clunky winter boots. She began reaching towards the turned over bar stool that she was shaving him in only moment ago. She looks at the scissors lying on the ground with his curly hair clinging to the long metallic shears. She lays still but reaches her arm out. Margot’s finger reaches and curls underneath one of the scissor loops (what are they really called?).

Phil climbs on top of her and hits her again. This time was harder than the last, he cut her lip. Blood starts seeping into her mouth. The taste of iron makes her gag a little and she wishes they could move to a vacant room upstairs where at least her back wouldn’t hurt so much. Phil called her numerous names that Margot recalls Roger saying when she doesn’t iron his pants right or his dinner isn’t on time. As Phil begins to undo his zipper Margot slowly raises the scissors up in the air.

“Hey!” Margot yells.

The only thing that can be heard is the buzzing fluorescent kitchen lights above them. A pearl from Margot’s shirt rolls into the stainless steel structure across from them. Phil is naked from the waist down and is staring at Margot as she holds one of the shears of the open scissors up to her own neck. He looks puzzled and almost frightened of her. She is shaking and there are tears rolling down her face. He knew that this kill was going to be pathetic and all wrong.

Margot slowly moves the shear an inch across her neck and blood slowly begins to drip down like dark oil. “I want you too,” she says out of breath.

It takes everything in Margot’s power not to climax. The rush from his body on top of hers, her nakedness, the warm blood running down her neck and then curving off and blotting her hair on the floor.

Phil’s stomach plummets all the way down to his scrotum. He felt as though someone were draining all the blood from him. Margot noticed his expression slowly growing blank with a hint of what seemed to be sadness. The thick lines on his forehead were folding and contorting into different shapes as he stood and pulled his pants up with great speed. Margot sat up and tried to cover her breasts with her ripped shirt as best she could.

“Is everything ok?” She asks in her soft voice as blood starts to flow a bit faster down her neck creating some stains on her shirt.

“I’m gettin’ the fuck outta here lady,”

Margot noticed his sudden thick southern accent and the way his mouth changed movements when he spoke. He wasn’t from the north as she had pictured earlier. Phil grabbed his shoes and Margot could still see a faint bulge in his pants. This made her feel more at ease.

Phil turned to Margot and pointed his big finger in her face. Margot noticed the excessive amount of dirt underneath his nails that needed a good cutting.

“You are fuckin’ crazy. Ya here me?” He said talking close and sort of louder than before. “You get me? You here me in there? You’re a fuckin’ pig” he asked.

Phil was talking to Margot like she was stupid. He thought the only reason anyone would act the she had was if they were mentally deranged. He couldn’t take advantage of a woman that was plain crazy. Phil turned around and bolted out of the Inn into the summer night air. Margot heard the door slam and the ‘Closed’ sign hit the door five or six times and then sat in the silence of the kitchen. She stood up and felt her back spasm and she steadied herself by grabbing onto the counter and catching herself. She reached for a clean bar rag and held it to her neck applying pressure. Her breathing started to calm down and she began to cry. She only let it last for a couple minutes and then she dressed herself as best she could. She walked to the back entrance of the Inn. She couldn’t risk walking through the lobby with blood all over her ripped shirt, bleeding from the neck and cuts on her face. She looked like she had been through war.

She climbed up the backstairs until she reached the fourth floor where she hoped Roger was half in the bag. She opened the screen door slowly so it wouldn’t creek and then quietly turned the brass knob. It wasn’t locked which meant Roger was still awake. Slowly closing the two doors behind her and tiptoeing through the dark kitchen she could see the TV flickering in the den. Roger coughed and she could hear him moving around in his recliner. She stopped and hid where the den’s entrance met the hallway to their bedroom. For the last couple months Roger had been sleeping in his recliner, usually too drunk to stumble to bed.

Margot peeks her head around the wall and sees Roger sprawled out in his stained undershirt, pants unbuttoned and whiskey in hand watching and old western. He starts sucking his teeth and making noises Margot figures Phil would never have made. She looks at Roger and feels disgusted. She closes her eyes and thinks about Phil’s eyes and teeth as they stared down at her. Chills went through her and a smile began to spread across her wrinkled face. She opened her eyes and lost her balance while the floor creaked beneath her.

“Margot?” Roger yelled from his recliner.

“Yes, it’s me,” Margot responded while turning into the kitchen to hide her tattered appearance and bleeding neck.

“For Christ’s sake, you trying to scare me or something. I’ve never heard you this quiet before in my life.”

“I was just going to make your late night snack but I wanted to shower first, if that is ok.”

“Do what you need to do but I want a snack at some point. It would be better if it wasn’t an hour from now,” he said and took another sip of whiskey.

She could only imagine how disgusting his breath smelled. Margot hated the smell of alcohol that sprayed off his lips when he would get mad and yell close to her face. She would put money on it that Phil didn’t drink. She closed her eyes and lifted the collar of her ripped shirt and took in the scent still lingering. Phil’s rustic sweaty aroma left a warm feeling deep in her chest. She wanted to cry but knew if she began she may never stop. She felt like a small girl again, listening to her mother and father scream, bottles smashing and hateful words echoing throughout their small ranch. She knew back then trouble was sure to follow if she cried as well. So she would bury her face deep within the blankets and pray for God to bring her a man that would protect her from these things. Protect her from ever wanting to cry again.

Margot turns and peers around the wall to look at Roger. He is sitting in his recliner with his feet crossed and the bottom of his socks stained brown from his boots. He laughs at the TV and Margot pictures Roger sitting there instead. She begins to walk down the hallway replaying the interaction that had occurred just moments ago and she wonders to herself as she runs the hot bathwater what she will wear tomorrow night for her second date with Roger.