Issue 24

Bri Stoever

“My wife will be home soon.”

“Don’t worry about her.” She tosses her long ebony hair over her shoulder, trying to hook her bra. He feels like he should help her, but the paranoia keeps him at bay. Every car that trots up the road sounds like the slamming front door. Each time a headlight passes the window like a helicopter searchlight, his heart seizes.

“Hurry up,” his palm bashes against the bedside table. Her thin frame flinches. “Sorry, kitten.” He can’t remember her name. She brushes off the pet name like the stray she is.

He’s not sure if she’s been here before. It’s hard to keep track of the number of girls he’s been hoarding like a teen boy’s dirty magazines. Instead of keeping them hidden away beneath his bed, they lie in his sheets, twisting and turning among them. The woman slowly pulls a loose sweater over her mane of hair. It rests dangling off her frame, leaving her shoulders bare and inviting.

“I thought you were worried about your wife …”

“Shut up,” he huffs between his trail of kisses.

The woman turns to face him, leaning over his shoulder, words sliding into his ear, “What’s she like?”

“You’re all the fucking same.”

“How so?”

He moves away from kneeling on the bed behind her to slide his legs over the edge, “You’re always asking about her. What’s she matter, anyway? You’re screwing her husband. You shouldn’t give a rat’s ass about her. None of you should.”

“We’re a curious breed.”

Her hair drapes over his chest as she wraps her arms around his torso reversing their previous position. He can’t remember how many there’s been before her. So many girls out there for a single man such as himself to enjoy. There was the blonde with the crow’s feet, the brunette with a feisty attitude … or was that a redhead? That would make more sense. He really enjoyed the woman with the bubble-gum pink pixie cut. He wondered if he could find her again …

“What was I saying?”

She cranes her neck so she can look at him directly. “You were discussing your wife.”

“Oh right … We don’t connect anymore. The spark is dead. Only ten years and there’s no spark.”

“Ten years? That doesn’t seem long enough to get bored.”

“I said thirty … didn’t you hear?” She doesn’t flinch this time. “Maybe it is ten, what’s it matter? The days pass, nothing happens between us. Everything blurs together.” In his mind, he sees a flash of purple. He pushes the woman off him. “Get dressed.”

The clock on his bedstand glows a neon green through the darkness. He taps the wooden floor beneath his feet as the woman shimmies a pair of jeans around her hips. He watches her and feels guilt begin to crawl across his back, a scorpion. Its tail poised to pierce him for his misdeed.

He opens his mouth, for a moment nothing comes out, the words won’t connect with his head. They puff out of his ears and pool around the floor in a mess of meaning he can’t handle.

“She … our … wedding.”

The woman looks concerned. “Your wedding?”

“Very pretty …” His thoughts turn into a pair of rampant bulls with strings attached to their horns. They chase each other around the ring and take his words bucking along with them. Gutted and gored like the phrases spewing from his mouth.

“Deep breath.” She pats his arm. “Focus on one thing. Don’t overdo it.”

“I don’t remember our wedding day … I don’t remember our wedding day. I should remember it. She should be there. And me. She would be pretty … She should.”

The woman shushes him, wrapping her arm around his bicep. She brings his hand up to her lips and kisses it, a smudge of red peeling away from her stained lips onto his knuckle. He wipes it on his bedsheets.

“My wife will be home soon.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve got plenty of time to slip away.”

He stares at her blood-red lips, amazed that the color has stayed intact after their dark love. The color blending its way into the black covers pooled where they sit. Sinking into the murk beneath him. He should wash the sheets for the next time he invites a girl over. Maybe his roommates would be going out of town the next weekend and he could have fun with whoever he wanted.

He quickly moves to her, cupping her face. “My wife used to dress up for me. I don’t think she does anymore. It was fun, our game. The days blur together. Nothing ever happens.”

He suddenly remembers where he found the woman. He’d wandered a block or two down to the bar he frequents. They know him by name there and always have his favorite beer practically poured before he sits down. That’s where he found her. That’s where he’d found them all. Sitting on the special stool in the back, sipping on some fruity drink that all the girls love. It’s his lucky stool. He brings home whatever chooses to sit there.

“My wife will be home soon.”

The woman takes his face in her hands and gives him a steaming kiss. “Then I better disappear, darling.” He watches her go and sits on the bed. Before she exits, she takes one last look at him. They always do, always so sentimental. He can’t understand it. The clock shines through the room, flashing as each minute drifts away.

What should he do tonight? It was still early. He was a bachelor after all. Maybe he could go get a drink. He stood and made his way to the door, but then stopped. It didn’t feel right. He wasn’t in the right mood. Already felt like he’d had one earlier. He ambled back to the bed and slowly sat down, his knees popping as he did. He must have worked out too hard earlier that day, otherwise he wouldn’t be this sore. He’d have to take it easy for a day or two.

The front door slams and jolts him out of his thoughts. A slender figure slowly comes into the bedroom. Her hand moves towards the wall.

The quick burst of light suddenly turned on burns into his eyes, and anger beats at his temples. She mutters an apology before sliding out of her short heels. He watches her wearily bend over to pick up the heels and move over to the other side of the bed. A purple ribbon is pinned to her jacket as always, and he watches as she slides it off and changes quickly into lounging clothes. She sits, smoothing the sheets, the pillow, ready to lie down to sleep, wordless. Her hands move up and delicately pull a purple ribbon out of her hair. The dirty blonde waves with streaks of gray ripple down her back as the purple ribbon curls on the table next to the clock.

She turns to face him, her eyes wrinkled with crow’s feet and other attributes of getting old. He wonders what he will look like at her age. When did she have time to get old without him? He tries to remember how many years they’ve been married. How old are the kids? He looks at a smudge of brilliant red in the corner of her mouth. He wonders if it’s from a dinner she had without him. He wishes she would wipe it off.

“Goodnight, darling.” She flicks off the light switch near the bed, leaving the clock to illuminate the room once more. He stares at the purple ribbon on the bedside table, trying to remember when it came home.