A Little Slice Of
by Timothy Gager
Within thirty minutes of the visit she urgently climbs on top and we are thrashing under the sheets. I can see her ribs, her spine and shoulder bones. Last time we were together there was more there. Ten minutes later I am distant. I'm not used to sharing myself and my house with anyone—but she had to see me. It's 10 AM and I twist open a bottle of rum. "You drink too much, perhaps," she says. I wait for the carbonation to settle from the coke. "Perhaps," I say.
It's because I'm sad that I am this way. I should pay attention to my guest but my mind is with the things I have to get done today. I give her a long hug. She has every reason to stand me against a wall and pelt me with oranges. "I still want to go to the beach," she says.First we go out for breakfast. While we wait she places her feet on top of mine. They are bigger. "I always thought what they said about foot size was true. In your case it's a myth. We fit in many, many ways."
Another couple is in line listening to us, smiling, asking us about what's good at the diner, where we are from, telling us that they used to live in Pittsburgh and Sacramento, asking what we do. I tell them that I'm in charge of a stick loaded with electricity and my job is to kill cows. "I can't take you anywhere," my out-of-town guest smiles after the conversation dies.
"In California, people don't go out for breakfast," she tells me. "When they do they say how great it is, but the breakfasts there really suck." They do not suck here at this diner—they are huge but she hangs in with it.. "You eat too fast, definitely," she says. I usually don't eat in front of people because of that. She notices a lot about me. After breakfast she says I have kind crinkly eyes. I am uncomfortable that she notices too much about me.
What I notice when we get home that there are faint-colored blood droplets on my sheet. "Are you having your, you know?" I ask. "No, it's part of something I'm going through," she says. I remember the last time there was blood on my sheets. It was my blood. I gave a beautiful mess of a girl a hard time and she smacked me good. That blood was thick and red. Either I'm pushing people away or pissing them off. I piss myself off.
At the beach the waves are tumultuous from a hurricane that hit farther south two days ago. We stay safe on the shore. The town is no longer what it used to be, many of the arcades that used to house the joy of young beachgoers and couples have become abandoned. Their signs have peeling paint, say things like, "Madam Psychic: Find out who you are" and "This door for the time of your life". Everything seems to be falling apart. Her bony fingers intertwine with mine while she says she's going to miss me, thanks me for seeing her during her visit east—her farthest and final booty call. Then she tells me everything, collapses onto the bench in front of Mr. Happy Fried Dough and breaks bigger than the waves out in the ocean.
Timothy Gager is the author of seven books of short fiction and poetry. He is widely published in print anthologies and on the web. He lives on www.timothygager.com.