Close Your Eyes and Lean (CNF Story)
Advisory: This story contains mature content.
Close Your Eyes and Lean
by Vaughn Demont
The body of my last relationship’s not even cold and here I am, ducking away from the wind and banging my knuckles onto an aluminum screen door that’s going to make my hand sting, giving Mr. Right Now twenty more seconds before I exhale hard and just go. I can hear his dogs barking, reminding me why I’m a cat person.
I had to go behind the back of the house, according to his instructions. The house is small, one story, next to the railroad tracks and the high school with buses pulling in. I see walkers along Gilliard Drive and remember hating that road because of the wind off the lake, and as I stand on the wrecked shag carpet sample doormat on the small staircase to the back door with the six coats of paint showing, I already know that they’re looking at me, knowing why I’m here. I see the sign, “Deliveries in Rear,” written on cardboard and stuck in the front window. I would normally at least chuckle at the pun.
If his boyfriend answers the door, I’ll just say I’ve got a certified letter for someone who obviously doesn’t live there. It’s a believable contingency: I’m scruffy enough and my backpack can pass for a messenger bag and there are a few manila envelopes inside that I could easily say are priorities. He’d only have to buy it long enough for me to make a timely exit, and then let the cheating boyfriend handle the problem.
I tell myself that this is not the start of a new relationship. I don’t need my mother—the relationship barometer—telling me exactly how it’s going to end, like she did with Richard (age), Thomas (cheating), Jack (walkout), Frank (rebound), and finally Chris (500 miles), and being accurate every time.
Screw this.
Just go home and do it yourself. This isn’t about him.
I roll my shoulders and wedge my headphones in a little more securely.
My standards should be higher than simple distance.
The door opens, he invites me in. I take off my jacket and hang it on the chair at the kitchen table. The little TV is on in the background playing some old episode of Saved By The Bell and I automatically search the catalog of my brain for various trivia on Mark-Paul Gosselar, if only to amuse myself while I take out my headphones and stuff them and the MP3 player in my jacket pocket and sit down. Cups and dishes and plates on the counter, newspaper spread on the table, dead clock on the wall, smell of the dogs and always the wind outside. Nothing in here’s clean. The lights are off, just stray light through the faded curtains. I’m thankful for that.
I can’t remember his name.
I don’t really care, either, and I wonder if that should scare me.
He sits at the table, hair brush-cut with a little more pepper than salt, his build a bit squat, wearing a dirty white tee and sweats. I tell myself it’s only because it’s 7:30am. His face is a bit hangy, eyes tired. I think of a bulldog on Quaaludes.
“Now, you know I have a boyfriend,” he said. “But nothing’s going on between us. He’s been playing around himself, you know.”
His dogs are still barking, smaller breeds trying to vault themselves over the plywood that barricades them from the kitchen and the bedroom, which are the only two rooms I really care about right now. For a second, I believe they’re barking because his boyfriend’s home.
I’m supposed to get on the bus; instead I’m in a house talking to a guy I wouldn’t take home if I were drunk, knowing that in the next five minutes, I’m going to be naked on a bed.
I don’t even know what kind of small talk I’m making; I’m just wishing his damned dogs would just shut up.
“So, you know,” he said. His eyes were on me—my shoulder, to be specific. “We have to be, you know,” he drummed his fingers slowly on the table with one hand. “Discreet.”
“Yeah. Okay.” Like I’m going to brag that I slept with this guy.
It starts with a simple kiss and I close my eyes and try to think of someone else but his hands are cold and his face unshaved, sending tactile tremors into my fantasy of Ewan MacGregor and screwing in the rain. The rest is awkward groping before heading into the bedroom. I don’t want to spend too much time thinking on whether I’ve ever been the Other Man. As he unbuckles my pants, I tell myself I’m not cheating.
I can always tell if there’s relationship potential because I have two modes that are reserved for post-sex: Conversational and Scared Rabbit.
Chris and I would usually talk about Buffy The Vampire Slayer and the merits of Japanese voice actors.
When this guy leaves to get me a towel so I can clean up, I know there’s nothing with him ‘cause all I want to do is grab my clothes and dash out the back door and down the railroad tracks.
Scared Rabbit.
Fuck, how can it take five minutes to get a towel?
I’m putting on my socks and my shirt and saving the underwear and pants until I can get the towel and wash off and grab my jacket and run like Hell.
I’m thinking about calling Chris and confessing, even though there’s nothing to confess.
“Alright.” He handed me the towel. “Here you go. That was really good, you know.”
I don’t want to talk.
“Yeah. Been a while.”
Shut up. Just shut up.
“What? How long?”
I try to decide whether he means the general act or just that particular position.
“Two—two and a half years, I think.”
He looked at me a moment and grinned enough to show yellowing teeth. “And I thought I’d gone a while since Sunday.”
Give the slight chuckle, enough to dismiss it.
I wipe off and yank up my underwear and jeans, thankful my shoes are slip-ons.
“You gotta head out, huh? Me too, my boyfriend’s—” He sighs. “His mother needs to be looked after for a few hours and his sister’s going to Oswego and…”
I’ve tuned him out, getting my jacket on, tightening up my hat. I see a trash can flying down the road adjacent to the tracks.
“You sure you don’t want a ride? Windy out there.”
“Nah, I’d prefer to walk. Good exercise.” It’s the usual excuse.
“Well, I hope we can do this again, sometime. Just IM me if you see me on, ok?”
“Alright.”
And I hear him close the door behind me as I step into the wind.
My mother’s going to be sitting at her desk when I get back, playing solitaire like she does every morning. When I get home, she’s going to want to talk about how little sleep she got the night before and what she learned from her sleep apnea forum, but then she’s going to realize that I’m not supposed to be there.
She’s going to ask, “What are you doing home?” The most important thing to do is answer the question before she can ask it, cut down the chitchat time so I can get upstairs to the mouthwash.
But, I’m going to want to drop my backpack and take off my hat and take out my headphones and walk to her and say, “Mom? I just slept with a guy and I don’t even know his name.”
“Mom? I just slept with a guy who’s older than your husband.”
“Mom? I just slept with a guy who’s involved with another guy.”
“Mom? I just slept with a guy simply to sleep with a guy because I haven’t gotten any in two years.”
“Mom? I just slept with a guy and I feel like I cheated on Chris.”
“Mom? I just slept with a guy so I could feel needed.”
“Mom? Am I a bad person?”
But I won’t.
“I missed the bus.” That’s the answer. Simple and believable. It’ll give me an hour. Then, I’ll go up and check my e-mail and make sure I set my stealth settings on IM so that I won’t have to worry about seeing this guy ever again. I’ll miss my first class of the morning, but I can live with it. It’s what I get for registering for an 8am class.
Pace is good and steady. I reach up and adjust one of the headphones with my finger out of habit. Something by Rise Against is playing because I need anger in my ears to distract me from “since Sunday” because even if you can’t stand the guy, it’s nice to entertain that you are the Other Man instead of One of Many.
The wind gusts again and I feel the sting of the wind chill for the first time this morning. Left hand retreats into the sleeve to hold the player while the right thrusts into the pocket.
And comes out with a $20 bill.
He paid me.
I break into a run.
I need to take a shower.
I need to get the taste of him out of my mouth.
The wind gives me a shove back, my icy fingers thawing enough to let it catch the twenty and carry it off somewhere behind me. It’s a straight shot here to home. I’m running blind.
Posted from my blog with SteemPress : https://vaughndemont.com/2018/06/06/close-your-eyes-and-lean-cnf-story/