Serendipitous Soul: A Serial Story — Part 4
I Know I’m Losing You
- Once? You fucked her one time! Just once? You fucked her just once? A little whore and you stuck your cock inside her and just once is supposed to mean something? Like that makes you a good guy? Maybe that’s why you’re telling me its just once, because you’re a good guy then, but you fucked her over and over, right? You can tell me Adam. You’re being honest. You’re talking about your feelings. You’re telling me you made a mistake. So tell me all about the mistake, you miserable fucker. You fucked her more than once. I bet. Did she suck your cock? Did you like it? You better have, asshole, because it’s not like I’m going to be sucking you off anytime soon. So remember that while your jerking off in the bathroom. You fuck. Was she good. Did you like it? Did she come?
I can’t tell her I don’t think so. I don’t think Faith came that one time. I don’t even know where her clitoris was. It was dark. She was in shadows. I didn’t even feel like we were making love. I was inside her and she was moving and then it was over and I can’t remember.
Miriam found out.
She didn’t answer the text.
I deleted her number. I deleted her e-mails.
When the anger ebbs, she slackens like a sail. We sit silent. She reaches out for my hand.
I want to say, I’m not ever going to leave you.
My lips are dry. Her eyes are closed. She looks defeated.
Her breasts are thick and heavy. The skin around her waist is slack. Her legs are like stanchions. The fuzz on her face is thick.
She opens her eyes.
- Why are you looking at me like that?
Seeley sent me an e-mail asking me to go to a reading with her.
- Who’s Seeley? How do you know her?
- Someone I met through work.
- I want to talk to her. Give me your phone.
- I don’t have her number.
- I’m going to send an e-mail telling her to call you.
- For god’s sake, Miriam. I’m sorry. I made a mistake. Don’t make it worse.
She spits out the words.
- You made it worse, asshole.
A jet black ant, thorax twisted over the lip of the metal footrest, one leg stuck in melted caramel, the other seven wriggling in frantic cadence. Look at the ant, look at my cell, look at the ant. Yells drift over the dusty base path. The automated clink of the batted ball.
Would it survive if I plucked its leg off? I don’t understand the anatomy of the ant’s spirit.
- Adam? Hey, Adam, come on, game’s over.
The jet black ant is a molecule, a particle, the organic matter that condenses to the placid sway of Faith’s hair.
Penny stands at the back of her car and licks a banana cone. I sit on the opened back of my car. We watch our girls play on the old swings. Their uniform shirts flap on their tiny rears. My hands are numb.
- You fucked up.
- You must feel pretty bad.
- I guess.
- I’m a little surprised at how big a thing this is for Miriam. I mean, she was always joking about how this kind of thing didn’t matter.
- It matters.
- That’s clear.
My eyes burn now. I push at my ears, flex my jaws. Something’s got to come lose.
- Don’t beat yourself up, Adam. It happens. We’re all big girls and boys.
- I’m not going to be on that committee anymore.
- Where did I go wrong?
I don’t know if you want me to answer, say you didn’t go wrong, or to be quiet, or to say we didn’t go wrong, or to say that we both went wrong, and that we can both go right. Or if you want me to touch you, or if you want me to leave the room. I don’t know if you want me to burn slowly at your feet or make you smile and laugh. I don’t know.
- Tell me her name.
This is the final place: our first sofa, a wide rent in the back where Cat made a birthing nest, pushed into the back basement storage. Cool. Pitch black. The hum of the house mute. Stretch out. Wait for the racing sound to stop.
This story is the second part of a five-part serial that will be published here each Friday for the next month. It is a writing exercise. The plot is inspired by the first five songs that shuffled on my iPod. Each installment is exactly 750 words. You can find Part One here, Part Two here and Part Three here .