Just Another Week in Suburbia

by Les Zig

  I pick up Wallace. He wriggles in my arms. His tail hammers my chest. Then I realise it’s not his tail but my heartbeat. I unlock the door, but the moment I open it an inch, Roger shoves through.

  ‘Where is she?’ He storms into the house, peers into the study, looks up the stairwell. ‘Where is she? Beth!’

  ‘Wait a minute—’

  Roger strides into the dining room. I chase after him. Jane’s sitting on the couch in my bathrobe. When Roger barges in, she jumps up. For a moment, her leg’s exposed right up to her hip and I think—or maybe I imagine—there’s a glimpse of pubic hair. Then the robe swallows up her legs. But I’m sure Roger has seen her because he looks longer than he should.

  ‘Tell me where she is!’

  Roger sways back and forth, taking everything in. Wallace keeps barking. He writhes so hard in my hands that I have trouble holding him.

  ‘She’s not here!’ Jane says.

  ‘I’ve seen the way you look at her!’ Roger says.

  ‘What?’ I say.

  ‘You want her, don’t you, you bastard? You talked her into leaving me!’

  ‘Maybe she left because of the way you treated her!’ Jane says.

  ‘What the fuck are you on about?’

  ‘We saw her wrists! What did you do to her?’

  ‘Whatever happened between us was consensual. Now tell me where she is!’

  Jane grabs the phone from the kitchen counter. ‘Get out or I’m calling the cops,’ she says.

  Roger storms up to me. Wallace snarls and barks. Roger points a finger at me. Wallace tries to snap it off—and would’ve, but I pull him back. I have to give Wallace credit—Roger’s size means nothing to him.

  ‘I know what you did.’

  I shake my head. ‘What did I do?’

  Roger keeps pointing.

  ‘Go! Okay?’ Jane says. She hits three keys on the phone. I can hear it. Beep-beep-beep—emergency.

  Roger leaves the dining room. I follow him to the front door.

  ‘You’re a cunt, mate, you know that?’ he says to me. ‘A cunt.’

  He stomps out, smashes the security door open. I close the front door, then think twice. I open it, lock the security door, and close and lock the front door.

  Wallace struggles in my arms. I lower him. He jumps before I reach the floor and hits the ground running. He barks at the front door, runs some circles, then barks some more.

  ‘Wallace,’ I say, but there’s no conviction in my voice.

  He runs up the hallway, through the dining room and, moments later, I hear the doggy door thump. As I re-enter the dining room, I see him running to and fro across the backyard, then around the side of the house, barking. He’s on patrol, as always, checking that the threat’s gone.

  Good luck to him.

  I sit on the couch. Jane, still in my robe, sits next to me. She draws her knees up to her chest. I have the smallest tremor in my arms and can’t settle it. I hope Jane doesn’t feel it. I pick up my beer and take a big swig. Wallace has stopped barking outside, but he’s still whizzing around.

  ‘I didn’t expect that,’ Jane says.

  Neither did I. Although now that it’s happened, it’s unsurprising.

  ‘I’d have thought Roger would shrug off a break-up like he didn’t care.’

  I finish my beer, but fear there’ll be more thumping at my door. Jane rubs my arm. She knows how scared I am. Fuck. It’s she—and Wallace—who chased Roger out.

  ‘So you have a thing for Beth?’

  I spin my head to Jane.

  ‘Roger said you wanted her.’

  I don’t know what to say. But Jane breaks into a crooked grin. She rubs my arm again, rests her head on my shoulder.

  ‘I’m kidding,’ she says. ‘I know he was mouthing off.’

  ‘We’re friends obviously at school.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘But that’s it.’

  ‘Casper, you don’t have to defend yourself.’

  ‘And I didn’t do anything to them. I really didn’t.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘She talked to me on Monday, about wanting to get serious with Roger.’

  ‘You told me.’

  ‘That was it.’

  Jane takes the empty beer bottle from my hand and puts it on the table. Then she straddles me. Her nose tickles my cheek. Her eyelashes flutter across my forehead. She bookends my face in her hands, kisses me. The tip of her tongue traces my lower lip.

  ‘It’s okay,’ she says.

  I hope she doesn’t know how Roger’s made me feel. But of course she knows—after all our time together, she knows my secrets. She knows my meekness. She knows who I am. I wish I could be somebody else for her.

  ‘It’s okay,’ she whispers.

  I lower my face, almost ashamed to look at her. She kisses me slowly, her tongue parting my lips. I still don’t want to look up, but she continues to kiss me. Her hands frame my face. She wants to reassure me—it’s what you’d expect from any partner, but in this moment, trembling and afraid, it’s humiliating. The self-loathing burns through me. I want to take command. Want to be assertive. Want to be strong. I slide my hands down her thighs, under her buttocks and hoist myself from the couch. Jane shrieks. Her legs lock around my thighs, her arms around my neck.

  ‘What’re you doing?’ she says.

  I thrust my mouth onto hers until she’s recoiling. I bite her lower lip, tug at it between my teeth. She raises her head. I kiss her jaw, her neck. The robe slips down her right shoulder. I run kisses down her collarbone, bite her right shoulder. She pulls away from me.

  Desperation fuels me—desperation and fear that I’m losing her without even knowing it, that I’m unravelling in the chaos unfolding around me, so I hold her tighter than I should, kiss her harder than I should, want her with an overriding passion, if not lust, like I can brand my claim on her, or override any doubts she might have through the sheer power of my desire.

  I plant her on the kitchen counter where I plant her coffee every morning and pull the belt of the bathrobe hard so it unfurls from the belt loops. The bathrobe opens like curtains, unveiling her breasts. I throw the belt aside.

  ‘Hey—’

  I kiss her and her protest explodes into a gasp of breath. She throws her head back and I kiss her neck, pulling the robe down her arms. She leans back against the counter. Her breasts stand pointed, her areolae swollen, her nipples stiff. Her fingernails dig into my back.

  I take her left breast in my mouth, tug at her nipple between my teeth until she hisses. I release it, swirl my tongue around the nipple. My hand cups her other breast. Squeezes. I kiss her cleavage, her belly, outline kisses around her small pubic triangle. She slides back onto the counter and wraps my head in her hands. I grab her thighs. She lifts her right leg onto my shoulder. My tongue penetrates her. She gasps. Her back arches. Her crotch thrusts into me. She pushes my head down. I drive my tongue onto her clit. Her moan fills the kitchen; her right leg presses into my back.

  I drive my tongue back and forth on her clit—her gasps accompanying my rhythm—as I unbuckle and unzip my jeans and push them and my underwear down my knees.

  My cock unfurls in front of me. I’m so hard I worry I’ll pop straight away. I rise up onto my tiptoes and guide—if fumbling is commensurate with guiding—myself into Jane. I hold myself still, my hands gripping her hips, still worried about exploding prematurely. Then I build my rhythm, although there are times I stutter and slip out of her. The counter’s a bit too high for me.

  I pick her up. The bathrobe unwinds behind her like a cape. Her legs tighten around my hips and she draws up to kiss me. I spin on the spot and lower her onto the carpet, using my shoulders to push her legs back high and wide. My knees skid across the carpet as I struggle for purchase.

  Again, I thrust into her, but now it’s slow, and I almost slip out. She moans in my ear. I continue at the same pace, although it has less to do with technique and more to do with getting comf
ortable in the position. My thrusts grow harder, faster. The carpet burns my knees. I feel my forehead strain, sweat running down my temples. My eyes fix on her, the way her breasts bounce, the way her body shimmies. Her moans elongate into a wail.

  My teeth grind and eyes clench as I explode. My next thrusts slam into her, then I slow, each thrust growing progressively tamer. I collapse on top of her. Kiss her. She exhales into my mouth, tasting of her tuna sandwich, and kisses me. I slide off her and let her curl into me. I close my eyes, trying to catch my breath. A presence surfaces behind my head. I open my eyes to see Wallace, his head tilted, his tail shaking, as if he’s trying to work out whether we’re okay. Jane lifts her head, smiles at him, then laughs.

  She kisses me again, rests her head back on my shoulder, and puts her left hand on my chest.

  I drape the robe over us and Jane cuddles into me, her fingers twirling in my chest hair, her breath warm on my neck. Outside it’s dark, although it probably isn’t much past 8.30pm.

  ‘Where did that come from?’ Jane asks.

  I don’t say anything, and think about the way I capitulate to Vic, to Jean Jacket, to the kids at school, and now to Roger. I hate it. Hate it.

  ‘You okay?’ Jane asks.

  ‘I don’t like …’

  Jane pulls herself up onto me, folds her arms across my chest, dabs my chin with her index finger. ‘What?’ Her mouth teases a wry grin. ‘What’re you thinking?’

  ‘Sometimes, I don’t like …’

  ‘What?’

  I look away.

  ‘Talk to me.’

  ‘Sometimes, I don’t like the way I handle things … Like tonight.’

  Jane ruffles my chest hair, the way she might ruffle the fur of Wallace’s head when he’s been a good boy. ‘It’s okay.’

  I’m unconvinced. She kisses my chin.

  ‘I wasn’t always like this,’ I say. ‘I …’

  ‘What?’

  I don’t know when to trace it back to—Mum’s death, and living in the silence of the aftermath, cowering in my room, drawing because there was nothing else anymore? Was that it? The transition was so gradual it occurred unmarked.

  ‘It is okay,’ Jane says.

  She pulls herself up until she can kiss me on the lips. I hold her tight and appreciate her efforts, but I can’t convince myself she’s right.

  Friday

  22

  The alarm buzzes. Jane slaps a hand onto it. Sits up in bed. She yawns and stretches, back arching. I flip onto my side and run a finger down her spine to the crack of her buttocks. She smiles at me. Yawns again.

  ‘I’m so tired this morning,’ she says.

  She stands up, teeters.

  ‘You okay?’ I say.

  ‘Yeah. Tired.’

  She stumbles into the bathroom, flips on the shower, forgets her stretches, and enters the cubicle, standing there with her face upturned as water sprays her. I contemplate following her.

  Rapid little footsteps distract me. Wallace jumps onto the bed and licks my face. I pat his head. He rolls onto his back. I scratch his belly. His eyes seal shut and his mouth curls into that ecstatic grin.

  ‘Come on,’ I say.

  When I get down to the kitchen, I see through our rear windows it’s grey outside. It’ll probably be another day of rain. I also see Vic’s cat Silver strolling across the backyard.

  ‘Wallace, look!’ I say, and point to the window.

  Wallace looks at me.

  ‘Look!’ I point again.

  He keeps looking at me.

  I scoop him up and carry him to the rear windows, pointing like he’s a child I’m trying to show something to at the zoo.

  ‘Look! Look!’

  He finally sees Silver and squirms in my hands. I lower him and he hits the ground running, bolting for the back door. He blurs into the backyard, feet barely touching the ground. I can still hear the doggy door rocking.

  Silver’s head spins. He shoots off, hitting the fence midway up and scaling it. He balances on the top, hisses at Wallace, leaps from the fence and disappears.

  Wallace runs around the yard barking, then performs his check of the entire property to make sure Silver is gone. He sniffs at the Guptas’ fence, then at the fence that separates us from Vic’s house. When he sniffs at holes I’ve filled, I’m worried he might dig his way through so he can search for Silver. But, as if satisfied, he comes back towards the back door. I’m sure I don’t imagine that his chest is puffed out.

  Moments later, he’s inside. He stands before me, head tilted.

  Job’s all done, boss.

  I fill his bowls and give him a treat, too.

  The morning unwinds like every other morning. I shower, dress, make breakfast. Jane comes down about fifteen minutes later and picks up her coffee. She looks amazing: her slacks tight around her hips, her buttoned blazer like it might burst. Or at least I imagine it could. She’s pulled her hair back into a topknot ponytail.

  I decide it’s actually not like every other morning, not least of all because I have an erection again. I move around to Jane, run one hand down her hip.

  ‘What’re you doing?’ she asks.

  I press my crotch against her so she can feel my erection through my jeans.

  ‘Oh.’

  I kiss her neck. My other hand slides in between the buttons of her shirt.

  ‘I can’t,’ she says.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Work.’

  ‘So?’ I run my hand down from her hip to her crotch.

  ‘I’ve just showered and dressed.’

  ‘So?’

  I kiss her. She’s hot against me. I want to tear her clothes off.

  ‘There’s no time,’ she says.

  ‘I’ll only be, like, two minutes.’

  She laughs. ‘There’s no time for me to shower and get ready again.’

  ‘Stop being such a wimp.’

  ‘Wimp?’ Her brows arch.

  ‘Yeah.’

  She kisses me, cups my erection through my jeans, then pulls my zip down. ‘Who are you calling wimp?’

  Before I can answer, the doorbell rings.

  ‘It’s Kai,’ Jane says.

  I check my phone. Kai’s early—seven minutes early. I tell Jane.

  ‘It’s a lift,’ she says.

  ‘Tell him to go and I can take you to work.’

  ‘You’ll be late. Especially if we keep going.’ Jane pecks me on the lips. ‘I should go.’ She cups my crotch. ‘But to be continued.’

  The doorbell rings again. Jane picks up her case.

  ‘Oh! Don’t forget Sarah and dinner tonight,’ Jane says as she backs towards the hallway.

  ‘Oh, the joy.’

  Jane darts back and kisses me. ‘Come get me at work about six?’

  ‘Okay.’

  She kisses me one last time as the doorbell rings again.

  ‘Love you. Bye.’

  ‘Bye,’ I say.

  She heads for the front door.

  I sit down on the couch and pick up my sketchpad. I open it to my portrait of Jane. She’s an outline and some features. If the kids from school saw this picture they’d think it lewd enough to comment on. But I haven’t yet captured any of the nuances which’ll breathe life into the picture—if I can breathe life into it.

  I imagine the strokes of my pencil, see the result as something Elizabethan, like Jane’s some tortured heroine. I’m unsure why that image comes to mind. I don’t have any particular interest in that style, although Jane does read the occasional Gothic romance novel.

  But it’s the first time I see the complete picture in my head. Usually, I discover it as I’m drawing. Now I can’t avert my eyes. My erection stirs as I think about Jane on this couch after this stupid dinner with Sarah and her latest.

  I close the sketchpad.

  Tonight awaits.

  It’s murky outside, and none of the other neighbours are around. I pull out my phone, check the time: 8.42. I’m running late. Everybo
dy’s already underway.

  I hurry to my car.

  23

  It’s 8.54 by the time I stride into the staff room. I dread Stuart’s reaction, but the usual morning hubbub greets me. Jerry Logan raves about the fishing he’ll do this weekend. Max Loughlin talks about the game he’s going to see tonight. Ed Welling studies the financial section in the paper as Olivia Harding gushes about the art show she’s attending on Sunday. Beth listens to Stan Doyle who sits, shoulders slumped, probably whining about the disaster that is his life. Other teachers are engaged in their little cliques. The chorus of chatter is warm—workmates sharing their lives with one another. It seems so different a dynamic from usual for this time of the morning. That’s when I realise the obvious: Stuart’s nowhere to be seen.

  Beth notices me standing in the doorway. She excuses herself from Stan—whose shoulders slump further—and pulls me out into the hallway. Kids scurry past. I see Maya. She fixes her eyes on me from the moment she approaches to the moment she passes and it becomes physically impossible for her to keep looking at me.

  ‘Hey, I’m sorry about last night,’ Beth says.

  ‘Last night?’

  ‘Roger came around to your place, didn’t he?’

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘He came to my mum’s.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘We argued.’

  ‘That’s it?’

  ‘There’s a bit more to it. The argument got pretty heated. But the upshot is now I’m sure I deserve better.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Yeah. I’m going to take some time for myself.’

  ‘Good.’

  She leans in like she’s going to kiss me on the cheek. Every set of eyes in the hallway fixes on us. Beth stops. Rumours will be running through the school by recess.

  ‘Let’s go back inside,’ Beth says.

  ‘Good idea.’

  ‘And Casper?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Your zip’s down,’ Beth whispers.

  Embarrassed, I pull it up, and follow Beth back into the staff room.