by Les Zig
I run my hand inside my shorts. The top button of my shorts opens. I slide my hand across the length of my cock.
Chloe sits on the banana lounge, grabs her small bottle, and squirts it at her chest. White lotion splatters her skin. I’m reminded of Kai blowing on Jane’s face. I push the image from my mind. Chloe massages the lotion over her breasts and down her belly until her torso’s shining like the bathroom tiles I’ve just mopped.
I unzip my shorts, let them fall around my ankles, and push my underwear down. My erection stretches forward. I run my hand up and down it and think about how it would feel to have Chloe’s lips wrapped around me, how she would compare to Jane. She would be better. At least in this fantasy, on this day, she would. I close my eyes and think about how it’d happen. I’d march around to her backyard. She’d tell me she wants to make it up to me for what Vic did. She’d drop to her knees, and take me in her mouth. I masturbate faster.
I open my eyes. She has her left leg held aloft and is massaging lotion into it. Then she does the right leg, finishing by running her hands up the inside of her thighs, her thumbs outlining the triangle of her bikini bottom. She lies back. Her breasts splay. I imagine how they’d bounce if I were on top of her, fucking her, the way her legs—shorter than Jane’s, but with the sharp curves of a gym junky—would wrap around my hips, her arms locked around my neck, the sound of her gasping in my ear.
Her head swivels. Although she’s wearing her sunglasses, I’m sure her eyes are on my window. I stumble back, shorts wrapped around my ankles, get tangled in the curtains and pull them down as I hit the bedside table and fall onto the bed.
I sit there, the curtain tangled around me like a web. Surely she saw me. There’ll be a knock on the door, and Chloe will lambast me for spying on her. Who knows how far it’ll go once Vic gets involved?
I get up, lift the curtain. My erection is a salute in front of me, like a compass pointing to the window. I tiptoe back.
Chloe’s now lying on her belly trying to rub lotion on her buttocks and back as best as she can. Perhaps she saw me, and this is her way of covering up. Surely it’s not part of her tanning cycle. She’d just started on her front. Of course, if she knew she was being watched, she’d go inside—unless it’s her intent to be watched.
I restore the curtain, then stroke my erection.
Perhaps this is all for my benefit. Vic’s out for the day. Maybe she put the thought of the pool into my head, then decided to provide this exhibition. Do people’s minds work that way? Or is this my imagination? Would I have thought this before I found that condom?
The phone rings.
I freeze. My hand remains wrapped around my erection, my eyes fixed on Chloe’s butt.
The phone continues to ring.
I want to ignore it, but there’s too much going on to ignore it.
I pull up my underwear and shorts, zip and button up, and rush downstairs.
34
As I run downstairs, I consider who could be ringing: Beth, although she’d probably grab me on my mobile; Stuart, with some developments on what’s happening with Bianca; the police, wanting to question me about Bianca (although I don’t know if that’s how they work); the vet, updating me about Wallace; and—I find I’m hoping for this most of all, although she’d probably also use my mobile—Jane, because she wants to talk.
I slide into the dining room, cross the floor to the counter, and pick up. ‘Hello?’
‘Mr or Mrs Gray, please?’ It’s a man’s voice, very crisp.
I amble into the kitchen and grab a beer from the fridge without even thinking about it. ‘Mr Gray speaking.’
‘Hello, Mr Gray. This is Oscar Finchley from Finchley Photography. I am confirming an appointment for 10.30am tomorrow for your anniversary portrait.’
I hang up.
Oscar Finchley calls back immediately. I answer before a quarter of the ring is out of the phone.
‘Mr Gray?’ he says. ‘I’m sorry, we seem to have been cut off. So 10.30am tomorrow?’
It’s absurd—beyond absurd. But I think of all the anniversary pictures that have preceded this one, the line of photographs commemorating each year spent together, me in those pointed suits, starched shirts, and tight ties Jane hand chose for me. What happens when nothing comes next? Is it like an incomplete bridge over some incomprehensible chasm? Do we drive off it and plummet forever?
‘Call my wife!’ I say, and hurl the phone into the wall and shatter it.
Breath ragged, heat fuming in my temples, I want to run back to my bedroom window, see what Chloe’s up to. I want her to fellate me and I want to fuck her. I want to bend her over her banana lounge, fuck her anally, then spray her face in cum. I want to do to her all the things Kai did to Jane. It’s karmic. And therapeutic. I want to know what a woman gets out of that. What Jane—who’s hardly ever been adventurous beyond a few positions—gets out of it. And why she gets whatever she does out of it.
Is it passion that transcends physicality? That borders on aggression? There’s the cliché of becoming one in lovemaking. But what I saw yesterday was subjugation. I’m not sure what lies there. The destruction of inhibition? Then what’s left? Sex? Nothing?
My erection is gone now.
I bound upstairs, into the bedroom, open my top drawer, and take out Jane’s anniversary gift. I open the box, snatch the bracelet, then throw the box as I stride to the bathroom. The box bounces on the carpet. I don’t know where it lands.
Inside the bathroom, I drop the bracelet into the toilet, then flush.
I leave the bathroom without looking back.
35
I attack the backyard wall with the sledgehammer. My swings are wild but unrelenting.
My shoulders get sore first. Then my biceps. Then tearing pains in my chest. Then my throat—it burns from my heaving breath. Sweat stings my eyes. Fingers and palms blister. Lower back tightens until claws dig into my buttocks. My T-shirt sticks to me. My calves bulge. The soles of my feet grow sore—it feels like the skin under the ball of my right foot has sheared right off. The constant clash of the sledgehammer against the rock wall is like gunshots.
But I go on until the first cracks appear in the mortar. A stone falls. I kick at the wall with my sandalled feet. My heel aches. I kick again and again. Then smash the top of the wall with the sledgehammer again. Another stone falls free.
I collapse onto the grass, exhausted. The sledgehammer falls from my grip. I bury my head in one hand.
My chest heaves. My eyes tighten. My left eye squeezes out a single tear. I grimace, fall onto my side and curl up. The tears will come now. They’ll wash me away. But there’s nothing more. Maybe I’m dehydrated, although I don’t know if crying works like that.
I should sit up. I should go inside. I should shower. I should do anything but continue to lie here.
But I lie here all the same.
I stare up into the sky. This is when Wallace should nuzzle me. When I should go inside and Jane should be there. When we should talk about what we’re going to do tonight—maybe catch a movie or go out somewhere to eat.
We could do anything.
My clothes dry quickly but I must smell from the sweat. Muscles and blisters ache. I’ll feel it tomorrow but that’s okay. I wonder if Chloe heard all this going on. Maybe she’ll come and check on me. Maybe not. Maybe from now on I’ll be alone and that’s the way it’ll be—just me and Wallace.
The wall looks like somebody’s taken a bite out of the top. It should satisfy me, but its destruction seems irrelevant now. Why do I want to be like everybody else who’s torn the wall down? There’s nothing wrong with being different. I stand up. The wall’s fine.
I twirl the sledgehammer. I’ve put it through so much for nothing. At least it’s been faithful to me—he’s been faithful to me. I’ve decided: the sledgehammer is a male. He’s a good sledgehammer. I should take him to school. Teach with him. That’d go over well.
‘What’re you doing?’
&n
bsp; I recognise the voice before I turn—Luke.
‘I rang the bell,’ he says.
‘Don’t always hear it from here.’
‘Your neighbour—hot little blonde nurse going to work—said she thought you were out the back because she heard banging.’
‘What’re you doing here?’
‘Jane told me to drop by. I’ve got a couple of hours before work. So I thought I’d drop by.’
‘Really? In all the time we’ve lived here, in all the years you haven’t dropped by, you thought you’d drop by?’
‘I was a little worried by your response yesterday when I texted you. Everything okay?’
I shrug.
‘Where’s Jane?’
I hold up my hands.
‘What’s going on?’
I brush the grass from my shorts. ‘I need a drink,’ I say.
Luke takes me to The Andion. The air-conditioning in the bistro is cool and the beer cold. Luke has a porterhouse steak while I force myself to have a veal schnitzel, which tastes surprisingly good—I must be running on empty, so maybe my body appreciates the meal even if I don’t.
It could be any other Saturday afternoon.
But it isn’t.
‘You know where this Kai lives?’ Luke asks, after I finish telling him about Jane. The knuckles bulge on the hand that holds his steak knife.
‘No.’
‘Can you find out?’
‘I guess.’
‘Find out.’
‘So you can beat the shit out of him?’
‘You’re too fucking soft.’
‘What?’
‘When we were kids, me, you, and Stephen were fearless. Stephen grew up to be this safe, solid, boring guy, but you became hypersensitive to everything.’
I don’t say anything. It’s the truth.
‘What was it? Your mum? Your dad? What a loser you were with girlfriends before Jane?’
‘I wasn’t a loser.’
‘You were a loser—you were too … fairytale sweet.’
‘I was not—’
‘It doesn’t matter. We’re here now. Okay? And being here, everybody faces a time in their lives where they have to draw a line in the sand.’
‘I’ve gone through all this in my head. Where’s it get me to beat up Kai?’
‘It gets you satisfaction. You’re telling me this cunt sprayed Jane? He put his mark on her. Have you thought about that?’
‘I don’t want to think about it.’
‘You should. He didn’t just fuck your wife, he branded her. Do you think that’s an intimate gesture?’
‘I don’t know what it is.’
‘That’s like a you’re my slut gesture.’
‘That’s what it is?’
‘That’s what it is.’
‘Have you done it?’
‘Yeah, but that’s like in … sex. When anything goes.’
‘Have you done it to this girl you’re seeing? What was her name? Sandra?’
‘Chandra.’
‘You done it to Chandra?’
‘She’s my girlfriend.’
‘Why’d you do it to her?’
‘Because it’s a fucking turn-on.’
‘For you or for her?’
‘She hasn’t complained.’
‘What do you get out of it?’
‘I get out of it that she’d do that for me, and that when we’re fucking, she’s basically my slut.’
‘I’m amazed you haven’t been married, you know?’
‘I’m not saying that in a derogatory way, okay? Sex is about no inhibitions. No defences. Nothing. So if your partner’s fine with it, anything goes. When we’re having sex, she’s my slut. I’m her … well, whatever the equivalent is. Manslut, maybe. I’d do anything for her.’
‘You know, let’s put this conversation away. I want to work out where I go from here.’
‘There’s nowhere to go from here.’
‘How can there be nowhere to go?’
‘Where do you go from here?’
I take a drink from my beer and look at what’s left of my veal schnitzel.
‘Three things can happen from here,’ Luke says. ‘One: she leaves you for this cunt. Two: she leaves both of you. Three: she comes back and wants to move on. Let’s say it’s the third option. Do you want to move on with her?’
I’m about to answer, but Luke cuts me off.
‘Hang on. Think about this: she wouldn’t still be able to work where she does—well, she better not want to. Whenever she’s not with you, you’re going to wonder where she is. If she’s late home, you’ll wonder why she’s late. If she gets messages or phone calls or emails from anybody you don’t know, you’ll wonder who they’re from. There’s a fuckload of things like that to consider. Don’t give me some bullshit answer that if you choose to move on, you’ll have to rebuild the trust and all that crap. Okay, that’s what’s meant to happen. Can you do it? I couldn’t. We could be together another fifty years, she could be beyond reproach, and I’d still never trust her the same.’
Luke puts down his knife and fork and thrusts out his right arm. Just under the elbow is a jagged, round scar about the size of a beer cap. When we were fifteen, Stephen, Luke, and I were riding our bikes when Luke crashed on a gravel path. He tore this gash out of his elbow. They had to stitch it up, but it got infected and it took forever to heal.
‘Remember this?’ he asks.
‘Yeah.’
‘I never have any problems with it, most of the time I forget it. Time will fade it more and more. But it is there. And every time I look at it I remember what happened and all the shit I went through to fix it. Jane’s going to be your walking fucking reminder. Kiss her and see this cunt’s cum over her lips. See his cock in her mouth—’
‘Okay, okay—’
‘No, not okay okay. This is what you’ll have to deal with. If you can move past all this shit with her, then either you’re fucking moronic or you got some heart of gold and love her with love she doesn’t deserve. Or maybe they’re the same thing. Me? You two get back together, I won’t be able to forgive her because there’s some shit you just don’t do. People say shit, they do shit, but some things can’t be undone. Some things can’t be unsaid.’
‘Nothing’s been said.’
‘Things will be said. She’ll blame you in some way—maybe you weren’t finding her attractive enough. Maybe you weren’t paying enough attention to her. You drove her to it. It’ll be your fault. I heard my dad use this shit with my mum. Do me a favour when Jane starts that shit? Tell her to grow the fuck up. Cunt. Sorry. But she is. She shits me that she’s done this.’
‘I couldn’t tell.’
Luke mimics a laugh. ‘You know, whatever happens, you need somebody to talk to, you need a place to crash, anything, any time, you can call me. Remember that.’
‘Thanks.’
I finish my beer. It’s starting to go down well.
After we leave The Andion, I give in and buy a case of Coronas. Then Luke drives me home. Outside my place, he reiterates his offer to call on him any time.
‘I’ll drop you a text tomorrow, okay?’ he says.
‘I’ll be fine.’
‘Humour me.’
I thank him, grab my box of beer from the back, rest it on my lap and open the door.
‘You know,’ Luke says, ‘watch the drinking, too.’
‘What?’
‘It’s okay; have a few. Take yourself apart. It’s what you’re meant to do in shit situations. But you have to put yourself back together.’
‘I’m not my dad.’
‘It’s a warning applicable to anybody at a time like this.’
‘Okay. Thanks.’
‘One last thing,’ Luke says.
’Yeah?’
‘You stink, mate.’
I chuckle, get out of the car, and slam the door shut.
36
I cram all twenty-four Coronas from the box into the fridge. If J
ane were here, I’d put six in the fridge, maybe another six in the small fridge we have in the garage, and let the others sit around until needed. But for now, there’s something satisfying about seeing them all lined up.
I consider popping one open since I’ve already had a couple at The Andion. It’s 2.34. If I keep drinking from hereon, I’ll be out of it by 6.00. Maybe that’s not such a bad thing. Maybe it is, in fact, the best thing.
I take another shower, leaving my sweaty clothes scattered across the floor. I go downstairs, feeling fresh and relieved, like the day is new and full of possibilities. Right then, I’m sure I can get through this, that I’ll be okay.
I check the time: 3.01. I should’ve heard from the vet about Wallace by now. Surely nothing’s gone wrong? Although they would’ve rung me if something had—unless they’re afraid to tell me the worst. Of course, vets don’t work like that. They’re professionals.
The landline lies shattered on the floor, so I have to use my mobile. I recognise the voice of Rebecca, the nurse, immediately.
‘Hi,’ I say. ‘It’s Casper Gray. My dog Wallace was having surgery this morning to have plates inserted for a broken leg.’
‘That’s right, Mr Gray.’
‘I was wondering how it went.’
‘It went great.’
I wait for elaboration.
‘And?’ I have to prompt.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Gray—your wife was in here earlier. Dr Dudek spoke to her. Haven’t you spoken to her?’
‘No.’
‘I’m sorry. We assumed she was coming home.’
‘No. I haven’t spoken to her. She went out.’
‘Oh, okay.’
‘So, Wallace …?’
‘Dr Dudek thinks he’ll make a full recovery. She said the break was clean and the bones aligned perfectly. Wallace is sleeping in recovery. You should be able to get him tomorrow.’
‘Thanks. Is it okay if I come in and see him?’