Dodging Trains

by Sunniva Dee

  I don’t relax. I don’t slow down. I don’t go home to sleep until I am so exhausted I fall dead to my pillows and sleep straight through Simon’s paws in my hair. When I wake, I start back on my diet, eating the same every day and drinking only coffee and water. I’m on the Paleo diet, ingesting tons of protein but no meats. My life’s goal is within reach, and I’m going to seize it by the balls.

  I have my phone on silent and leave it at the front desk so Dawson’s wife can keep an eye on it and inform me if Paislee calls.

  At any mention of that girl, my mind rushes to a hotel room in Mexico City. I’m sure psychologists would tell me not to bury shit, that I should talk, do group therapy, and blah, blah, blah. They’d say Paislee is the first person I should let in.

  But I don’t know who I am.

  I don’t want to know who I am.

  The world needs to recognize me for who I want to be, and that’s exactly what will happen in Vegas.

  I crave sex as usual, but I’m at a loss as to how to get it. Sure, I could hit up Stripes with Jaden and Zeke and find takers, I could call Amy any night and have a familiar body to push around on my bed, but it’s not what I want.

  There’s something wrong with me. Maybe I’m twisting my need for Paislee into some alternate reality I think I need. Who the fuck knows?

  Once I was ridiculed for looking gay. A man made me gay by shoving himself into my body. But I redeemed myself; I became stronger than my bullies, and I destroyed them. Then I turned into a fighter. I’m on my way to being hailed as someone noteworthy. I’m on my way to success and to good money.

  I’ve had so many women, so, so many, and I’ve never wanted to fuck a dude. That’s not me. I think. Or what if the train creep made me permanently gay and I’ve only been hiding beneath testosterone and virility, behind bedding chicks and fighting guys?

  I sound like a fucking therapist.

  I get out of bed, pat Simon on the head, and grab my training shorts. I toe into my running shoes and haul ass down the road to the beach.

  It’s four a.m. I went to bed at one—this is my life since Mexico. I don’t need sleep anymore, not with all these thoughts frying my brain.

  I run hard for an hour and a half. End it with my shoes off at the water’s edge and a dive into the cold ocean. I didn’t bring a towel. I’ll run myself dry back home anyway.

  My mind doesn’t stop tonight. It’s driving me crazy because of a conversation Paislee and I had yesterday. She’s so desperate she makes my chest constrict. That beautiful, kind girl shouldn’t be waiting for someone like me.

  Mack, her colleague at the factory, seemed like he cared. Was possessive enough of her, that’s for sure. My stomach churns at the thought. It churns harder when I think of her resuming her old ways. Even so, I can’t drag her down with me when I’m a mess with no order in sight.

  The last few blocks to my house are a blur; I outrun my oxygen reserve, and my chest’s imploding.

  Constructive thoughts, Keyon. I’m realizing my dream. I’m on my way to the EFC.

  Time to execute decisions, Keyon. I’ll cut my strings to Paislee. Set her free. I’ll be all man, and the first to find out will be Amy.

  Today. Is the day to make phone calls.

  PAISLEE

  My steps take me to Yellow Pub, not Ivy’s. I didn’t have to check in with my feelings to decide what I need tonight. For a day and a half, I’ve tried, but it’s not working, so I’m taking the bull by the horns.

  I. Can’t survive much longer.

  “Paislee?” Keyon’s voice is steely on the phone. “I need to let you go.” He finishes his words midway through my Hi, and it’s spoken so fast I am stunned.

  “What do you mean, ‘go?’” I know exactly what he means.

  “At this stage of my life, I can’t nourish a relationship,” he recites, “especially not with someone as amazing as you, because you deserve more than I can offer. Maybe sometime in the future. But don’t wait for me. I don’t want you to wait,” he hurries.

  “You’re breaking up with me? Ha!”

  “You need to move on to someone better. I’m not worthy of this.”

  “Bullshit!” I shout. “You’re worth everything.” And suddenly things jumble in my head: Mom’s lecture on male rape victims; Keyon trying to instill self-worth in me when he has no respect for himself.

  I tighten the grip on my egg, and the crystals cut into my palm.

  “Baby,” I beg. “Let’s not do this. I’ll come to Vegas and watch you fight. We can see each other after you win, spend a few days together, the ones we didn’t take in Mexico. Let’s start over again.”

  Keyon doesn’t let my plea sink in before he replies.

  “Paislee. I can’t.”

  The awning of Yellow Pub makes me think back to washed-away loneliness and temporarily soothed fears. Not long ago, my presence kept extra customers around this place. Friends of mine drank here, hoping I’d pick them for the night.

  The door swings open with the same hollow creak of always. A thump of old-timey rock meets me, and the owner dips his chin in greeting as if I haven’t been gone, as if I didn’t desert my fixation for Keyon.

  He left me again. Oh dear God.

  I swallow my thoughts. They’re as insignificant as blue raspberry lollipops—they can’t change reality. I need to pass them through my system because I’m not here to wallow in misery.

  Mom calls me a tough cookie. I am. By now, I should be equipped to overcome even diseases of the heart. Just, with despair comes cravings, and I have to gorge myself.

  I’ll be sating my needs tonight.

  The electrician working at Ivy’s the other day is seated at the bar counter. He’s young. Skinny and rock-star long-haired, he’s sipping his pint with white fingers clutching the glass.

  I recall his gaze following me at Ivy’s. My pulse thickens, and an inkling of lust heats my girly-parts; I haven’t had sex with this man before. Whatever his eye color is, they remind me of crystal.

  Why did he leave me?

  I saunter up to the bar, lean on the palms of my hands. I arc my spine enough to make my ass curve and my boobs lift toward the counter. The electrician’s stare is subtle but the gleam in it is wolfish. For now, I pretend I don’t see. I raise my foot and place a fuck-me-heel on the brass bar at calf level, knowing it showcases long-legged grace that can drive a man crazy.

  He watches as I order a Corona, and the owner serves me in thirty seconds flat. Once the bottle’s slammed down, I make a show of licking droplets of citrus juice off my bright red nails. Next, I suck languidly on the lime wedge.

  “Paislee, is it?” the electrician asks. I look up like I just realize someone’s close by. My heart speeds, soaking up his intrigue for me, but for all he can see, I’m the coolest vixen.

  Oh. I excel at this.

  I let my eyes scan the hand he moves to the top of his jeans. Picture it digging at my panties, working to pull them off so we’re free to quench lust and need and pain.

  “What if it were?” I purr.

  “If it were,” he replies, easy and with no need to consider his answer, “I’d give you a good time.”

  “I’d still your hungers. I’d erase your fears. I’d make you forget all of your grieves.” His words are in my head, not on his lips, but I listen and tilt my hip so it touches his thigh. He plays my game. Counters with a finger that does circles on a small area at my waist.

  “To you, I’m Rubina,” I say, feeling heat soak the apex of my thighs.

  “Rubina.” He tastes my fake name. “Sir. Joe? Put Rubina’s drink on my tab.”

  He doesn’t wait long with inviting me back to his place. And I, I don’t wait at all to accept.

  Wiry and pale, he feels wrong when I hook my thumbs through his belt hoops in the front and widen so the zipper breaks open. Blue boxers appear, revealing a tent of the kind that should give me a rush.

  He pulls me down and kisses me, more insistent than my regular friends, but
he isn’t so broken, so beautiful, that he’ll bring comfort wrapped in passion and stress.

  I’ve lost the love of my life. Dense muscle and panic disguised as just-harnessed violence. Keyon, my gilded reflection of bliss with his measured shoves and I’m-in-love-with-yous.

  I touch my surrogate male. Stroke him. Do what I do best. But I remain dressed, and as much as he reaches for me, he can’t rest against my bare skin. Yes, I came here to be healed, but someone else’s fingerprints remain on my body.

  “Wow, you’re awesome,” the wrong man sighs, eyes opening in slits as he watches me handle his cock. I battle the urge to leave. Ugly solidifies around my soul, but I ignore it because this is how agony is beat.

  A flicker of contentment runs through me when he jerks in climax. Slick liquid coats my fingertips, warm at first, then cooler than me. I rub it into softening flesh until he’s smooth and all dry.

  The wrong man follows me to the door, jeans low on his hips and boxer briefs in disarray through an open zipper. He doesn’t say anything until I’ve opened the door and turn with a smile that purses in the middle and curves on the sides.

  He raises his chin, eyes brighter as he fixes them on mine. “I’m sorry about whatever it is. I’d have made you feel good too.”

  I nod. Flutter five fingers at him as I walk backwards out the door.

  I learned something new tonight. The demons of unreciprocated love are immune to girls who take the bull by the horns.

  PAISLEE

  I open my eyes. The first thing entering my mind this morning is the number two. It’s two days until Keyon’s fight in Vegas. He’s there already, and the thought makes my heart flush blood through my veins in a way that’s painful. Next, the film clips unreel.

  “How’re you holding up?” That’s Mack walking up behind me and leaning his chin on my shoulder the way Keyon used to do. I’m lost staring at nothing, right into a grey concrete wall that’s five feet away from the window at work. I register the snow falling in dry flakes in front of it.

  “I’m fine. I don’t want to go upstairs for lunch,” I say though he hasn’t asked in weeks.

  Mack is quiet. I don’t wonder what he’s thinking. I don’t have room for more than the loss of Keyon and the reprieve of gilded mirrors and crystal-studded eggs.

  “It’s pretty outside. You want to go for a walk?”

  “In the snow?”

  “You’re not scared of snow now, are you, just because you’ve been to warmer climates?” he teases.

  I shake my head. “Just a walk, huh?”

  “I need fresh air. The fumes are getting to me today.” He fans himself daintily to make me smile.

  This part of town is low on foot traffic in general, but today it’s particularly empty. We trudge next to each other, Mack chit-chatting and me half listening. He’s been on a date, he tells me. A girl from the Credit Union. They might be doing a second date soon. I sigh, and he puts a hand on my shoulder, misunderstanding. “If you agreed to a date with me, I wouldn’t do a second one with her.”

  “Mack, I can hardly focus on anything, much less go on dates with someone who isn’t my boyfriend. My ex,” I correct myself. He pulls his hand back and presses it into his pocket. From my peripheral, I see him smile a little.

  “What are you grinning at?”

  “Just remembering good times we’ve had.” He lifts his gaze, mischievous, and I roll my eyes. Mack and I, we did wreak some sexual havoc over the years. It was always sweet, always good. Even though he only now has suggested more than sex, I never felt taken advantage of.

  “Remember the freezer at the back of the falafel shop?”

  I snort. “That was ridiculous. Good thing your peter didn’t ice over and fall off before the deed was completed.”

  “Hey, my nose might’ve been cold, but you kept my so-called peter warm and snug.” He side-glances down my thick coat to the area where I indeed kept it warm for a while. “Always so generous with your body.” There’s wistfulness in his voice.

  “Move on, Mack. It’ll be nice for you to be with a girl for more than sex.”

  Frost smoke billows from his mouth as we cross the street on a red light. There are no cars, but he still grabs my arm when I slip on an icy tire track. Then he holds me up, arm linked with mine, until we are safe on the other side.

  “Keyon called me,” he says.

  “What? When?”

  “A few days ago. A week?” He raises his shoulders until his pink earlobes brush the down-filled squares of his jacket. “Wanted me to keep an eye on you. Make sure you didn’t do anything stupid.”

  “Whatever, I’m none of his business anymore.”

  “Yeah, seems he doesn’t share your opinion. He kept asking questions.”

  “Why are you telling me this?” I say. “To make me cry?”

  “No, please don’t cry. Jesus.” He scratches his head under the hat and drags it down so it covers his ears better. “I just thought you’d want to know. He checks in almost every day.”

  “Wow, you were so wrong. It’s the last thing I need, to hear about him.”

  I soothe myself thinking about Roy at the supermarket. Or someone completely new, like the hookup Keyon ruined for me in that coffee shop. I could go there tonight. It’s been months since I blew someone’s mind, watched their eyes grow large with incredulity over their luck. Afterward, they’d beg to meet up again.

  “Paislee, I hate to see you like this. I wish you’d—” He shrugs helplessly. “Wish you’d feel better really soon. Can you at least call his coach back? That guy got hold of my number too, and now I’m on his speed dial. I’m, like, the Paislee Marie Cain switchboard.”

  “Dawson called you?”

  “Yeah, that’s the name.” Mack nods and rubs a gum out of its silver wrapping. “Mentioned your upbeat voicemail, but I told him you were anything but at the moment.”

  The unfamiliar 813 number. That was Dawson?

  My cellphone is in the break room. Suddenly, I can’t get back to the factory fast enough, because I can’t picture Dawson calling to shoot the breeze.

  “Paislee? Thank you for returning my call,” Dawson says. “How have you been?”

  I swallow my fear and my impatience and tell him I’m okay, working a lot and waiting for spring and brighter days.

  “How is Keyon?” I ask before we can launch into more niceties and superficial garble.

  “Not good. That’s what I was calling you about.”

  “Isn’t he in the zone? The fight is in four days, right?” I ask, because I’m back to stalking Keyon in secret like before the mayoral inauguration.

  “He’s in the zone for now, but if he doesn’t ease up on the training, I’m afraid he’ll break before the fight. He’s overexerting himself, and unfortunately, he’s not taking my advice at the moment. He doesn’t relax, and he doesn’t sleep.”

  “He doesn’t sleep? But that’s dangerous!”

  “It’s imperative that he gets his rest,” Dawson agrees. “Keyon’s body, like everyone else’s, craves REM sleep, and the way he abuses it without pause, his immune system is shutting down. Physical illness is one thing. Psychosis is another.”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  Dawson sighs. “Without sleep, it’s impossible to remain sane. I’ve seen it firsthand.”

  I look over my shoulder at Old-Man Win. His wise eyes peer at me from the drawing table where he’s devising one of his exquisite frames. His nod is subtle, but it’s there. His stare moves toward the ceiling, indicating how I should retreat upstairs and have my conversation in private if I so wish.

  I do wish that.

  On my way up, I prod Dawson for details. “So he works out nonstop?”

  “That, and well. He takes breaks with the guys sometimes.” Dawson’s got something in his throat now. He’s trying to hack it up.

  “Are you all right?” I have time to ask before I put two and two together. “Oh. With Zeke and Jaden at Stripes?”


  “Well, it doesn’t relax him. He’s just as worked up hours later when he comes straight to the Cage Warriors from wherever he was after the club.”

  At some girl’s house. At his house. With Simon slinking up around them and trying to interrupt sex. Jealousy stabs through me in a white flash. I knew he’d have a life after us, but to hear it spelled out hurts like a drill to my heart.

  Dawson is just the messenger. He doesn’t need a part in this private despair of mine. I locate a beer behind milk and honey, pop the top even though it’s not even noon. It fizzes hard and delivers a different pain down my throat than what’s lodging itself in my bones.

  “Paislee, are you there? I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

  “No… yeah, I’m here. What can I do?” I ask, voice thin.

  “We’re heading to Vegas tomorrow. I doubt Keyon will have trouble with the weighin. He’s all muscle and tendons at the moment, so I can’t see him needing a dehydration period, but just in case, we’ll be there early. He’ll use the gym. Jaden’s coming along for the sparring.” Like it costs him, Dawson halts before continuing.

  “Paislee, I’m old-school, and I believe spouses and girlfriends should remain out of reach the last weeks prior to a match, but in Keyon’s case, I’m not so sure. He’s too obsessed with this fight.”

  Spouses. Girlfriends.

  I am neither.

  “At the gym,” he continues as if knowing my thoughts, “my wife keeps his phone by the cash register and alerts him to calls and text messages when necessary. On his instruction, ‘necessary’ means if you, Paislee, or someone close to you contacts him. He gave her his shortlist. His parents aren’t on that list.”

  There’s a light little ball of something shifting beneath my ribs. It’s brighter than concrete walls and winters and dry snowflakes hitting patios.

  “It doesn’t mean he’ll want me there.”

  “I’m not saying he will. I’m saying it would be good for him to see you there. If you still want what’s best for Keyon and can travel on short notice, the fight budget will cover your expenses.”

  I’m here, packing, wanting the best for Keyon more than I want it for myself. I’m just me. I’ve always been me. I’ve lived with me since I became a teenager, since the train station seeped in and took on a shape I could handle.