dots

by Angie M. Brashears

  I break the surface and float to the edge. I grab a towel out of my gear bag and it’s then that I start to feel it. Excited.

  What kind of secrets will CancerChlo spill? I know she’s typed an answer, because her heart is going crazy, clanging against the walls of the screen.

  Then my gut clenches. What secret am I ready to share? I didn’t think of that when I sent the request. I just used one of the premade F#ck It list conversation starters. It hadn’t mattered which one I chose; I just didn’t want to send a sexual one. The secret one fit the bill, but now I’m not so sure. But it’s time to find out.

  I peer into the screen, trying to see what I look like, but the damn heart’s distracting me. I drop and do ten fast push-ups, jump back up, brush my wet hair back, and pray I don’t have anything in my teeth. A ball of energy surges in my stomach as I move cushions around, trying to find the mouse. It’s a heady feeling…something to look forward to.

  I click the heart and smile wide into the camera.

  But it shrivels and dies on my lips when her image comes into focus.

  She’s really sick.

  Chloe

  I’m staring at the heart as it disappears. Fuck. I waited too long. I feel the slow run of a nose drip coming on. It’s like feeling the need to sneeze as it passes. Just the tail end of it left to tickle my nose. One of the lovely side effects of cancer. I swipe the raw skin under my nose with the side of my finger and look down with a sniff.

  A single drop of blood. I stare at the smear. This is my blueprint.

  Chloe’s mess at its most basic level.

  Even without the surgery, I’m already losing parts of me.

  This feeling of loss, which up until I started spilling my diagnosis to anyone that would listen-doesn’t give me the desolate feeling it used to. It maybe makes me as sad as I should be, but not as sad as I could be. I wipe the ship abandoner off of my skin with the used tissue in my other hand. “Could’ve avoided the middle man there.”

  “What was that, Chlo?”

  My breathing stops. All the nerves in my body zing. Fuuuuuck. Instinctively, I brace to run. But, no. I grimace as my hips lock up. That won’t be the speediest way out of this situation.

  So I inhale, which is hard when you’re hyperventilating. I try to think of at least one happy thought, exhale, try a smile. Nah, that feels like a shriek. Try to swallow, realize I have no spit. I feel a wet spot, and I slam my thighs shut and pull my shirt down over my knees. I just had a tiny bit of the piss scared out of me. I reach behind me for my blanket. But it’s not there. "Shit!” It’s in the wash.

  I let out a long sigh. I’ve got nothing else. I’ve stalled as long as possible.

  I look up and see him. Mason F#ck it List Dixon. My laptop screen is filled with a life-sized, in-the-flesh, talking Mason Dixon. Smiling with his mouth. The look of concern? horror? as he looks me over is unsettling. Noting the drip, my naked skin with no bronzer, no blush, and no cover-up! The tingle that’s been centered in my chest moves slowly down my body, all the way to my toes. I’m a fucking mess…in HD!

  I cringe with my whole body, and he notices. He’s no gentleman.

  He clears his throat. “Uh, are you done? Are the theatrics quite finished, m’lady?”

  He mocks a formal bow, and I’m floored.

  Mason

  “Touché,” she whispers, and it dawns on me just where it is that I’ve seen her before. Somebody’s girlfriend, or sister. Maybe this is about one of my friends… No. I look back at her, my smile shaking at the corners. It’s definitely for her. The way she scrunches her lips under my scrutiny. I know.

  “Ronny’s little snot-nosed sister. Now a grown-up snot-nosed little sister.” He flicks the edge of his nose. “You got something there.”

  It’s cute the way she pulls in on herself, the shoulder hunch while she swipes at her nose. “I can still see you, Chlo.”

  She turns her back to me. “Stop looking then.”

  I let out the breath I’ve been holding. I hope she missed the utter shock on my face when I took her in. Bared, no holds barred. I’m alone in my apartment, and I’ll do whatever the fuck I want. Who cares if I’m staring at my own bloody finger? Uncut Chlo. Why the fuck is she bleeding?

  Her side profile pops up, and she tries to bow out. In a nasally voice, she says, “This isn’t the best…”

  But I cut her off at the pass. With a wave of my hand, I say “Go. Do what you’ve gotta do. I’ll wait.” And I lean back in my chair as she disappears from view.

  Now, there’s two ways this can go. She gets herself together, in which time I’m going to grab a shot, or two, and we meet back here. We can talk about the weather for all I care. I just got an eyeful of Chloe’s secret. Why is she bleeding? We strike up a friendship, and life goes on. Well, my life anyway, I think, having a hard time swallowing the tumbleweed lodged in my throat at that thought.

  The other scenario? At this very moment, she’s ambushing the laptop, circling around the back. Reaching forward, slow so I don’t notice, and starting to slowly shut the laptop. Without a fuck you, or no, thank you. Just a click and I will be essentially disconnected from Chlo’s world. The modern-day equivalent of a hang-up.

  Shaking my head, I look around the part of the apartment I can see, noting the dripping ice-cream container mashed into the floor, a ripped beanbag and stuff…everywhere. I get up and knock back, straight from the bottle, a hefty rip. It hurts going down, like it’s too big to pass. I feel it when it hits my empty stomach.

  I fear my new pen pal may be a hoarder. I wipe my mouth with a corner of my shirt. If you can’t beat ’em, you might as well join ’em.

  She’s still not back. After seeing her sallow complexion, dull eyes, oh, and the fucking nosebleed, I’m not impatient at all. If anything, I’m freaked the fuck out and considering calling 911. Feeling anxious, I yell, “Chlo!” It sounds like I’m hollering for a dog. Louder. “Chlo!”

  Chloe

  I’m holding onto the sink, holding my head back, a twist of toilet paper shoved up my nose. I’m trying to get my heart rate under control, and all I can hear is him yelling for me. Ugh. I roll my eyes. He’s screaming now. Out…of…control.

  That it’s. I march over to the computer, bend over the back of it, and get eye level with this impatient bitch. I enunciate every word for Sir Demanding. “Give me a friggin’ minute to collect myself. You just showed up unannounced during my nose bleed—uninvited, by the way. Is it possible you might, oh I don’t know, give me at least a minute before you’re calling the cattle home?” I attempt to flutter my lashes at him and almost sprain an eyelid in my upside-down state.

  He smirks back at me. “Hell, I didn’t know if you died in there from your barely nosebleed.” He holds his index and thumb apart, leaving a fraction of space between them. “I was thinking of calling the National Guard in for it. What do you think? Too much?”

  Mason

  She snorts a giggle, and her nose twist goes flying. I throw my head back and roar with laughter. And I can’t stop. It’s all the anxiety of the last week leading up to this point right here. I’m crazy laughing. I try to meet her eyes, and I catch a glimpse of her mortified expression. I grab my gut, choking on soundless laughter, my eyes squirting tears. I try to hold my breath to get a fucking grip on the hilarity.

  Her quiet, melodic voice with just the right soprano of sass is my undoing “Um, excuse me, Mason? Hello, I’m standing right here while you’re losing your shit over there.”

  I really work at getting it together, and I’m almost there…till she picks it up and shoves the bloody thing back in her nostril. I blow out the laugh that’s too big to contain, spraying spit all over the smirking Chlo on my screen.

  “Would you like to share with the class?”

  Chloe

  Still chuckling, he says, “Uh, I don’t know.” Another run of giggles. “Maybe it was the heated missile you launched…” He’s laughing too hard to finish. He just touches his nose
, and I get it. I fall back on the futon, hands out to the side, and laugh my ass off. Now that I realize what happened, I’m absolutely mortified! I shot a snotrag outta my nose at him, and then shoved it back in.

  “Great fucking first impression!” I yell, before falling over on the futon as another peal of laughter takes me over.

  After playing every time I look at you I’m gonna explode into a fireworks shower of giggles, we manage to get it together. Wiping my eyes, I take a deep breath, enjoying the tingle in my overworked abs.

  “That was some laugh. My belly hurts. At this point, you’ve seen me at my worst.” I snort and brace the twist in my nose.

  He snickers.

  “I’m Chloe. Note the long E at the end. And you’re Mason. Wonderful, introductions officially over. Now, I’m picking you up.”

  I reach down, pressing the laptop to my concaved chest like a book.

  “Money shot!” he yells, and I have to pick the computer up and face it towards me at eye level. “First lesson, Grandpa.” Always with the enunciation. “This is a computer. The future. A scary place, I know. Anyway, it’s not a megaphone. You don’t have to scream into the laptop at the top of your lungs. Indoor voices please. Uh, mmmkay?” I tilt my head to the side, bat my lashes, really stretching my lids out and give him my patented Chloe smirk.

  Mason

  She does this weird, I don’t know, chicken dance—moving her head all around, rolling her eyes. In my most distinguished indoor voice, I ask her, “Are you having a seizure, madam? Should I call you a cab?”

  She snorts out laughter, spitting on the screen occasionally. When she takes me with her in the bathroom, I have to protest. “Chloe, will you at the very least turn me around? Or is this the...” I mimic her voice, calling to mind a sparkle-covered pink princess fairy, wishing on a star as I say, “Never have I ever… peed in front of a stranger.”

  She shrieks, smacks at the laptop, and her world veers, turns upside down until the sudden stop of a sure-to-be drop halts me. I feel like I just got off the Tilt-A-Whirl.

  “You still there?” she asks over the flush of a toilet.

  Wow. “I’m here,” I yell, cringing, vowing to remember.

  I whisper. “Sorry, forgot rule Number 1.”

  She giggles while she washes her hands, and I get a side view of her feet. Rainbow-painted toenails tap to a beat she’s humming while she washes.

  I listen, and when she’s drying, it comes to me. “Chloeeeeee. Are you humming my favorite song? Have you been snooping on the testimonials page?”

  I close my eyes as her world whooshes past me, and when I open them, we’re face to face. She’s nodding, grinning from ear to ear.

  I smile back. I can’t help it, her enthusiasm is infections, but still. “Try to limit the amount of times you throw me. I might puke.”

  “Join the club.” She’s beaming, electric. I realize this is happy Chloe—a sight I want to see more of.

  “Not if it comes with a free tumor, I’m not. No, thank you.” I wrinkle my nose and shake my head. This is me, no filter option.

  “Nah, you missed that promotion. I think if you sign up this week, you get a free blood transfusion. I say hold out for something better.” And she fucking winks.

  ……

  Mason

  I’m eating bread right out of the plastic bag, and I’ve got cold cuts still in the white wrapper from the deli, spread out on the table in front of me. I’ve been talking to her long enough to need lunch. “It really is a thing. Here, I’ll show you. I’ll make one right now.”

  “Yum,” she says as I run into the kitchen to grab what I need. “Don’t forget croutons.” Her calls only egg me on. Same as when I was swimming. I’d think that was it, and then I’d hear the crowd cheering me on, and I’d push a little harder, dig a little deeper. “I won’t.”

  No croutons…but, Cheetos it is.

  I dump everything on the table in front of her. She claps her hands.

  I start to build my creation from the bottom up. I slap a piece of bread on the table and shrug. “Forgot a plate.”

  “I see that.”

  I add about a pound of cold cuts—ham, salami—and read the package. “Mortawhata?”

  She giggles.

  Sprinkle it with enough hot sauce to make my eyes smart. She’s laughing, so I add a few sprinkles directly onto my tongue. Big mistake. I inhale a whiff and can’t stop coughing. “That’s a good year,” I sputter out through burning lips and take a drink from my water jug.

  “Um. Mason, what’s that?” I look at her as I drink. I don’t get it. I hold up a finger and finish, stifling a burp.

  “What?” I look behind me. She looks mortified and I don’t know what to expect.

  “That!” She points at my water. I still don’t get it. “Water.”

  Giggling, she asks. “Why are you drinking out of a…milk jug? What’s wrong with a human-sized water bottle?”

  I shake my head and get back to work, whistling as I do.

  I clear my throat, but she’s watching. I pack mushrooms on top of the meat, sprinkle it with cheese, dig a few pepperoncini’s out of the jar and add them. Think better of it and pour some of the juice on top before adding one cherry tomato.

  I wink, pour Cheetos on top, cover it with a half an iceberg lettuce wedge and smash it all flat. Hot sauce squirts out the side all over my expensive table. Shrugging, I continue to smash. Expensive but impersonal. I think I just called the number on the back of an interior designer catalog, gave them the numbers of a few pieces I liked, and they filled in the rest.

  “Sal-wich is served.” I tear into it, and through a hunk of lettuce, I say, “Yum.” I stop to smile big around the mouthful. “Told you there was such a thing.” I wink and take a huge drink from the jug.

  She rolls her eyes and touchés me.

  Through a mouthful, I ask. “So, how’s this work? Chatting, I mean. Do I give you my secret now that you’ve blown yours out your nostril?” I laugh until I remember. “Oh, sorry about the shitty response the other night. I was tired.” I shrug. “Thought you were fucking with me, you know, after the whole interview and all…” I make the mistake of trying to wave it off.

  She doesn’t let me off the hook. She interrupts and sounds just like a forties actress. All she needs is one of those long cigarette holders and her corkscrew curls tamed into a bob. “Oh, I’m sorry, Dahling. I must have missed the message. I forgot you were a big movie star now, with all the glitz and glamour, bodyguards now, Dahling. I’ve got to make an appointment to see you now.”

  She’s just getting started. I can tell, she can go all day. I listen, smiling through each bite, and let her ramble. I wind my hand. “Go on, give it to me.”

  “Oh really, Dahling? Is the jet not fast enough for you? The mansion not big enough? Is it not hot enough in Tahiti this time of year? Are the throngs of fans that even now beat down your door…” She raises her head and gives me a dramatic eyebrow wiggle. “…With pitchforks”

  She takes a deep breath, throws back her head, exasperated. With me. I know this. She reminds me of someone else who never shuts up. Always has a smart-assed comeback for anything and will keep going at you, relentlessly until you cry uncle and say, “Touché.”

  Her head pops up, and she stares at me in surprise. “You really do know my brother! I thought he was just name dropping.” Then she winks and flounces back on the futon. I take in the sagging thing. It’s really just an oversized chair well past its prime. “Are you in a fleabag motel?”

  She huffs, kicking her leg absently. “Looks aren’t everything, Mason. This old girl with a spring loose here and there, she’s the most comfortable seat in the house.”

  I get it. “Is she now?” I mug.

  Then it occurs to her. “What message?”

  Since it will take too long to explain, I just say, “I was a dick, Dahling.” And leave that there.

  She nods, suddenly quiet. The absence of her nonstop giggles is deafening.
My ears echo with silence.

  When she speaks, I know she’s got something on her mind.

  ……

  Chloe

  “I want to play by the rules.” I turn and face the screen and say, “Never have I ever…been arrested.” I let him take this in.

  “Prostitution?” he asks, and I smirk.

  “C’mon now, Mason. I want to play. By the rules listed on your website, and I quote, ‘treat every never have I ever with the utmost respect, like you’re talking to a friend.’ It’s important. I need to tell you not only about the arrest, but about a friend, my friend, that…well…just put your listening ears on.” I cup my ears with both hands, then hold up two fingers.

  He nods. “Got it, rule Number 2. I’m listening.” I’m not telling him about the hot sauce he’s got on the side of his lip. Makes him look a little less perfect. I love at home Mason.

  I take a puff from my vape pen and lie facing the ceiling. It might be easier to admit this one if I don’t have to look him the eye.

  “Never have I ever been arrested, but last week it was so brutally hot, it melted just about any fucks I might have had left to give. I took a very illegal dip in the fountain.”

  He nods, flummoxed by my sudden change of topic. I get that a lot. I always jump too fast, without the customary Geronimo! I did it even before I was sick.

  I turn back to the ceiling and say, “The circular concrete fountain downtown, big enough to swim laps in? Well, if you swim in a circle and don’t mind your knees draggin’ on the bottom, that is. I’ve been sitting on it for oh, I don’t know, my whole life. I had the same thought I always have in that spot, with the sun beating down on me. Watching the coins sparkle from the bottom of impossibly blue waters. If you squint your eyes just the right way, it looks like a blue Christmas tree covered in tinsel.” I take another puff and wave the vapor away. “Anyway, I’m a little high right now, but that’s what it reminds me of.