“I wouldn’t want it to be clean,” I begin. “I would want to leave behind a really nasty, sticky, disgusting mess for whomever found me.”
“Mmm, now we’re talking,” Helen says with a grin.
“I guess . . . a shotgun in the mouth would be the most obvious choice. But I think I’d want to do something more creative. I like the idea of, I don’t know, crafting a small homemade explosive and then swallowing it. Blow up, from the inside out. Or maybe . . . drenching myself in napalm. You can make that, you know. Equal parts gasoline and frozen orange juice concentrate.”
“I know,” she says, grin widening. “I read Fight Club, too.”
“It’s one of my favorites.”
“Invisible Monsters is better.”
This new direction the conversation is taking leads me to believe we might actually veer into more normal waters, which would be both relieving and nerve-wracking—the current topic is pretty intense, but then again, what good have I ever been at normal? What good have I ever wanted to be?
I realize, then, that she’s doing this on purpose. For my sake. She’s playing into my morbid preoccupation with death, something she’s picked up on too quickly for my liking.
But I guess I don’t hide it that well, either.
I mean, I fuck dead girls.
I needn’t have worried, because she segues into another subject that seems a little deep for a first date. Maybe not necessarily third-or-fourth-date-deep, but second-date-deep, at the very least. From what I would assume, based on my minimal knowledge.
“What do you want out of life?” she asks, taking a languid sip of her wine and then leaning slightly toward me. “Tell me your desires. If you could have anything, do anything, what would it be?”
I shrug and push my food around on my plate with my overly heavy fork. “Nothing much,” I say. “Like I said, I’m pretty much content. I just want to fuck dead girls and not get caught. If I can keep doing that, I’ll be fine.” There’s more to it, but I don’t feel like talking about it.
She shakes her head and leans in closer. “No,” she says. “That’s not true. Everyone wants something more. What are your deepest, darkest fantasies? Don’t give me some canned answer. Give me something real. Tell me what you really, truly want.”
“More wine, miss?”
This comes from the waiter, who looks perturbed and uncomfortable, making me wonder how long he’s been standing there.
Helen looks up at him with a curt, polite smile. “No, thank you. But a café con leche and a cup of masala chai, if you could. Hot.”
“Right away, miss,” the waiter says, coattails flapping as he spins and hurries off.
I raise an eyebrow at Helen. “Wine, espresso, and tea.” It’s meant to be phrased inquisitively, but you know by now how I am with that, so it comes out sounding like a bored, bland observation. Which is essentially what it is, anyway.
She seems to understand my being perplexed, because she elaborates by saying, “Yes. I enjoy the finer things in life, and see no reason why one can’t indulge in a number of them at once, even if they don’t ‘go together’.”
“Fair enough,” I say. The waiter brings her the steaming beverages, and as she’s stirring the coffee, I say, “Well, uh, what other ‘finer things in life’ do you enjoy, besides infantile cannibalism and high-brow drinks.”
She shrugs, taking a silver flask from her purse and tipping some of its contents first in the coffee, and then in the tea. “I like Russian literature a lot. Dostoyevsky, Tolstoy, you know. Real Russian literature, though, not the bastardized English translations.”
“I didn’t know you were bilingual.”
She sips her tea and shakes her head. “No, not bilingual. Russian was the first foreign language I learned, followed by Latin, then, after that, was Mandarin, then Italian, and finally French, which is my favorite. I can speak some Spanish, but never really studied it. It’s such an ugly language, really.”
Pushing my food around my plate some more, I say, “I hadn’t taken you to be so . . . ”
“Intelligent?”
I lower my eyes. “That’s not exactly what I meant.”
She smiles halfheartedly and pops a couple of pills, washing them down with the last of her wine. “It’s okay,” she says. “I don’t think the general public holds cannibals in very high regard, in any sense of the phrase.”
“I’m not representative of the general public.”
“True, but you’re among them, just as much as I am. We might not be like them, but we are still a part of them, whether you like it or not.”
I bristle at this accusatory statement. “Are you sure that’s not wishful thinking on your part.”
“It’s realistic thinking. No matter how much of an individual you are, no matter how unique and different and nonconformist and antiestablishment, you can’t deny the inescapable effects that society has on everyone, including you and me.”
I clench my fists under the table. “No,” I tell her, “you’re wrong. I’m not part of society. You aren’t, either. You just won’t accept it.”
She looks into her espresso and frowns. For a while, neither of us says anything. I watch her eat a couple bites of her food, and I’m struck again with that sensation of almost-pity for her, because I know she’s not really enjoying it. I think back to the blowjob from the college girl, how bland and boring it had felt, and I know that’s what she’s feeling right now.
I’m relating to another human being.
Hold the phone and shoot me in the fucking face.
I can tell by her expression that I’ve hurt her feelings again. I could end all of it here, just leave it at my last comment, ask for the check the next time the waiter stops by. Something tells me that’s exactly what I should do. Stop all of this nonsensical bullshit, fuck dinner dates and flowers and cologne and worthless chivalry, fuck it all. Stop pretending I’m something I’m not.
Instead, I ask her, “So, um, what kinds of movies do you like to watch.”
I have commenced small talk.
She looks up and the cloud of wounded distress seems to clear from her face. She smiles. She knows exactly what I’ve just done. She knows that I had a clear opportunity there to let it all be over with, but I’ve salvaged it—stoked the flame, so to speak. I’ve . . . made an effort.
If only she were dead.
None of this would be an issue.
But she isn’t.
She’s alive.
And something has happened—is happening—and it terrifies me.
***
I pull into her driveway this time, so she doesn’t have to walk as far. Color me chivalrous one more time, and then never again.
She turns to look at me as she unbuckles her seatbelt, smiles, head cocked to the side, and says, “Would you like to come in for a drink?”
Now, I have another opportunity here. I can say no, I’m tired, I have to get home. I can just flat-out say it would be inappropriate, that this was supposed to be a casual thing, and I know what the whole “would you like to come in for a drink” thing means. I don’t watch much TV, but I watch enough. I can call it a night right here, and that will be that. I, once again, have the chance to end this before it becomes any more ridiculous than it already is.
Instead, I say, “Okay.”
I don’t open her door for her, though.
Like I said, never again.
***
She sits too close to me on the couch. She holds her glass of wine with graceful sophistication, while I clutch my glass of water like it’s some foreign object, my trembling hand making the ice rattle annoyingly. She’s turned on the Gutter Twins’ Saturnalia. I can’t help but be impressed by her taste in music, and this simple fact makes me more nervous.
Helen puts her hand on my thigh, sending a twist of not-unpleasant energy shooting up into my groin, and says, “Try not to be so nervous. It’s just me. You know me. Better than anyone, when you think about it.”
She says this like it’s a good thing. Does all of this sound like a Danielle Steele novel? That’s what it feels like, and it makes me want to squirm.
I’m staring at the black bearskin rug in front of the crackling fireplace and wondering if it’s real. It doesn’t seem to suit her. Neither does the musket hanging above the mantle, or the framed Picasso prints on the wall. I wonder to myself, do I really know her?
“I’m not nervous,” I say in an unconvincing voice, that cracks on the last syllable. Her hand is still on my thigh. She slides it a little higher and squeezes. I take a sharp intake of breath that I hope she doesn’t notice, but I know she does. I sip my water and avoid her alluring gaze of cold, murky deadness.
“It’s really not so bad,” she says, her tone hushed and buttery. “Being alive. You should give it a chance.” She’s moved closer, and her breath is warm on my face. I silently tell myself I hate it—her closeness, the proximity of her body starting to envelop me. I tell myself it’s horrible. I tell myself to get up and leave. But my inner voice is even less convincing than my outward one.
And then her lips are on mine, and while I don’t, at first, reciprocate the kiss, I don’t resist it, either. The warmth of her mouth is prevalent, but not unbearable, and the dry taste of the wine is faint enough not to be an issue. She presses the kiss against my upper lip and holds it there, then moves it to my lower lip, and then something tragic happens.
I kiss her back. I move my hand to her hair and push my face against hers. I let the water tumble from my other hand so I can stroke the cool, smooth flesh of her leg. Her wine glass falls, forgotten, to the floor, and its remaining contents stain the carpet like the blood of a devoured infant. Our lips part and our tongues entangle like writhing worms on a rotting corpse. She puts her hand on my crotch and grips it tightly, and I gasp a little into her mouth. I slide my own hand up her leg, to her hip, onto her breast. A rush of blood engorges and stiffens my cock, and she unbuttons my jeans and gently tugs it free. Her grip tightens as she starts stroking it, and I gasp again. I yank her dress down, slide my hand under the cup of her bra, and glide my thumb over her hardening nipple. She lets out a soft moan and then pushes me onto my back, pulling my jeans down, and then I—
And then I’m pushing her off me, heaving myself off the couch and tripping over my pants, which I hastily pull up. I sprint for the front door, bursting out into the night air and dashing down the driveway, holding my maddeningly erect dick in my hand as I run. When I reach my car, I lean against it and finish myself off, stroking myself frenziedly until thick streams of semen spurt out onto the pavement, to the beat of my barbaric grunts.
I see Helen in the doorway, half-naked, mascara tears running down her cheeks, and I get into my car and stab the key at the ignition until it finally slides home and the engine grumbles to life. I throw it in reverse and step on the pedal, tires squealing as the car shrieks down the driveway and swerves onto the street.
I take one more look at her silhouetted figure against the light of the doorway before bursting off into the dark.
***
The next night, she comes into the security office and sits down. She doesn’t say anything. I don’t look at her, but I’m shaking.
She pops a couple of pills and starts nervously (I think) pulling at the end of her ponytail. “Listen,” she says, and then pauses for a few long beats before saying, “I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry.”
This is unexpected. I’d thought she’d come to demand an apology from me, which I suppose would have been justified; I had, after all, abandoned her right in the middle of a pivotal moment of sensuality, directly denying her advances. I don’t know how self-esteem works for people, especially women, but I know that couldn’t have been good for hers.
“Why are you sorry,” I ask.
“I shouldn’t have put you in that position. I know . . . what you’re like, and how you like to do things. It was sweet of you to take me out, and I can’t imagine that had been easy for you. But to come on to you like that . . . it wasn’t fair.”
“It’s whatever,” I say uneasily, avoiding her ghostly gaze. “Really, it’s nothing. Don’t . . . worry about it.”
“No, it’s something, and I am worried about it. You’re something extremely unique. I see you as a kindred spirit, you know? We were meant to find each other.” She’s doped up, so I really hope that’s where this sentimental bullshit is coming from. “We were meant for each other,” she says, “but not as lovers. I don’t have friends—not real ones, who know the real me. I know you don’t, either. People intimidate me, and I know they intimidate you, too. Whatever this all is, I don’t want to fuck it up. So . . . I’m sorry I tried to have sex with you.”
“Okay,” I say. “Just don’t do it again. Please. Everything will be fine if you just please don’t do it again.”
“I won’t. But I want to make it up to you.”
“No. I don’t want anything. Stop.”
“I want to let you watch me eat.”
My heart flutters. I can’t even try to tell myself the prospect of that isn’t enthralling. When I first discovered her, she’d had her teeth buried in the infant’s limp arm, but she’d immediately retracted them when she saw me. I didn’t get to see how it started, how it ended, how she chewed or how she swallowed. I’ve tried to picture it, but to actually see it—that would be . . . beautiful. The “miracle of childbirth” in morbid reverse. Or something like that.
She doesn’t wait for an answer, because she already knows what it will be. “When is your next night off?” she asks.
“Thursday,” I say.
“I’ll take that night off, too, then. We can go to one of my places, and you can watch me eat.”
“You don’t have to do that,” I tell her. I say it strictly as a formality, and she knows it.
“I want to,” she answers, and I know she does. “Pick me up around midnight, okay?”
“Okay.”
My heart is beating too fast. My dick is half-cocked, and I fold my hands on my lap, over my groin.
“I have to get going,” Helen says, sort of apologetically. “Again, I’m really sorry about last night.” She stands up, and as she’s going out the door, she looks over her shoulder and whispers, “Thursday.”
“Thursday,” I whisper back.
Thursday.
***
“Is this your usual spot,” I ask as we trot briskly through the empty abortion clinic parking lot. It’s a cold night for July, and I’m shivering a little. Fucking Ohio. Midwest summers don’t count for shit.
“Yeah,” she says. “There are a couple of other ones that I hit up, but this one is closest.”
As we come up to the door, she fishes her key ring out of the pocket of her tight jeans and hands me her bundle of items—a folded white sheet, a couple of washcloths, and a roll of black trash bags. She’s got a duffel bag slung over her shoulder. When she slides one of her keys into the lock, I say, “How did you get a key to an abortion clinic.”
“I’m the head maternity doctor at a mildly esteemed hospital,” she says. “It doesn’t count for much, but it counts for enough.” She smiles at me as she pushes open the door, and it’s a very dead smile; she’s been anxiously chewing pills ever since I picked her up, and her heady inebriation is painted all over her face, like the blank canvas of a frustrated artist. I even caught her drooling and nodding off in the passenger seat a few times on the way here. I’ve never been more attracted to her.
“Apparently so,” I say, following her inside. The front door opens into a waiting room that’s dark and smells strongly of Clorox and latex. She flips on the light, illuminating uncomfortable-looking plastic chairs, and a small wooden table with a smattering of gossip magazines. As if Cosmo is appropriate reading material for a girl who’s about to have a kid flushed out of her cunt.
“The basement is this way,” she says, with an eagerness that defies her narcotic intoxication. She takes my hand and leads m
e through another door, down a narrow white hallway decorated with posters proclaiming the importance of safe sex and the proper use of birth control. I feel bad for sad fucks who have to wear condoms. I mean, I don’t actually feel bad for them, but you know what I mean.
We hurry past some exam rooms, and then she procures another key that grants us access through a heavy steel door emblazoned with a toxic waste sign and the words “WARNING: HAZARDOUS MATERIALS” written underneath it in about eight different languages.
The metal stairs clang under our feet, and I have to hold the handrail to keep from tripping in the darkness. The surety with which Helen proceeds makes me curious as to how many times she’s made this descent.
She flips another light switch when we get to the bottom, revealing a square gray room with cement floors and a number of hand-washing stations and huge, padlocked filing cabinets. Along the wall to the left are a handful of garbage bins bearing the same hazardous waste logo. “Is that where they keep the, um, goods,” I ask, gesturing at the garbage cans.
She shakes her head. “No, that’s just used syringes and gloves and tools and whatnot.” She points to a freezer door on the other side of the room and says, “That’s where the good stuff is.” The freezer door is also marked with the toxic sign, but this one only has the “WARNING” message in three different languages. Sorry, Finland.
Helen takes the bundle from me and moves to the center of the room, where she lays out the sheet and sets aside the garbage bags and washcloths. She then looks at me, biting the inside of her cheek, and says, “I’m going to get undressed now.”
I’d forgotten about that part.
“Okay,” I say. My voice is suddenly hoarse. “I’ll . . . turn around.”
“You don’t have to.”
I swallow. “I’m going to, anyway.” But I don’t. I can’t. It’s like in dreams, where you try to run but your legs won’t listen to your brain, no matter how loud you scream at them to move. I stay rooted in place and look at her. My palms are sweating. My tongue is a dry and unfamiliar obstruction in my mouth; it feels like it’s swollen to three times its size and I’m terrified I’m going to choke on it.
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