by Harley Fox
Edward shakes his head. “Ugh. I really should tell people before I screen them not to start fucking one another. It gets in the way of the work. Introduces tension where there shouldn’t be any.”
I nod. Edward jots something down in his notebook, flips the page of Rebekka’s.
“Of course, that’s not a problem for you, is it?” He tilts his head, lifts an eyebrow at me. “You go at women like a fucking rabbit, but I’ve never heard you go on like some sappy romantic about any of them. Just fuck ‘em and leave ‘em. You know, I give you a hard time for that, but to be honest, it’s better than what those two’ve got going on. A lone stallion. Just like myself.”
I swallow. Stand up from the table.
“I’m going for a walk.”
Edward gives me a look from where he sits, then he shrugs.
“Ten forty-five at the van. No later.”
He goes back to the notebooks and I step around the table, heading for the front door where Rebekka had gone off.
When I step outside the sky is streaked with hues of red, orange, purple. Rebekka’s leaning against the wall of the restaurant, a lit cigarette in her hand. She’s crying, wiping the tears away carefully from under her eyelids.
“Marc!” she says in a thick voice when she sees me. A single laugh, a wet sniff. She wipes again. “Ah, sorry. I’m just …” She shakes her head.
“It’s okay,” I tell her. But she shakes her head again.
“It’s stupid. It’s just … I don’t know what’s been happening lately. With Julian and me. It’s like … it’s like I can’t stand to be around him, you know? God, that sounds awful to say, but that’s how I feel.”
I nod, not saying anything. She takes a drag of her cigarette and blows out a thin stream of smoke. “It was all fun before, you now? Keeping it secret … trying not to spend too much time around one another.”
“You didn’t keep it hidden very well,” I tell her with a grin. “Sound carries around the House pretty well.”
Her mouth opens, surprised, and her eyebrows fly up.
“You knew? You could hear us …?”
I chuckle, nodding. “Try biting a pillow next time. It helps.”
She laughs, but the laugh is cut off short as her smile drops away.
“Next time,” she says, shaking her head. “Who knows when that’ll be?”
Indeed, I haven’t heard her and Julian go at it in some time. Maybe that’s the cause of her frustration lately? Or maybe it’s just a symptom?
“Anyway,” she shakes her head again. “Are we leaving?”
“No, I’m just going for a walk,” I tell her. “Clear my head a bit.”
“You nervous about the job?”
“Huh? No.” To be honest, I’d hardly thought about the job tonight. “No, I’m just … I just need to walk.”
Rebekka gives me a shrewd look. “Anything you want to talk about?”
“No,” I say, maybe too quickly. “No, I’m fine. Thanks though.”
She nods again, takes another drag. “I’ll see you later, then.”
“Yeah, see you.”
So I leave Rebekka at the restaurant and head down the street. I feel sorry for her and Julian—it sounds like they’re going through a rough patch in their relationship, and that can’t be easy when you can’t really escape the other—but to be honest, it doesn’t sound like the worst problem to have.
If you’re fighting with the person you love, well, at least that means you’ve got someone to love, don’t you? My situation, which is to say my current approach to being with women, is good for the short run. When you’ve got a body and a cock like mine, women are usually more than willing to spread their legs for a night. But that’s as far as it goes. A night. No sleep, no cuddling. None of that gushy romantic stuff. Which also means none of that warm, embracing comfort.
Rebekka should be counting her blessings. She and Julian are fighting, but at least that means she has something to work toward with him. At the end of the day, she won’t be lonely. She won’t be having forgettable harried sex in museum bathrooms. She won’t be kicked out of beds and apartments the second after she’s come. Instead she’ll have Julian.
I’ve been turning down streets at random, watching the evening sun continue to set, melting down over the horizon as the sky transitions between colors.
I don’t know where I’m going—I don’t know this city at all—but it doesn’t really matter. I’ve got a few hours to kill before I need to be back. I probably won’t be gone that long, but it’s nice to know I’ve got that freedom.
Freedom. Is that really what I have? That’s what Edward promised me, back when I applied for the job. Make money, travel the country. You’ll be free. Besides, given your situation, what other options do you have?
Given my situation. He’s not wrong. But if this is what freedom is to him, he’s got to reevaluate his definition of the word. I can’t really leave. I can’t work anywhere else. Even taking this walk is a bit dangerous. If I pass any cop station or cop car, I’ve got to turn the other way. Hide my face. Maybe duck into a store or an alley. I have to keep a low profile.
And sometimes that can be hard, especially given some of the things you see when you’re out.
As if on cue, I turn the corner and hear a guy’s voice—angry, yelling—halfway down the street. The sun is all the way down now, the streetlamps on, fighting back the blue-black of night with isolated circles of illumination. Beyond one of these circles, partly hidden in the dark of an alley opening, is a man pushing a woman up against the brick wall.
“I told you it’s what I want! I’ve got good money, just fucking do it!”
“No, Stanley!” The woman’s voice is strained. He’s got her by the face. “I told you, I don’t do that anymore!”
“Like fuck you don’t, whore!” He spits the word out, then spits on her. “You’ll fucking do what I tell you!”
I glance down the street, across to the other side. Nobody’s around. In all his commotion, the guy doesn’t hear me approach.
“I think you’d better let go of her,” I say in a calm but clear voice. The guy starts, turns around, stares at me with bloodshot eyes. “Looks like you’re hurting her.”
“Who the fuck are you?” he snarls, eyeing me up and down. He’s a big guy himself, but he’s breathing heavy. There’s muscle under the fat, I can tell. Atop his round head his hairline is receding.
“I’m just a guy passing by on his way downtown,” I respond. “And you’re a guy who’s going to do what I say, if he values the blood in his body.”
His eyes narrow. He’s still got a hand on the woman’s face, half-covering her mouth. She’s wearing a short red dress, mesh stocking, black heels. Her mascara’d eyes are glimmering with tears, but she isn’t crying.
“Fuck off, asshole,” he says. “Go back to sucking off your boyfriend.”
“It sounds like you didn’t hear me,” I say, and I take a step closer to him. He stiffens, all the muscles in his body tensing. “I said let go of the woman. If you don’t, you’re going to feel it tomorrow morning.”
He’s got a grimace on his face, but it turns upward into a smile. He laughs, an ugly sound.
“Ha! Ha!” The words punctuate the air. “You’re a funny guy. I’m gonna feel it in the morning.”
He finally lets go of the woman’s face as he turns toward me. She coughs, gasps, steps down the alley a bit, away from him, but she doesn’t leave.
“You know what you’re gonna feel tomorrow morning?” the guy asks. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out something black that fits in his hand.
Snick!
A blade suddenly pops out, bright and silver and shining in the light of the streetlamp.
“What you’re gonna feel tomorrow is my fucking blade in your belly. Is that what you want? Huh? You want me to fuck you with my knife blade, you faggot?”
I see the blade at the bottom of my vision. My eyes haven’t left his.
Car
eful…now!
I drop my gaze to the knife in his hand and that’s when he lunges. I move fast, stepping to the side and avoiding his blade. He punctures thin air but I’ve got his wrist. I twist it, push his elbow with my other hand, force his hand down in a circle and then up toward his back.
“Agh!” he cries out.
Keeping his wrist held with one hand, I put the other hand on the back of his head and push him toward the brick wall, fast. His free hand becomes pinned between his body and the wall. He turns his head just in time, avoiding getting his nose smashed in by a hair. But even so, I hear a sickening crack as his cheek and eye are crushed against the unforgiving texture of brick and cement.
“Aghhgagh!”
The knife swivels back and forth in the air between us. This guy doesn’t give up.
“Drop it,” I say in his ear. When he doesn’t I press his face even harder into the brick and he cries out again. Blood begins drooling out of his mouth, and with it half a molar comes slithering out. That explains the crack. He loosens his fingers and the knife tumbles from them onto the dirty ground.
“Let me go,” he mumbles. More blood oozes out of his mouth.
“First we’re going to have a talk,” I say to him, as calm as anything. “This woman here? You’re going to leave her alone. She’s obviously not selling whatever it is you’re buying, which means you have no business with her.”
His upper lip manages to curl, but he doesn’t say anything.
“Now, I think you owe her an apology for hurting her, don’t you?”
He still doesn’t say anything, so I press his face harder into the brick. His eye closes and he snarls in pain. I lean in close.
“Apologize to the woman. Or this wall is going to do to your face what a cheese grater does to mozzarella.”
His eye opens. He stops breathing for a few seconds, and then his lips move, trying to draw back some of the blood and spit that’s been leaking out since we started this.
“Sorry,” he mumbles.
“What’s that? You’re going to have to say it a bit louder.”
“I’m sorry!” he calls out as best he can. I smile at him.
“Good. Now I just moved into this neighborhood, which means I’m going to be around here a lot. If I see you near her again—if I even see you walking the same street as her—you can kiss that pretty little knife hand of yours goodbye. Do you understand me?”
He slurps in some more blood-spit and then blinks by way of assent.
“Yeah,” he mumbles.
I let go of him and take a step back. He slowly straightens out his arm, flexing the fingers. He seems to ignore the woman but he turns to me. The side of his face is pocked with grit and holes and blood. He stares at me for a long second, and then turns, walking away down the street.
I watch him go. The woman takes the few tentative steps out of the alley enough to join me. The guy turns the corner and he’s gone.
“Wow, shit,” she says. “Thanks for that. You didn’t have to.”
I reach down and pick up the knife, turning it over in my hand. I fold the blade closed and pocket it.
“If I didn’t, who else was going to?”
She nods. If she’s still shaken from the incident, she’s hiding it well. Her hand extends.
“I’m Isabelle,” she says when I shake it. I feel my heart freeze. Oh God. Isabelle. That’s so close …
“Marc,” I return. We let go.
“I wish I could repay you,” she tells me, starting to act coy. “My place is just over there. You wanna come back? No charge; it’s on the house.”
“Oh, no, thanks,” I tell her. “I appreciate it, but no.”
“Aw, it’s okay. You weirded out? Some guys are with someone like me.”
“No, it’s not that,” I tell her, truthfully. “My sister, actually, did the same sort of work. It never bothered me.”
“Your sister, huh?” She nods. “Where is she now?”
“Ah, she uh …” I feel my throat tightening up. All of a sudden I can’t speak.
But Isabelle reaches out, puts a hand on my arm. She’s looking up at me.
“It’s okay,” she says, her voice soft. “You don’t have to say. I’ve heard it a thousand times.”
I nod. Swallow. Her hand slides off. “Yeah. Well. I should get going.”
She nods. “Did you really move in around here?”
I shake my head. “No.”
She smiles, giving a little chuckle. “Yeah, I thought so.”
“You going to be okay?”
Another nod. “I’ll be fine. With that creep gone? I’ll be fine.” She reaches out and pats my arm again. “You have a good night, buddy.”
I turn away. “Yeah. Thanks, Annabelle. You too.”
I see her give me a look, maybe about to say something, but she seems to think better of it and just nods instead. I start down the street, not in the mood for a walk anymore. It’s time to head back.
Persephone
My eyes burn as I blink, but I keep on working, transferring data over from one record to another, flipping the top index card down and starting work on the next one.
The archival room is empty except for me. The museum just closed, the staff all packing up and going home. Not me, though. After Marc left I came back here, grabbed the rest of my lunch, and quickly ate it in the employee lounge to avoid Dr. Coolidge’s wrath. Then I continued my filing work, deciding not to stop until I got it all done. That was four hours ago, and I’ve still got a long way to go.
Some of the staff bid me good night as they shrug on their coats, heading out the door. I smile to them as they leave, dip my head back down, continue working.
Soon a voice causes me to lift my head again. “Perse?” Henry’s familiar tone makes me look up. He’s got his coat on, his backpack slung over his back. “What’re you doing? The museum’s closing.”
“I know, I’m going to work late,” I tell him. “I want to get this work done.”
“But,” his face drops, “what about drinks tonight?”
A high-pitched giggling echoes down the hallway outside the archival room door, and a moment later Kiara struts in the room, already decked out in a strappy dress. She must have changed in one of the bathrooms when the rest of us were working. Or, at least, when I was working. Abigail and Malik follow her, Abigail holding onto Malik’s arm.
“Henry!” Kiara says with a splash of sass to her voice. “What are you doing? Come on, let’s go!”
“Perse should come with us,” he says. Kiara stops beside him and grabs his hand, tries pulling him away from the table.
“Nooo,” she whines. “I don’t want her ruining our fun.”
“She won’t ruin our fun,” Henry says, although I notice he doesn’t pull his hand out of Kiara’s. He gives me a smile instead. “We can all have fun together.”
Kiara gives me a look like she just scraped me off the bottom of her heels. “Her? The only way she’ll have fun is if there’s a gloryhole to work in the guy’s bathroom.”
“Ugh,” Henry and I say at the same time. Both Abigail and Malik stand watching this exchange, not smiling, not frowning.
“Go fuck yourself, Kiara,” I spit at her. “And stop spreading rumors about me.”
“They’re not rumors if they’re true,” she counters.
“That was … you know what? I don’t have to justify myself to you. Just go, leave me alone. All of you.”
Kiara responds by breaking out into a high-pitched giggle.
“So articulate! I guess when you fuck every guy at college, you lose some of your brain cells.”
She lets go of Henry’s hand and giggles her way out of the room, Abigail and Malik following. My face is threatening to burn. Henry stands there, giving me a pitying look from where he stands.
“You okay?” he asks. “Want me to stay here instead? I can get a bottle of wine. Just the two of us.”
I roll my eyes, which helps to spread the frustrated tears
around, stopping them from pooling.
“Just go,” I tell him. “Have fun at the bar. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He nods. “Yeah, okay. See you tomorrow.”
Henry turns and leaves, the archival room now empty except for me. Once his footsteps have receded to nothing, I allow my frustration at Kiara and this fucking reputation of mine to rise and crest, forcing a few annoying tears out which I wipe away with the back of my hand.
I breathe deep and try to relax, getting back to work. Why am I staying late when everyone else seems not to have anything to do around here? Why does Dr. Coolidge treat me like such shit? Why won’t she delegate this work out to the others too? Then she wouldn’t have anything to complain about when the end of the day rolls around and I don’t have it done yet.
An angry-sounding set of footsteps announces the approach of another person, and I have a feeling I know who they belong to.
“Doukas!” Dr. Coolidge snaps. I lift my eyes from my work, then my head. I place my pen down on my notebook as she stops in front of me.
“Yes?”
“What the hell are you still doing here?” she asks. “The museum is now closed. Go home.”
“I have work to do, Doctor,” I tell her. “You know, all this work you assigned me? If you don’t want me staying late to work, then give these menial tasks out to the other students too.”
“It’s not your business to concern yourself with the workload of the other students,” Dr. Coolidge tells me. “And don’t talk to me about being stuck with so much work. I’ve been in this profession for thirty years, and do you know what my salary is compared to my male colleagues?” She lets out a harsh laugh. “It’s a joke. This talk of modern feminism and still we don’t have equal pay.”
Why is she telling me this? I’m aware of the pay discrepancy within the department, but I’ve never heard Dr. Coolidge talk about it before. Before I can say anything, though, she goes on.
“All that is to say, if you think you’re doing more work than you can handle, Doukas, maybe you should reconsider this particular profession.”
I clench my jaw. “That’s not what I’m saying.”
“Good,” she narrows her eyes. “Now finish up quickly and go.”