hour period? I tiptoed past, not wanting
to bother them, or Cole, who I thought
must still be asleep. But no. The couch
was empty, the bedspread folded
neatly. He wasn’t there, hadn’t even
bothered to say good-bye. Disappointment
clawed. I went into the kitchen, noticed
the glasses on the counter, dishes
in the sink. When did that happen?
CLUTTER ALWAYS BOTHERS ME
But the irritation I felt at the state of
my kitchen bordered on irrational.
I knew it, but couldn’t say why.
I unloaded the dishwasher. Loudly.
And, even more loudly, started
loading the crusty dirties. Hey!
Stop! I planned on doing that.
I jumped at the voice, strange but
not, falling over my shoulder; spun,
pointing a fork like a tined bayonet.
Cole’s eyes glittered humor. Careful.
I’m trained in hand-to-hand combat,
you know. Put down the weapon.
Slowly. Better yet, give it to me. Please.
I handed him the fork, which he put
in the dishwasher. “Jesus. You scared
the crap out of me. Where did you
come from? I thought you’d left.”
He shook his head. Everyone was
still asleep when I woke up, so I sat
outside and . . . wrote. Hope you don’t
mind I borrowed a piece of paper.
“Of course not.” It wasn’t the paper
that bothered me as much as the idea
of him rooting around for it. “In fact,
you don’t even have to pay me back.”
He smiled. Maybe I want to. Then
he looked at me so intently I had to
turn away, inventing some necessary
chore. “You a coffee person? I think
I could use a cup.” I reached up
into the cupboard for the Folgers.
Let me help. The weight of my long,
still-damp hair lifted suddenly. Mmm.
You smell good. His lips brushed
my neck, and it was like stepping
outside in a thunderstorm—a hint
of lightning initiating goose bumps
in places both seen and hidden.
I turned into him, and he lifted me,
sat me on the counter. Wrapped
my legs around his ripped torso,
pulled me into him until the pulsing
between my legs rested against
the throbbing beneath his breast bone,
zero between them but silk and skin.
It was nothing I’d ever experienced
before, this sudden blush of desire
so intense I couldn’t believe it belonged
to me. And significance infused our kiss.
I think we both knew it then, though
it took time to acknowledge that some
brilliant stutter of fate had connected
us in such a profound way. I can’t speak
for Cole, but for me, the world as I
understood it to be ceased to exist.
In that exact moment, I couldn’t have
reasonably claimed to have fallen in love
with him. But in that exact moment,
I still wasn’t sure I believed in love.
Anyway, it was enough to be snared
by passion so intense, it bordered surreal.
Swept away, unable to swim and barely
finding air, I would have let him carry
me into my bedroom, make love right
then and there. Instead he pulled back.
Not quite in unison, but staggered closely,
we both had one thing to say. “Wow.”
Wow.
THAT KIND OF FOREPLAY
Without follow-through is a huge
turn-on. While Darian and Spencer
spent the day following through,
Cole and I wandered the hills
of the San Diego Zoo. The air
was winter-spiced but I barely
noticed. Everything about me
felt warm. And, while I studied
the animals, I noticed other things.
Like how Cole’s hand was nearly
twice as big as mine. And warm,
when it gloved my exposed skin.
Like how I tucked completely
under his arm, the sculpture
of his biceps. Like the way
he adjusted his stride, my legs
no match for his, until we walked
in perfect step. Like how he liked
the big cats best, especially
the jaguars, who paced in short
strokes of sun. Every time we stopped,
we kissed, and lacing every
kiss was desire, rising up big
and bold, voracious as a leviathan.
LEVIATHAN
Sleeps. Dreams fitfully
of sand, unstained from
horizon to horizon, while
overhead
silence floats in mirrored
sky. Disturbing. No pleas.
No screams. No sound
of distress. Not even
the drone of
tear-muffled prayer.
Leviathan wakes. Yawns.
Stretches haunch and claw.
Cocks his head and finds
the ghostly moan of
danger, distant,
but alive. Leviathan cracks
a smile, reveals fear-sharpened
fangs. Sheds the shadow
of nightmares
born within hibernation.
Leviathan embraces blood
hunger. Rises, lifts into
the startled blue, dragon
on the wing.
Cole Gleason
Present
DARIAN LIVES
At Camp Pendleton. Like most military
bases, the sprawling chunk of oceanfront
California is pretty much self-contained,
with schools, fast food, golf, and religion
just beyond spitting distance from jets and
helicopters, tanks and heavy artillery.
Some spouses use their housing allowance
to live off-base nearby in one of San Diego’s
neat, suburban neighborhoods. The thrifty ones
bank that money and stay with generous
relatives. But from the start, Darian wanted
to cozy up to other military wives.
They understand what I’m going through.
Like I don’t. Like a marriage license
somehow ups the ante on emotion. Pissed
me off when she first said it, and it still
makes me mad that she might actually
believe it. It’s a chink in the once-solid
armor of our friendship. That makes me sad.
Anyway, on base I can get by without a car.
Her beater Civic broke down not long
after we moved here. She’d mostly
made do bumming rides from me.
But after her wedding, she decided
to quit school, move into base housing,
and play housewife. How can she stand it?
THEY SAY MILITARY WIVES
Are, overall, a lot more fit
than other women in their age
groups. Uh, yeah. The gym spells
relief—stress relief, Mommy duty
relief, and serious tedium
relief. Looking at Dar, I can
see she definitely spends time
utilizing the workout facilities.
But is that the only way
she relieves tension and
boredom? Better to know
for sure than to keep guessing.
I c
an’t ask her now. She won’t
discuss the subject here. Not
in front of these three women.
Military wives talk, Celine said,
and Darian knows that’s true.
She came with them, but maybe
she’ll let me take her home.
I look at Celine, whose seniority
makes her the de facto team
leader. “Would you mind if
I drove Dar back to the base?
We haven’t had time to catch up.”
SHE GLANCES AT THE OTHERS
But they are caught up
in their own conversation
and don’t notice a thing.
Carrie: . . . heard the draw
down is going to happen
sooner than they thought.
Meghan: Is that good or
bad? I mean, are you ready
for a full-time husband?
Carrie laughs. Maybe not.
But don’t worry. There’s
always another shithole . . .
I tune back out. Trying to
second-guess the brass is
a fast track to disappointment.
Celine smiles, as if reading
my mind. Then she shrugs.
I’m good with you driving
Darian back as long as she
is. We both look at Dar, who
is slow dancing with the guy
from the bar. Slow grinding
might be a more apt description.
“I’ll ask as soon as the music stops.”
I’M HALF-WORRIED
Darian will be pissed at the interruption
but instead she seems almost grateful.
You really want to drive me home?
Crazy! You can stay over, if you want.
It’s the guy who gets pissed. Hey, he slurs.
You’re supposed to come home with me.
Darian is all Darian. Why? Because I danced
with you? How does one equal the other?
Because of how you danced with me.
He starts moving his hips, a bad imitation.
You know what I mean. He grabs for her,
but she isn’t nearly as drunk and easily
sidesteps his reach. Fuck off! You couldn’t
get that teeny pecker up if you tried.
The guy’s cheeks puff out and his face
blossoms crimson. He takes a step forward
and I yank her backward. “Come on, Dar.
We’d better get going or your husband
will get back before you do.” We both smile
at the joke and I take her arm, steer her
toward the table. The other ladies watch
intently, no doubt trying to decide if full-on
intervention is called for. So does
a beefy man, clearly labeled “bouncer.”
One look from him moves Drunk Guy
back to the bar, muttering a fast-flowing
stream of obscenities. Darian laughs
it off. Wow. He got a little testy, huh?
Carrie and Meghan titter. But Celine
is thoughtful when she says, Some men
would get more than testy. Maybe you
should think about that. She stands.
My babysitter turns into a pumpkin
at midnight. You girls ready to go?
The three offer lukewarm good-byes,
head out. “What about you? Ready?”
Just about. Gotta pee first. Off she goes,
unaware of, or at least paying minimal
attention to, the way Drunk Guy watches,
scooting toward the edge of his barstool
as if he just might follow her. Bouncer
definitely notices and shoots a warning
glare. Thank God he’s on it, or I’d be more
than a little afraid of the walk to my car.
WE MAKE IT SAFELY
And I rush to lock the doors.
Still, I don’t hurry too quickly
to back out of the space. Last thing
I need is to bump into something.
I don’t feel inebriated, but who knows
how close to .08 I might be after three
drinks, approximately one per hour?
Darian, I’m pretty sure, is beyond
legally drunk. It isn’t far to the gate,
maybe fifteen minutes, driving right
at the speed limit. Not enough time
to plumb her in depth, but I have to
say something. Let’s start with trite.
“So, what have you been up to?”
She sighs and leans heavily back
against the seat, making it squeak.
Not a whole lot. I’m taking a couple
of courses online. Might as well
get my BA. Never know when it
might come in handy. How’s school?
“Not bad. Except for Chaucer.
It’s kind of lonely living by myself,
but after you, any other roommate
would be totally boring.” I smile,
because it’s so true. I know, right?
Good thing your parents want
to help out. Are they used to the idea
of you and Cole yet? My dad’s always
been good with Spence and me, but
five years later and Mom still thinks
I’m crazy. Of course, she’s married
to Dad, so I guess that makes sense.
In addition to ranching and rodeo,
Darian’s dad is in the National Guard.
He’s been deployed several times.
The Guard isn’t just Weekend Warriors.
Sometimes, they get called up,
regardless of age or points earned
toward a calf roping championship.
Darian’s mom thinks the military
is most of the reason he’s so mean.
“My parents don’t agree with a lot
of my decisions. But you’re right.
At least they’re willing to support
me in them. Not sure how I’d pay
back a student loan as a rookie social
worker. If I can even find a job once
I get my degree.” We reach the gate
and Darian starts to dig in her purse
for her ID. But the cute young MP
sticks his head in the window. Don’t
worry. I know who you are. He grins,
waves us through. Why does that
not surprise me? “He knows you,
but do you know him?” It’s a joke,
but not, and that’s how she takes it.
SHE IS SERIOUS
When she answers.
I’ve made it a point to get
to know lots of people here,
including men. Especially
men, in fact. Life is simpler
when you’re in charge, even
though you need to make others
think they’re driving the tank,
if you know what I mean.
I do, and it’s not very pretty.
But it is truthful, so that’s a good
start. I have more questions.
We pull up in front of a row
of pretty, well-kept town houses.
Darian directs me to a short
stretch of driveway. I’d let you
park in the garage, but Spence’s
Harley takes up more space
than you’d think. She laughs.
They say buying a big bike is
a guy’s way of making up for
certain personal inadequacies.
Not true in Spencer’s case, at least
not if you’re talking about cock size.
I cringe at her straightforward
language. She has changed in
the last few years. Changed a lot.
AS KIDS
&
nbsp; Any curse word beyond “jackass”
would have resulted in a bar of
Ivory in the mouth from Dar’s mom,
or giant belt welts from her dad.
Funny, but my parents never said
a thing about my language, not
that I ever used bad words within
their earshot, and rarely beyond it.
I don’t have a real problem with men
cursing, unless they go overboard.
But lipstick-framed profanity somehow
seems wrong to me. If you hear it
escape my mouth, you’d better run.
It means I’ve totally lost it and I’ll
probably throw something, too.
I have to admit I got a kick out of
Dar’s “teeny pecker” comment tonight.
“Teeny cock” wouldn’t have had
quite as much power, in my modest
opinion. I lock the Durango’s doors,
follow Darian inside. The two-bedroom
town home is compact but pretty.
At least it would be pretty if she kept
it a little neater. As it is, dirty glasses
and crumpled wrappers decorate
tables and countertops. “Uh, Dar?
Is it the maid’s day off, or did you
invite your neighbors’ kids for snacks?”
LAUGHTER SNORT-CHOKES
Simultaneously from her nose
and throat. Thus my decision
to leave child rearing to others.
Kids are fucking messy, no doubt
about it. She gestures for me to sit
on the beige microfiber sofa. Goes
over to the wet bar, pours Campari
and soda for herself, three fingers
of some upscale (but likely bought
duty-free) Añejo tequila for me.
One velvet sip and I am convinced
that Jose Cuervo is a wannabe. No.
Take that back. A total imposter.
“W-wow . . .” It’s a hoarse imitation
of the word. “That’s excellent.”
Right? It’s not what you know,
it’s who you know, et cetera. She
rewards me with a long, assessing
stare. God, it’s great to see you.
How come we don’t get together
more often? Not like you live across
the universe, or even the state!
Valid question. Why don’t we get
together more often? Why the heck—
hell—do friends have to grow apart?
THE GREAT THING
About long-time, all-time friends
is, no matter how many hours
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