Tom Piccirilli - Every shallow cut

I decided what the hell. I climbed out, crossed the lawn, knocked, and my childhood love opened the door.

She was still incredibly pretty, cute in the way you always describe the girl next door. The crows’ feet and parentheses around her mouth added real character to her face. She’d kept in shape. She was trim and well-muscled, dressed nicely in tight jeans and a sleeveless blouse. There were subtle striations of colour in her brown hair, a weaving of red and blonde hues with dashes of silver. She still had a boldness in her eyes. She’d tell me to fuck off but she wouldn’t lie to me.

She eyed me hard but I thought I saw a little curiosity there, as well as compassion and even a touch of love. Her lips almost framed a smile but never quite got there. She stared over my shoulder checking the street. Then she spun and glanced behind her at the hall to see if anyone was there. When she turned back to me I noticed how her hair framed her jaw line and I felt a pang for those days in tenth grade when I stared at the side of her face across our English class. I’d write typical romantic teenage angst-ridden poetry. I’d slip unsigned love haiku through the vents in her locker. It embarrassed the hell out of her.

At a party, bolstered by beer and 151 rum, I eventually found the nerve to lead her to the basement couch and flail against her. We made out, her mouth the flavour of kamikazes. I worked her pants down while she asked, “Will you still be my friend, after?” I told her I would always love her.

Her hair swept to a standstill against the fabric of her collar while she searched my face and found everything that was wrong and lacking.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she said.

“Why not?”

“I’m married now.”

“I know that.”

“I have three children.”

“Congratulations.”

She frowned, not sure how to take it, but accepted it as it was meant: honestly. “Thank you. You really should go.”

“Why are you back living with your mother?” I asked.

“We’ve had some difficulties. My husband lost his job.”

I nodded. I didn’t know what else to do.

“He’ll go berserk if he finds you here.”

“Why?”

“He’s very jealous.”

I remembered him. He was a couple years older than us. She’d met him at a school dance he shouldn’t have been at. He drove up in a well-waxed, fuel-injected red Mustang, timing his entrance perfectly for the greatest effect. The kids were all outside in line waiting to get into the rec centre. He stomped the gas about a block away so that by the time he cruised into the parking lot the engine was roaring like a jungle beast. He climbed out wearing a rat packer black suit, white shirt, black tie, his cuffs shot. They were back in style. Aloof expression, hair slick, a trimmed van dyke.

I danced with her most of the night but every time I went for punch I came back to find him talking to her. Afterwards, when I was about to drive her home, she got into his car instead. For months after I thought he would use her, break her heart, and she’d limp back to me a wiser woman ready to receive my genuine love. It never happened.

“If he doesn’t have a job where’s he at right now?” I asked.

“Over at the Dugout.”

Christ, I thought, the Dugout. It was a hole in the wall dive where me and my buddies used to hang out Friday nights shooting pool. I could imagine her husband in there, in the middle of the day, with the place packed wall to wall with similar silent, stewing, jealous men. I would fit right in. Maybe he and I could finally be friends all these years later. He would break down and weep into three fingers of Jameson’s and explain to me how life had gone downhill since that night at the rec centre. That’s when he’d been at his coolest. I’d rub his shoulder and say I understood. We’d come back here and scrape together enough money to rent one of those Asian teenie bopper assassin flicks and laugh our guts out while we ate his mother-in-law’s munchies.

“Let me in,” I told her.

“I can’t let you in.”

“Just for a minute.”

“Why?”

“Why do you think?”

“I have no idea.”

I thought of bulling my way inside. I thought of pressing my new slim body up against hers and letting her feel the corded muscles of my chest. I could take off my jacket and show her the veins bulging in my arms. My hands were still soft but they were strong, finally. I thought I could grab her by the wrist and lead her past her three kids and tell them not to disturb us for about an hour. I’d drag her into her old bedroom. I’d never stepped foot inside it. I would stand at the edge of the doorway and glance inside while she finished brushing her hair or putting on her shoes. Her mother would hover nearby waiting to crack a vase over my head.

“You have to go now.”

“Can’t I just talk to you for a little while?”

“We have nothing to say to each other.”

It was probably true. Besides, I didn’t really want to talk to her. I wanted to haul her onto her bed and brush the hair away from her jaw line and kiss her throat gently. I wanted to work my lips in deeply and gnaw. There would be nipping. There would be biting. I’d kick the door shut and shove the dresser in front of it. I’d take off her top and maul those tits. They were still large with some nice bounce. I’d cup them and hold them up to my mouth and suck them until she whimpered. I’d tear her jeans off and shred her panties. I’d be rough. I was never rough, I wasn’t aggressive, I hardly ever made the first move, not even with my wife, but I would be rough with her. Maybe she’d want it that way, maybe not. It wouldn’t matter. We’d fuck like terrified lemmings about to go over the cliff. She’d mark my chest with her nails. I’d have half-moon scars forever. Her jealous, drunken husband would bang on the door and ask in a liquor-spattered voice what the hell those weird sounds were. The kids would describe me. He’d remember. He’d throw his shoulder against the door and the lock would rattle and the dresser would dance while the mattress rocked insanely. She would scream. It would be part bliss and part cry for help. She’d be begging him for rescue and begging me as well. I’d do my best. I’d ride her across the mountaintops of hell. He would wobble into the kitchen and go through the junk drawer looking for a hammer. He wouldn’t find one. He’d have to check the garage. He’d get his hand on a ball-peen but it would be too small to do any real damage. He’d take up an awl, a socket wrench, a tire iron. Finally, he’d find a huge claw hammer and run back in. The kids would be crying. He’d shout at them to shut the fuck up, you little shits. Once, twice, three times he’d strike the doorknob of the bedroom but the lock would hold. He’d kick at it, throw his hip against it. Then he’d use the hammer again. I’d be deep in his wife and nearly there as she wrapped her legs around me and told me not to stop. I wouldn’t stop. I’d never stop. I would always love her. We’d come together and she’d lick at my bleeding chest, lie back and light a cigarette. The claw of the hammer would start breaking through the door. Splinters and chips would shower over us.

She’d blow a long stream of smoke that would break wide across her chin and say to me, Okay, so what do you want to talk about?

The car horn blasted. I started and jumped a little. I turned to see Churchill standing on his front paws propped against the steering wheel. His tongue lolled. He cocked his head and gave me a look like, What the hell are we doing here?

She leaned in closer. For a moment I thought she might kiss me. Her breath tickled my nose hairs. I half-closed my eyes. I waited. She whispered, “It was nice seeing you. I wish you all the best. Now please please please… don’t ever come back.” Then she shut the door and double locked it.