Lauren Beukes - Broken Monsters

It’s freezing out here. He tucks the cover up over the birds on her shoulder, pulls his jacket on over his nakedness, and staggers in what he hopes is the direction of the bathroom to find something for the vice around his head.

He should write something. Anything. Take three steps in Detroit and you’re falling over a story. But they’ve all been done by the native sons. Fuck you and your Pulitzer, Charlie LeDuff, he thinks, patting down the wall to find the light switch.

He flinches against the halogen and the reflection in the medicine cabinet – it’s not even merciless, it’s plain mean. He examines his face. The puffiness will go away once he catches up on his sleep. George Clooney rules: crow’s feet on a man are sexy, and the patches of white in his six-day scruff of beard are a badge of experience. Jesus. Thirty-seven years old and sleeping with DJs.

Not bad going, he grins at himself. Ignoring his inner troll, which snipes, Yeah, but she’s no Cate, is she?

You don’t know that, he thinks. She could be. She could be really smart and deep and funny. I could follow her round the world, a new gig in a new city every night, write in hotel rooms.

Yeah, ’cos that’s working out so well for you right now.

‘Lost?’ Jen says, leaning on the door, wearing a hideous blue flannel dressing gown. Looking a little puffy herself – which is charming in its own way. She is idly rubbing at her collar bone, exposing a glimpse of smooth skin.

‘Oh hey. I was looking for an Advil. Or something.’

‘You try the medicine cabinet?’ Amused, she leans past him to pop it open on a clutter of cosmetics and medicine bottles, a packet of tampons that makes him avert his eyes like he’s twelve all over again, and, alarmingly, several needles still sealed in plastic. She reaches for a bottle and drops two aspirin into his hand. ‘You can use the glass by the sink. It’s clean. You coming back to bed?’

‘Yeah.’ He slugs the pills down, following her back into the bedroom.

She shrugs the horrible robe from her shoulders like a wrestler and climbs back into bed. ‘I saw your look. Don’t worry about it. I’ve got what my grandma used to call “the sugars”.’

‘Uh?’

‘The needles. I’m diabetic. They’re back-up in case I run out of pens. What, you thought you’d hooked up with some junkie?’

‘It crossed my mind for a millisecond.’

‘Aren’t you glad we used protection?’

‘Did we?’ He shoves away the pop of disappointment. ‘I’m a little fuzzy. Not that it matters. Seeing as you’re not, you know, um.’ He is aware of how idiotic he must look, with his jacket zipped up and his cock hanging out. Smooth operator.

‘You don’t remember?’ But she’s smiling, the covers tucked up under her chin. ‘You’re hurting my feelings.’

‘You might have to remind me.’

‘Get in here,’ she says, lifting the blanket, tilting her head at the pack of Durex on the bedside table. He’s the kind of guy who can take a hint.

‘What were you dreaming about?’ he whispers into the perfect curved shell of her ear as he enters her.

‘Does it matter?’ she arches her back up against him, and right now it really doesn’t.

‘C’mon, wake up. You gotta go.’

‘Mmmmf?’ Jonno manages as she shoves him out of bed. He is confused for a moment, then he remembers where the hell he is. Hot DJ girl. You had your cock inside her. Nice work if you can get it, boychick.

‘But it’s still dark,’ he protests through the sleep glaze, even as he’s pulling on his socks. He stands on one of their used condoms. Squelchy even through his sock.

‘Hustle. I mean it.’

‘Did they start the zombie apocalypse already?’ He tugs on his shirt and realizes it’s backwards. He yanks it off and starts again. She is sitting cross-legged on the bed, naked, watching him and smiling.

‘You’re a funny guy, Tommy.’

‘Jonno.’ It stings much more than it should.

Her hands fly to her mouth. ‘Oh jeez. Sorry.’ She starts giggling again. ‘Oh, that’s terrible. I’m so embarrassed.’ She tips forward, burying her head on her knees. She can’t stop laughing. ‘Sorry.’

‘The least you can do is buy me breakfast,’ he says in his best indignant voice. He pulls on his jeans and buttons his fly. At least he can’t screw that up.

‘All right. But only if you get out of here, right now.’

He lowers his voice. ‘ Is it zombies? Because if that’s the case, I think we should be improvising weapons.’

‘Worse than that, doofus. It’s my dad.’

‘Wait.’ His brain is scrabbling like a dog with a small bladder at the door. He looks around again. Definitely not a teen pad. And that’s a woman’s body, right there. The fullness and softness and the smile lines. She sees the panic on his face and laughs harder, leaning on him, her hand on his stomach. He automatically sucks it in. She’s already seen you naked, genius.

‘You thought …’

‘Zombies I can deal with.’

‘I’m twenty-nine, you idiot.’

‘Well thank God for that.’ And that’s not true, he thinks. The profile he read last night said she was thirty-three.

‘I’m living at home. For now.’

‘And your dad thinks you don’t have sex?’

‘Not under his roof. Well, on his property.’

‘Ah.’

‘Yeah.’

‘I should probably get going then.’

‘You probably should.’ She is grinning madly. She nods her head at the door. ‘Same way you came in.’

‘But you’re still buying me breakfast.’

‘Not today. I’ve got family stuff.’

‘Tomorrow, then.’

She relents. ‘There’s a coffee place in Corktown. I’ll see you there at ten.’

‘That’s not very specific.’

‘You’ll find it.’

‘I’ll get a cab home, then. And see you tomorrow.’ He is trying not to sound desperate.

‘Okay.’ She’s beaming.

‘All right.’ He stands there a moment longer.

‘You should go.’

‘It seems like a very bad idea to leave you.’

‘But you should anyway.’

‘Okay. You know it’s cute that you don’t swear.’

‘Go! For Pete’s sake!’

He leans down and pulls her into a deep kiss. ‘Okay.’ He stalks down the corridor with great stealth and purpose, not looking back, reeking of eau de pussy. It’s no use.

‘Um,’ he says, poking his head round her bedroom door. She is lying with one arm cast above her head, her eyes closed, head tilted back, and her hand between her legs. ‘I’m really sorry to interrupt—?’

She sits up, not the slightest bit embarrassed. ‘Would you get out of here?’

‘I would. I just …’ he shrugs helplessly. ‘I don’t know where we are. It was dark when we came in. If you could give me a suburb at least?’

TK wakes up under a table in a strange house. His feet are sticking out the end in his worn black boots. He pulled a pillow off the couch for his head, used one of the drapes for a blanket. Man has to improvise. When he was eleven, he could drink most grown men under the table, but this is not the case today. Twenty-three years living clean, and he’s got the AA medals to prove it, even if they’re in a cardboard box with the rest of his stuff up in Flint with his sister.

The dawn light is a drowsy gray through the table cloth. Like a shroud. No wonder he was dreaming about being buried alive. Staring up at the dark grain of the wood makes it feel like he’s lying in a coffin – the luxury model you gotta fork out extra for, with the creamy exterior and the gold-plate handles and the silk-lined space inside. Not the kind he buried his momma in. But that’s morbid thinking, and the day is bright and all laid out ahead of him and he’s got a whole house to go through.