Nick Laird - Modern Gods

“You’ve really got to stop staring at me,” he had said.

All delightful. But beginnings always are. They tell you nothing. It’s the end of the affair that brings the real information.

Washing her hands, delaying reentry, she looked at herself in the mirror above the sink. She made herself bare her teeth like a monkey, then dried her hands on the towel and walked back into the crime scene.

Jeff put his hand out and Liz shook it meekly, not meeting his eye. He’d pulled on a pair of unclean denim dungarees that were a few inches too short, and now he punched his way into a frayed plaid shirt and began buttoning it up.

“Good to meet you finally. Joel talks a lot about—”

“Jeff,” Liz repeated dumbly, setting her bag down on the chair.

“That’s right. Jeff.”

“This is my flat,” she said, as if that were news.

“Hey, you know,” said Jeff, spreading his arms. “I’m sorry if any of this is awkward for you.”

Three mason jars were standing on the kitchen counter—one green, one purple, one yellow—and each held some kind of fetal-looking object.

“They’re mine,” Jeff said, following her gaze. “So, I pickle? Pretty much every vegetable you can think of, really. It’s a hobby … I brought a few jars over for Joel.”

Liz turned her full attention to Jeff, and looked into his brown eyes. Too late he understood that he shouldn’t keep mentioning Joel’s name. It poked up out of his speech like a swear word. They both looked at the name’s owner; at some point he had climbed back into bed and there was a definite sense of bemusement coming off him. He was wearing her Montclair T-shirt, and it was on inside out.

Joel said, “I’m sorry about this, Jeff—”

“You’re apologizing to him ? Really?”

“Can we do this later?”

“Oh, I think we need to do this now.”

“These things happen,” Joel said. “We agreed monogamy was … not for us. You said that you—Liz!”

She had decided to kick over the chair on which she’d hung her tote, but her foot got entangled in the strap and she stumbled slightly, had to hop. Enormous lovely Jeff steadied her with a hand to the shoulder, which Liz shrugged off. She had an urge to rip something up, but the only thing she could see was some junk mail on the oven. She lifted it but saw now it was a bill from Con Ed and they were a massive pain to contact and she set it down again. Jeff the pickler left a minute later, having silently wrapped his three jars in hessian sacks and placed them in an old blue Pan Am bowling ball bag. Joel finally found the decency to look unhappy, and Liz righted the chair and sat in it and stared at him.

Eleven minutes later Joel set his holdall and three plastic bags by the door, and sat down on the edge of the bed, facing her. He placed his fingertips together and, as if admitting something, sighed and said, “I hate to think you’re unhappy. That I’ve made you unhappy.”

Liz felt her own silence working on him as punishment, and she kept it up and stared at him. Was it the fact it was a man? Did that make it better or worse? The morning after they’d first fucked, which was the morning after they’d first met, she and Joel had gone for coffee at the Moonlight Diner a block down from her apartment. Peaceably hungover, him back in his waiter’s uniform, they’d studied their respective magazines and Joel had ordered eggs—no yolks—and mentioned, offhand, that his last relationship had been with a man.

She’d just sipped her green tea and smiled and said, “In this economy you got to diversify.”

How brave, the new world. She slid the menu between the salt and pepper shakers and went back to Shouts & Murmurs, feeling the fond glow of her progressive nature.

After two months of very casual dating, Joel’s sublease in Astoria expired and he asked her could he stay at hers for a week. Some cocaine had been taken and she’d readily agreed. That was three weeks ago.

But they were having fun. She liked him being around.

But now it was not fun, and now she did not like him.

Why was one thing always followed by the other? Why did no emotion hang around for very long?

“Did you fuck him or was he fucking you?”

Joel looked disappointed in her.

This was almost enjoyable. Bring on the heteronorms. Bring on the suits and ties. These kids were too free. They were having way too much fun. Bring back standards, family values and monogamy and chaperones, modesty, lowered hemlines, the death penalty. These kids with their Tinder, their Grindr, their 3nder, their constant fucking. It was too much. Joel was nine years younger and it occurred to Liz that the difference in their races, in their nationalities, in their sexes, was irrelevant. It was really a question of where you sat in relation to time. Did she have more in common with a thirty-four-year-old anywhere in the world than with this twenty-five-year-old in front of her? Was it self-sabotage? Did she want to get married? Did she want to have children? Did she want what she was supposed to? Sometimes. Sometimes she really thought she did. But mostly she did not.

Atlantic was scratching against the cupboard under the sink, where her food was kept. Pointless fucking dog. What were you doing while this was going on? Sleeping? Watching?

Joel was sorry she’d reacted like this.

Liz was sorry he was such a total cock.

Joel was sorry she was so consistently uptight and hadn’t she discussed this with her therapist?

Liz was sorry he thought it was fine to behave like such an entitled asshole.

Joel was sorry she was so limited and bourgeois and prejudicial and narrow-minded.

Liz was sorry he was such an unbelievable fucking cock.

The door shut behind him and she sat and stared at it and felt herself collapse in stages, like a marquee.

She was picking bits of wax out of Atty’s ears and rubbing them into her sock when her phone beeped. Alison. Amazing. One of her sister’s gifts—perhaps her sister’s only gift—was to contact people at their weakest, lowest, most humiliated point. Across oceans, across time zones—no doubt across light years and galaxies and the expanding unfathomable distances of deep space—Alison could smell it. The inimicable scent of sibling disaster. She was getting married—for the second time, admittedly—but still, Liz was getting nothing, was getting shafted, left alone again … She stuffed the phone in a crevice of the duvet nest she had constructed. It was silent for a few seconds then buzzed again. She willed herself to draw it out.

Flight on time? All OK? looking 4ward to catching up x

The sun had sunk out of sight, but the glass sides of the skyscrapers downtown gave back its old lion face. A diffuse ruddy light fell on the upper stories of the brick edifice of London Terrace. Liz tightened the left strap of her rucksack and considered her circumstances. No boyfriend meant no dog sitter.

There were no cabs. She needed to take Atlantic to her cousin Marcus’s flat, if he’d take her, and then head straight to Newark. Even if the fuss Marcus caused about Atlantic was tedious—setting a tea towel on his lap before the dog sat on him, ostentatiously picking the yellow hairs off his black sofa and dropping them into the toilet bowl—there was no one else.

She flicked through her phone. Who was Jason? Who was Lesley? Who was Nicky P? Man or woman? Friend or foe? Atlantic’s charms were far from legendary. She scrolled back to MARCUS and hovered her thumb above the name. Atlantic was giving something an exploratory chew. Liz crouched and pulled an Almond Joy wrapper from her slippery and unresisting teeth. She texted Marcus—BIG DOG FUCKUP: ANY CHANCE YOU COULD TAKE FOR A FEW DAYS? RIGHT NOW?—and walked north for a block before Marcus replied. He was in Hong Kong and it was 6:00 a.m. in the morning. He hoped that nothing was wrong and that she was doing OK—the kind of text that is like a plea to end the matter there. Liz took off the rucksack and sat on it on the corner of Twenty-fifth and Tenth. It happened like this. You were fine you were fine you were fine, and then you fell apart.