Diane Cook - Man V. Nature - Stories

She leaned and peeked under the blanket: her eyes shone like stained glass; her brown hair piled in the grass like curled dead leaves. His waitress was forgotten.

Our man woke to the woman snapping pictures of him; she’d tucked a flower behind his ear and was pretending to feed him grapes.

“My girlfriends are going to freak out.” She giggled. “Can I invite them over?”

“I only want you.” He grabbed her and tenderly kissed her cheeks, then her forehead, her eyes. “Let’s get married,” he said. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt so safe.

“Oh, I can’t.” She fake pouted. “I’m already married.”

“You are?”

She pulled away and snapped another picture.

“Run away with me then,” he said. “We could find a new home together, somewhere no one knows me.”

“Oh no, I couldn’t.”

It felt as if a chunk of ice was going down his throat. “Don’t you love me?”

She laughed. “You funny man,” she said, and tried to push his face between her legs.

The icy lump reached his heart, and then his stomach. It was a new sensation. He said, “But you want kids with me.”

“I want your kid, not, ‘I want to have kids with you.’ It’s different.” She shrugged. “The kids my husband gave me stink. They’re weak and they get terrible grades.”

“You have kids?” He had no idea. “Where are they?”

“At my mom’s.” She sighed. “I don’t know how much longer I get you for, and I don’t want to waste it. Now, come on.” She wiggled in his lap until he was ready.

Just as they finished, they heard the front door creak open, the sounds of a bag being tossed onto a table, papers in folders slapping down, and the tired sigh of someone who had no one to greet him.

“Hello? Anyone home?” a man called out.

“My husband’s home.” She groaned. “I was hoping for another go. It’s so fun with you.”

“Come with me then,” he said as he threw clothes on.

She sulked. “No, that would probably ruin it.”

They heard the husband pad around the apartment, into one room and then another, take something from the fridge, clink some glasses.

“Hello?” he called out again.

She jumped up to lock the bedroom door and barred it with her body. “I do love him,” she said, but she looked at our man like she was eating something delicious. “It’s complicated. Just be quiet for a minute. Maybe he’ll go away.”

The footsteps got closer. “Ellen?” the husband called out. “Are you in there?” The knob jiggled.

Our man began to tremble. “Let me out,” he hissed. He didn’t like being this close to a husband.

“Hey,” the husband yelled. “Who’s in there?”

Our man tossed Ellen aside and threw open the door.

He could tell the husband used to be handsome, but now he was older. His clothes were drab and hung on him poorly, his skin too; his hair was dyed shoe polish black to hide the gray.

The husband gasped, and our man recognized his look: as if a long-forgotten dream was resurfacing and giving him the wild idea to battle our man. It was folly. He was too old. But nostalgia and regret are powerful. He reached out.

Our man bolted past.

“Wait,” the husband cried, lumbering after him. “Come back. Let’s make a deal.” But our man could hear him rummaging for weapons even as he tried to sound friendly.

Our man bounded from the apartment and took the stairs half a floor at a time.

“Dammit,” the husband cried, and stomped his feet. He whined, “Ellen,” and our man heard her respond, “It didn’t mean anything.” He felt that icy lump again.

Our man rushed through the streets, his head down, but still he felt like everyone was about to pounce. He ducked into a parking lot, squatted between two cars, and cried. The sky threatened rain. The buildings squatted sullenly. The lights in windows were green and harsh. The expressions on passersby were angry. They all seemed to be searching for something. Probably him.

“Um, hi?” said a shy voice.

Our man shrank against a car, frightened. How careless. He hadn’t heard anyone approach; he could be facing his death right now.

A woman reached for him. “Don’t be scared.”

“What do you want?” he hissed, and blushed at how unkind it sounded. Where were his manners? She looked nice.

“This is my car,” she said.

He laughed with some relief. “I’m sorry.” He rose, though he remained hunched and averted from the crowded sidewalk.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” He wiped his eyes. “Hard day.”

“Don’t I know it.” She leaned where he had been leaning, and pulled a cigarette from her purse. She thoughtfully exhaled, and our man felt hidden in her fog.

“Thank you,” he said, relaxing a bit in her company.

“For what?”

“For just standing here with me.”

She smiled. “I’m happy to. You look like you could use a friend. I’m Jill.” She extended her hand. “And you are?”

His breath halted, his tongue swelled: she didn’t know him.

She was plain looking, with straightened black hair, small eyes, thin lips, but big rosy cheeks that made her whole self inviting. She was the kind of woman he might overlook. She seemed like a person who didn’t want to be seen. He wanted to be around someone like that forever. Maybe he would grow plain then. Blend in. He’d like that. He took her hand.

“Do you want to go somewhere?” He imagined her too insecure and unassuming to ask herself.

She blushed, elated. “Sure?” She ducked her head in disbelief and gleeful shame. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.” She hooked onto his arm and began to walk.

“Won’t we take your car?” he asked, his hand on the door.

“No, my place is just around the corner.”

He concentrated on watching her so he wouldn’t panic on the sidewalk. He felt ordinary with this woman on his arm, like he could look people in the eye. But he didn’t dare.

Her apartment was bare, but still she searched awhile for mugs.

“Did you just move in?”

“Oh yeah,” she said, now looking through drawers for tea.

“Where did you move from?” Our man sat on a spare wooden chair at an empty table.

“Uh, the Midwest?” she said scrunching her face at him as if she couldn’t believe it herself. “I’d like to forget about that, honestly.” Her voice swelled with emotion. He became aroused by her vulnerability.

“Well.” He walked to her and gripped her hips. “You’ll like it here.”

She let him touch her, then demurred, put her mug between them. “Stop.”

He raised his hands, surrendering. “I’m sorry.” When was the last time he’d needed to say that?

“No—” She laughed, though with some sadness. She pushed his arms down to his sides. “It’s just that I don’t know anything about you.”

He was flattered and thrilled. “What do you want to know?”

She opened her mouth like she would speak but didn’t. He badly wanted to slip his thumb between those lips, have her gently tongue it. The silence between them rushed into his ears. He was scared to fill it. He felt dumb in her presence. But he wanted her to know him. “I’m lonely,” he said.

She bowed her head, kissed his knuckles.

The tension in his shoulders released. He didn’t know when he’d felt such tenderness. Then he laughed, overjoyed. She laughed. They clasped hands and laughed together.

“I’ve always wanted a family,” he said.

“Me too,” she cooed.

“A real one, though. One I can watch grow.” He skimmed his finger above her waistband, under her shirt. “I’ve never told anyone that.”

She shivered and licked her lips. He thought, Here’s the future, so why wait?