Michael Rizza - Cartilage and Skin

When she got up to go to the bathroom, Stephen leaned across the table again and whispered.

“What am I going to do?”

“She’s a real sweet girl,” I said.

“Yeah.” He leaned back and seemed to consider the situation seriously. “I ought to at least fuck her one time.”

“I don’t know.”

“Not for me.” He smiled. “For her sake.”

Wanting to defend Miriam, who, after all, really was a sweet girl, I found the bearded boy loathsome. Yet I couldn’t help admiring him. Something about his attitude seemed more than honest; it seemed right.

“Here’s the question though, Walter: Do I tell her first or afterwards? You know what I’m saying? It’s a risk. ‘I’m sorry, Miriam; I don’t think you’re the right person for me, but if you want to have a little sex, no strings attached, I’d be into that.’ She might think I’m an animal.” He was now pointing the fork at me. “But believe it or not, Walter, that’s what a gentleman would say. Most guys would take her out to dinner a couple of times, and once they’d fucked her from behind, they would find a way to get away from her. You know I’m right.” He jabbed the fork in the air, as if to keep me from possibly springing upon him.

“Why have sex with her at all?” I asked, but he didn’t seem to hear me.

“Once a guy puts some time in with a girl and spends a few bucks, he figures he ought to at least try to close the deal. He treats her like a whore. You know why, don’t you?” He leaned forward again and grinned mischievously. “It’s because they put women on a pedestal, or they’re afraid of them or something. They turn them into whores because they can’t be honest. But I’m honest with women; I know they get horny too.”

He sat back and dropped his fork on the plate. He was talking rapidly, getting caught up in the flow of his own words, though there was nothing terribly profound in what he was saying.

“I’ll put it in email though. Maybe. I haven’t decided. But who knows? She might be into a little carefree sex. She seems to like me.”

He looked at me now as if he wanted an answer. I wondered if this was normal guy talk, if he needed me to support him, to help convince him that his plan was valid. There seemed to be something noble about him.

“Why have sex with her at all?” I repeated.

He smiled at me, as though he assumed I was pretending to be naïve.

“Maybe I won’t. Nothing’s certain. Here she comes.” He sat upright and looked serenely pleasant, and although I didn’t turn around to watch her approach the table, I knew by his expression that they were both looking at each other.

“The great irony,” he said, with his eyes still on her, “is that whores don’t get horny. I bet your mom gets more worked up than any whore.”

Behind me, Miriam began to laugh, and sitting down in the chair, she said, “What in the world are you talking about?”

“Walter’s mom. Who wants another shot?”

“Only if I get to choose,” she said.

Stephen put his elbow on the table and held up his forearm, apparently readying himself to hail the waiter. We were all silent for a moment. I glanced over at the two blonde-haired girls because a fresh set of young men was lured to their table. One of them squatted as he talked.

“I feel like I missed something,” Miriam said, and she looked at me to fill her in.

“Walter was just telling me that whores aren’t really into sex,” Stephen said. “I guess I agree with him. He’s got some crack-pot theory.”

Miriam laughed and said, “That’s what they say about nymphomaniacs.”

My mind, a little fuzzy from the alcohol, began to teem with bleak thoughts. I wanted to leave the happy couple, go home, finally check my mail, and then burn my manuscript in the sink. Celeste Wilcox, I thought, in a blur of contempt and lust.

Stephen began to play with his potato, pushing it around on the plate and poking it with the fork. “I heard the same thing,” he said. “But I suppose it doesn’t matter if they like it or not. As long as they pretend.” With this, he plunged his fork into the potato and started waving to the waiter.

“You’re a brute,” Miriam said.

“Pick the shots. Nothing too girly.”

Miriam perked up in her seat and made a jittery, excited swaying motion more appropriate to an anxious child than to a prospective law student. When the waiter came over, his venom was now replaced by a black indifference. Miriam tugged his arm, brought her mouth close to the side of his face, and whispered.

“What?” he asked, slightly recoiling from her proximity.

She pulled him again and restated her order.

Before stepping away, the waiter considered Stephen’s plate, hesitated to venture picking it up, and then apparently abandoned the thought.

Miriam sat bristling with joy. She wanted to entice Stephen with the secret of the drinks, but he didn’t seem like he cared to play with her anymore. She made some lilting sound that vaguely resembled a giggle. The drinks were getting to her. We all became silent, and at that moment, I became aware that I was not the only one who felt uncomfortable and out of place. I wanted to leave.

When the waiter returned and set down the three small glasses, Stephen leaned forward and sniffed his.

“What is it?” She challenged.

As an answer, he picked up his glass to toast. “To Red Death,” he said and instantly threw back his shot.

“To Red Death,” I said, and was surprised that despite its name, the drink was less putrid, if not almost tasty.

“To Red Death,” Miriam said, and then, as she wiped the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand, she gave Stephen a sly look, as if to say he was a clever boy for guessing correctly.

Once again, he didn’t reciprocate her playfulness. I started to feel sorry for her — as the pleasant young man whom she’d come to know via the Internet was now cooling off before her. During the next few minutes, it was a sad spectacle to witness her flitting about, dimly confused and nervous, and all the while trying even harder to lure Stephen back into the happy game.

I looked for the waiter, so I could settle my tab. I was so anxious to leave that I swore to myself that if he snubbed me this time, I’d pelt him with the potato, to get his attention.

Breaking an awkward, silent moment, Miriam took her cell phone out of her purse and said that she needed to make a call.

“I can’t in here,” she said. “The music and all. I’m going to try outside.”

When she stood up, she placed her hand gently on my shoulder and gave me a wan smile. Although her eyes were close-set and unattractive, they now conveyed a hint of sorrow, the dull ache of remorse, or possibly some deeper pain that she’d been carrying with her for her whole life. She took her purse from the back of her chair and slipped it onto her shoulder. Because she hadn’t taken her purse on her earlier trips to the bathroom, I knew by this gesture that she was saying goodbye to me.

“I won’t be able to hear in here,” she said.

I wanted Stephen to say something, but he simply assented with a nod of his head.

As soon as she reached the bar area and descended the single step into the throng of people, Stephen pushed away from the table, causing the glasses to wobble slightly.

“You know what that means?” he asked.

“She’s leaving.” I had a sudden impulse to lash out at him, which was checked and vaguely tempered by a slight feeling of admiration.

He shook his head.

“Not yet,” he said. “She’ll wait a while on the sidewalk or by the front door. She wants me to chase after her. But I’ll give her a few minutes.” He looked at his watch.

We sat together in silence. He glanced at his watch once and smiled.