A. Homes - Music for Torching

He feels himself getting hard and is relieved-it isn't broken.

"Were you in a fight?" she asks, sweeping her nails over his arms, his shoulders and back. He is green and yellow, purple and red, meaty and raw. He shivers.

"I had a little accident."

"So butch," she says. "I don't think of you as black and blue."

He is at her breasts. He loves her breasts; they are full and heavy and tug at her shoulders.

She reaches for his zipper.

"Be careful," he says, licking her.

"What is it?" she asks when she sees the bandage.

He peels away the tape-like pulling the cloth off a canvas.

"When did you do it?"

"Yesterday at lunch."

"How wild." It means nothing to her-it's not a testament to his infidelity. The date is irrelevant, as far as she's concerned-she is the date. "How does it feel?"

"Better today."

His dick is in her mouth. They fuck.

They fuck wildly. They fuck, and it is about fucking and nothing else-not bills to pay, decisions, resentments, failures. They fuck, and it is his dick and her tits. And there is the slap-slapping of their skin, the musical squeak of the springs. He is glad they are friends and that they talk to each other. She thinks he is wonderful, and they are both glad that they are not married to each other. "Fuck me," she is saying. "Fuck me. I want you to fuck me." His hands are under her ass, and he's pulling her open. The headboard bangs against the wall, she holds on to the frame of the bed. He is hard like marble, he is burning at the base of his balls. The light is on because she doesn't like it in the dark. He is watching her. "No, no, no," she cries. "Oh, no, don't stop. Oh, no." She is on top of him; her nipples are wide moons, purple and hot. And he is behind her. She clutches the edge of the night table. Her face goes deep red. The muscles in his neck strain. Noisy. And then it is over.

They lie in a sweaty heap.

A strange, steamy funk rises around them. It happens every time. It is something about the room; they can never tell where it starts, if it's the bedding, the carpet, the cheap pressed fibers of the sordid walls. It smells like sweaty socks, like stale popcorn, like a dog's paws. They lie in it for a few minutes, catching their breath.

"Do you ever like one of your kids more than the other?" she asks.

"I like them differently," Paul says. "Why?"

"It's been nice to spend some time with Sammy. He's totally different from Nate, sweet, almost fragile." She rolls onto her back. "If I ever have another kid, it'd better be a girl."

"Is that something you think about?"

"Sometimes," she says.

"And whose child would you have?" he asks, jealous and possessive.

"Quit," she says, getting up. She goes into the bathroom and closes the door. That's how you can tell it's an affair-they close the door.

He pulls down the covers and rolls across both beds, rumpling them. It's something he's compelled to do-as though there's the remotest possibility of a legitimate reason why two adults would need a motel room for an hour-a shared medical condition that requires emergency naps? He hates how obvious his life is. This afternoon when he went into the motel office to check in, the guy said, "You're late, pal. You'll be lucky if you get any now." He half thought the guy said, "You're late, Paul," and started worrying that his cover was blown, that it was really Elaine waiting for him in the parking lot.

She comes out of the bathroom and presses against him. He holds her. They kiss again.

"Do you want a ride home?" she asks.

"That'd be great," he says.

"Shower fast," she says.

Paul steps into the tub and pulls the curtain-the liner is moldy. The water-lukewarm. He peels the wrapper off the soap and lathers up. He rinses his mouth with suds, scrubbing out the scotch. The soap has a sharp, deodorant taste. He gags and spits. He tries a little soap on the tattoo; it burns. He lets the water run.

The towels, thin and rough like a medical treatment, leave him with a rash-small red dots on his back and neck.

He watches her dress. He watches her finish the scotch and fix her hair.

He opens the drapes.

"Ready?" she asks.

He picks up his briefcase.

This is the part that's tricky-the minutes in the car, when they might pass Elaine on the road. He always thinks of what he will say; his explanation changes depending on where they're dis- covered-how close to or far from home.

"Are you still at Pat and George's?" Susan asks.

"Yeah," he says. "But we'll be going home soon. They've started work on the house. We're putting on a deck."

There's a pause.

"So, what else is new?" he asks. "How's Gerald?"

"Gerald is Gerald. He's going to war camp again on Saturday to shoot paint balls at his friends-he wants to take Nate."

Paul interrupts. "Sammy cannot go to war camp," he says, emphatically.

"I know," she says. "And as far as I'm concerned, neither can Nate. Anyway, they have soccer," she says. "And then Monday he's off on a business trip."

Paul lifts his eyebrows-as if to ask, Does that mean special opportunities?

"We'll see," she says. "Are you picking up from soccer?"

"Guess so."

She pulls over to the curb. They are still far from home.

He opens the door. "See you tomorrow," he says. "Sorry I was late."

"I'm glad you came," she says.

"I always come," he says.

"Me, too." She drives away.

He looks around. He has no idea where he is. She always leaves him in a different place. He walks to the corner. He is on Locust going south. He turns on Hickory. He is thinking about this afternoon-replaying the scene with Warburton. "You don't want the corner office, do you? Theoretically, it could be yours.." Was Warburton offering something or just tempting him? Sometimes Paul is so caught up with what's going on in his head, he misses an opportunity. Situational stupidity. He wonders what to do about it now. "Assume your right," he tells himself. He thinks of the palm kisser who he ran into on the afternoon train.

"Why you going home so early?" the guy had asked, sliding in next to Paul.

"Under the weather," Paul said. "You?"

"I always go home early," he said. "Wonder why?"

Paul shrugged.

"I'm the boss," he said, and laughed. "Feeling a little low? Sit on it," the man said, still smiling. "Sitting in a comfortable position, just following your breath for twenty minutes, can make an improvement. And if that doesn't do it, take some of these." He shook a gold vial of pills at Paul. "I believe in combining old and new. There is no one right answer."

"I've never seen a gold pill bottle before," Paul said.

"My wife had it made for me-perfect gift for a pharmaceutical man." He poured a pile of bright, shiny pills into his hand. "Mood enhancers," he said. "I can get you started, but then you'll really need a prescription."

Paul shook his head. "No, thanks."

"In a few years they'll be over-the-counter, nonprescription, I'm banking on it. A pill-pop shop on every corner, the same way there are coffee places now." He shook the pills in his hand; they were all different colors and rattled like Good Plenty. "Mix 'em and match 'em," the palm kisser said. "You take what you need, depending on what ails you-they're very specific. He tossed a pink one down his throat. "Good Humor," he said. The train pulled into the station. "Isn't this your stop? Don't you usually get off here?"

"I'm going on," Paul said.

"Oh," the guy said. "Oh." And fell silent.

Now Paul is walking home. He still has a way to go. He's thinking about her, how she looks sipping scotch, how she looks in her beige slip, her breasts pressing against the satin, straining. He thinks of her, naked in the brown motel room, the feel of her body, still unfamiliar, still unknown. He turns right on Walnut.