Jowita Bydlowska - Guy

I look at her . She smiles like I’m a child who has just shat his pants but it’s okay because I’m adorable anyway. I’m God’s gift to women

She is the last girl I fuck. Well, try to fuck.

I spend the last week of my freedom in my apartment.

Jason comes over every day now.

I order groceries online. I cook us elaborate meals. Everything from soufflés to lobster bisque. Beef Wellington.

The last thing I make as a free man is a lemon meringue pie.

I pull the pie out of the oven. Serve it. Then I collapse on my leather sectional, racked by short but powerful, staccato sobs. It’s an unexpected outburst. Some dark cellar at my core.

“It must be a comedown from the cocaine,” I tell Jason. The fork with sticky meringue is suspended an inch from his open mouth. “A serotonin crash.”

“It’s just that – I’ve never seen you cry.”

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“For what?” he says.

“I’m going to plead guilty.”

“I know.”

“Good.”

“Do you want me to talk you out of it?” he says.

“Absolutely not.”

“I wouldn’t know how to anyway.”

“Good.”

“HEY,” SHE SAYS.

I don’t recognize her, and then I do, and I’m not sure which is worse. I hope my face stays neutral; I hope it doesn’t show that I don’t know how to react. Her hair is full of soft, messy curls, light brown. Her eyebrows are massive and there’s dark fuzz above her lip. Hollow cheeks. She was always thin, but this thinness is different; it’s unintentional. Too many things are unintentional with her now, except maybe her name.

She no longer calls herself $isi.

“Hey. I like the hair,” I say.

“Thanks. It got all curly. Weird.” $isi – Sylvia – sits down.

“Thanks for meeting with me. I really appreciate it,” I say. “I might be away for some time. A year. Maybe more.”

She’s not dressed in black; that’s different about her too. I can make out the dark shade of her nipples through the white cotton of her blouse. I wonder if it’s on purpose. Probably. She hasn’t gone entirely granola on me.

“Well. I feel very honoured to be your last date ever. And don’t be so dramatic. I ’ve got at least a few years,” she laughs. “But maybe more.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean –”

“It’s okay. Just teasing you. I’m trying not to worry. You know, keeping my hopes up. Being in denial and all that. I was thinking of writing a blog about it, but that’s like really admitting it,” she says. “Anyway. I’m starting a new treatment in a month. I had to wait for all these tests. I haven’t been eating very well. I had fluid building up in my abdomen and I was throwing up a lot, so they thought it was something serious. But it’s getting better. I’m getting better.”

“You’re so young,” I say even though I don’t mean to say it. Such a cliché. I’m overwhelmed by fear. Not compassion. Fear. It’s too unnatural to be so close to dying this early in life. It could happen to anybody, including me.

“What’s your point?”

“You shouldn’t have to be going through this,” I say quickly.

“Aw, thanks.You’re such a sweetie pie. I’m feeling better than I have in a really long time. So I’m ready to get back to active treatment.”

“And then?”

“And then we’ll see. I didn’t think it would come back. But you learn how to deal with things. I suppose the only difference between me and everyone else is that I have a vague idea of when I might be kicking the bucket. But, you know, those things are.”

“I know many people who –”

“Yes. I know. Everyone knows many people,” she says. “Do you, really?”

“No. I don’t. I just don’t know what to say.”

“It’s not about you. Don’t worry about it. It’s nice to see you,” she says. “And I know that you didn’t do it. That’s why I’m here, right? To absolve you of your sins!”

I feel myself blush. I phoned her deep into the night a few nights ago. I’m not close with anyone. There’s Jason, but there’s only so much bro I can take. I needed a girl, and not Gloria. Someone less bitter, someone younger, more open. And $isi and I have history. Sylvia.

I phoned and asked her if I was possibly losing my mind, if maybe I actually was the violent guy that Em said I was. A guy who could hurt women. I was not that guy. But I got myself into a state where I started to doubt reality. Sylvia didn’t hang up. “You’re a fucking jerk. But yeah, you’re not that kind of guy,” she said.

“I wanted to find out how you were doing too,” I say, now.

“I’m doing better. I’m doing really well,” she sighs.

A waitress shows up to take our orders. She has a pretty face, big, trusting eyes that make you imagine her sliding down your stomach, looking up at you. A freckled nose. No waist and small breasts, but a nice butt. A Four.

Sylvia says, “That’s the worst thing about it. Knowing when you might die.”

“You’re not going to die.”

“Sure I am.You are too. But you’re better off not knowing.”

I think how absurd it is for her to suggest that I’m going to die, but it’s more absurd of me to think that that’s absurd.

The waitress comes back with our food. A salad for Sylvia and a burger for me. The fries are too greasy, and the bun is dry. The pickle looks exhausted. I think about ordering a beer but decide against it. The waitress looks at me for a moment too long.

“It looks delicious,” I say. I smile at the waitress with my eyes.

“Thank you,” Sylvia says.

The waitress walks away. She’s got a nice walk, a nice swaying bounce in her hips.

Sylvia says, “I think it’s strange when girls don’t have waists, don’t you?” Her cattiness could be because the waitress doesn’t recognize her, but most likely it’s jealousy.

Our meeting isn’t too long. For a while, Sylvia talks about her mother, whom she’s become close with. Her mother quit smoking. They are going to Cuba together in the winter.

“It’s hard to get good vegetables in Cuba.” I’m proud of myself for remembering the weird diet that she’s on. Ten cups of vegetables a day. They wrote about it on some gossip website.

“Communists don’t believe in vegetables?” she says.

“What kind of vegetables do you have to eat?”

“Squash, broccoli, peas, carrots, asparagus,” she says and pulls out her phone to check the rest. I look down at my plate, at my untouched burger.

“I should send you some recipes. There’s a very easy butternut squash pasta dish –”

“Raw vegetables, Guy. I can’t boil them.” She smiles at me like I’m annoying.

The waitress asks if we want any desserts but we don’t.

I ask for the bill. Sylvia talks some more. There’s a boyfriend, a guy she met in Alcoholics Anonymous who is “really talented.”

The waitress hands me the bill. The waitress’s name is Amy. I think about writing my phone number on the bill but decide against it.

I have an acute understanding of what feeling empty means. I feel vastly, tragically empty, like there was no past and there is no future.

FOR MY SENTENCING, I DRESS IN A SUIT. I BUY IT ESPECIALLY for this occasion. It might seem stupid to buy yourself a suit right before you go to jail, yet this is precisely why I get it. I need to reassure myself that this, going to jail, is in no way the end of my life. I pay extra to have the suit altered on the same day.