Leopoldine Core - When Watched - Stories

“Right.”

Kit set the mug down on the floor and hugged her bony knees to her chest. Curtis trotted over. He lowered his snout into the mug and began lapping.

“He does that,” Lucy said unapologetically and smiled at the animal. She knelt beside the record player and put the Modern Lovers on. The record turned and crackled. Jonathan Richman sang Roadrunner, roadrunner in his hot, sloppy way and Lucy began to dance, shouting along with the words. Gonna drive past the Stop n’ Shop with the radio on and I love loneliness… I love the modern suburban bleakness. I love to drive alone late at night with the radio on!

“You’re so retro,” Kit marveled, staring up from the bed.

“I know, right?” Lucy said, catching her breath. “The record player was my grandmother’s but all the records are mine.” She began to sing again, gaily shaking her hips and shoulders. Say hello to that feeling when it’s late at night. Say hello to that highway when it’s blue and white. Lucy was a silly dancer, but in the way only someone who is confident of their sexiness can be. She flailed about like she had no respect for anyone or anything, whipping her gold lion hair from side to side.

“You’re a good singer,” Kit said.

“Fuck you.”

“I’m not kidding! You’re really good.”

Lucy rolled her eyes and threw herself back into the air. Jonathan sounded more like a loud talker than a singer to Kit. I’m lonely and I don’t have a girlfriend but I don’t mind. He made her wish she were in a band.

Lucy tired herself out dancing to the next few songs and the two wound up lying on her mattress. They talked about dropping out of college, how it had been the easiest decision in the world. Lucy had studied dance at Sarah Lawrence, which surprised Kit.

“What was that like?”

“It was like being abused. Routinely. By people I had no respect for.” She sighed. “What did you go for?”

“Writing,” Kit said.

“That makes sense.” Lucy smiled. “So when did you know you were a writer?”

“I don’t know. About ten, I guess. But I didn’t consider myself a real writer. I had one skill and that was to lie in bed,” she laughed. “I loved being alone in my room. I mean, that was the real love. I just wrote because there was nothing else to do. It didn’t feel special.”

“So were you a slow kid or a fast kid?”

“Well I was both.”

“Me too.”

Kit raised herself up on both elbows and crawled over to her bag. After some digging she brought her Altoid tin onto the floor and surveyed its sooty contents. She returned to the bed with a crooked smile, a joint pinched between thumb and forefinger.

“I can’t smoke pot,” Lucy said.

“Oh. I thought maybe you just didn’t like to at work.”

“No, I never do. Some people get all focused and brilliant when they’re high but I don’t.”

“Well I can only focus on like, cleaning my bathroom,” Kit said. She lit the joint and dragged on it.

“I can only focus on hating myself,” Lucy said. “It’s like I can feel every cell and every pore and I’m hating them one by one. Then I put giant signs on them like CRAZY, FAILED, FAT.”

Kit laughed and smoke leaked from her mouth. She set the joint down in the open tin, coughing into her fist. She imagined saying: I love that you’re fat. I love everything about you. It was the absolute truth. But she said nothing and strained not to look at Lucy. She heard her heart beat. She began branding herself. LESBIAN. LOSER. WHORE.

“So you never get paranoid?” Lucy asked.

“I definitely get paranoid.”

“Like how?”

“I just get scared I’ll say what I’m thinking or do something insane. Like tell someone what a shit they are or like, assault them.”

“You want to assault people?”

“No! I mean, not really. It’s just this fear of losing it. I mean, I have that fear anyway. Cause you hear about people doing crazy things out of nowhere. And the slight possibility that I could be one of those people, that someone else could be inside me… it’s the loneliest feeling. Like what if I didn’t know myself?”

“You aren’t one of those people.”

“How can you be sure?”

“I just am.”

Kit smiled. This was one of the nicest things anyone had ever said to her. You aren’t crazy.

Curtis curled beside Lucy and laid his chin on her breast. She began rubbing his ears and he went limp, collapsing into a state of bliss.

“How old is he?”

“I think five or six. I got him two years ago with my boyfriend. We were totally wrong for each other.” She smiled, shaking her head. “I mean, I loved him but we argued constantly.” Lucy looked down at Curtis. He was asleep. “I wonder what it’s like to hear people fighting in another language your whole life.”

“You hear the tones,” Kit offered. “You understand. There’s probably only one language.”

“That seems true.” Lucy began stroking Curtis and he roused for a second, then went soft again. “I wish I knew what his life was like before I got him. It’s so strange. Dogs are the repositories of stories we can never know.”

“That’s probably part of the pleasure of looking into their eyes.”

Lucy nodded.

“He’s very cute,” Kit said.

“You think so?” Lucy said in disbelief. “I mean, I think so but no one else does. I got him from a shelter. He was scheduled to be killed the next day.”

The dog raised his head and yawned. Up close, Kit could see that he had an underbite and one gluey eye, both of which truly were cute.

“He destroyed my sofa,” Lucy said and Kit tried to imagine where a sofa could have fit in the apartment.

“That sucks.”

“Yeah. He also hates when I talk on the phone. And when I masturbate.”

“Oh God. What does he do?”

“He just stares at me with this totally disgusted look and then pouts for the rest of the day. Actually, he also does that when I cry.”

“He doesn’t want to see you become an animal.”

“Exactly.”

• • •

The next morning, Kit got a call from Sheila. Ned had made an appointment to see her that afternoon.

“I can’t believe it,” Kit said.

“The corn muffin guy?” Lucy asked.

“Yeah.”

“I guess he liked you.”

“It really didn’t seem that way.”

It was Lucy’s day off. She padded around the apartment in a short silk robe. Pale blue, with a pattern of multicolored fish, the sash tied loose at her waist. It was a tiny garment, her thighs on full display, a flash of her bum here and there. She made coffee and fried eggs over toast, humming all the while, feeding scraps to Curtis with her fingers. “You can come over later if you want,” she said and tucked a blonde strand behind her ear.

“Alright,” Kit said, smiling slyly. She squatted in the tub, washing her armpits and vagina. Lucy handed her a pink disposable razor. She opened a window and poked her head out. It was oddly warm. Shrunken gray mounds of snow hugged the sidewalk below. Dirty water dripped from the eaves.

“I can’t believe how warm it is,” Lucy said.

“And people still say global warming isn’t happening.”

“Yeah, well, American stupidity is accelerating at the same rate.”

• • •

Ned arrived in a mute daze. He wore a flat, melancholy expression and seemed barely to register Kit’s face as she waved from the black leather couch. Sheila led them to the same awful room and Kit sat tentatively on the edge of the bed. Ned removed his coat and sat beside her. He stared at the brown carpet and said nothing.

“Are you okay?” Kit asked.

Ned grunted slightly. With averted eyes, he rolled her onto her stomach and hiked up her dress. Kit sat up and pulled her dress off the rest of the way, then lay flat on her front like a routine sunbather. She heard his belt fall to the floor. Ned began jerking off and Kit thought of other things. Lucy dancing. The dog. Donuts on a plate. She studied the nicks and scuffs on the white wall, her head on its side. Ned’s breath quickened. He gasped and Kit sat up, turning to make sure he had come.