Justin Tussing - Vexation Lullaby

“Tell me he didn’t give himself a shot,” Peter said.

“You feel okay, boss?”

Cross put a finger to his nostril and blew, shooting mucus into the trash. Then he cleared the other side.

“If your blood pressure gets too high, the artery wall will rupture.”

“Cyril, have Bluto bring up the lights,” Cross said.

Peter stood his ground. “You’re making a mistake.”

“You can’t get anywhere if you’re afraid of mistakes.”

The lights blazed on.

Cross growled into a shotgun microphone, “Hand me the patch cord.” The singer’s voice broadcasted throughout the hall.

Peter picked up the quarter-inch chrome-tipped plug and handed it to Cross. “I quit.”

“Thank you, doctor. Now get off my fucking stage.”

ALISTAIR AND MAYA stood by the edge of the curtain. Peter grabbed her hand and pulled her behind him. “Follow me,” he said, but he didn’t give her a choice.

He dragged her past all the hangers-on, the VIP guests and radio contest winners, past the hired security, past Lumpy, who was clapping while the new Kev walked across the bare concrete on her hands. Peter pulled Maya down an empty, echoing hallway. He wasn’t even dragging her; she was coming along willingly. It almost looked like he was rescuing her. They slammed through some double doors and found themselves, all at once, outside. The Blister and Aisha Moon saluted him with their cigarettes.

He towed her past the Toolshed and the Trojan Horse, past the hollowed-out tractor trailer the roadies would soon be repacking.

“Where are you taking me?” Maya asked.

Peter didn’t know.

She shook off his hand and started running, not back toward the concert hall and not in the direction he’d been leading her — he didn’t know where he’d been leading her.

He chased after her. He felt like a wolf.

When he caught her, neither of them could breathe.

“I shouldn’t have kissed you,” she said, panting. “I’ve got a boyfriend.”

They walked together. The air smelled of fall and, still, the smoldering pig. They passed other couples out in the evening air.

Maya stopped in front of a bar.

She nodded. “You want to come in?”

Peter couldn’t imagine drinking anymore. He told her so.

She pulled him through the bar, into the lobby of a hotel. “It’s okay,” she said. They stepped into an elevator.

Halfway down a whisper-quiet hallway, she dipped her key card into a lock.

The curtains were open and the night sky caused the window to behave like a mirror.

Maya retrieved two orange juices from the mini-bar. She handed one to Peter.

“What now?” he asked

“You want to watch TV?”

“Sure.”

They sat on top of the covers and watched a show about how the Incas built Machu Picchu. The host explained that archaeologists had uncovered more than two hundred terraces and an ingenious drainage system that prevented the place from washing away in heavy rains.

A commercial interrupted the program.

Maya turned to him, “Do you mind if I change?”

He watched her head into the bathroom, and then he forgot about her for a while.

He considered texting Martin to let his friend know that the Rochester Memorial/Tony Ogata Ambassador for Wellness had tendered his resignation on stage.

The bathroom door opened and Maya came out in gym shorts and a thin T-shirt that fell straight down from the points of her breasts. A towel cycloned around her head. She flipped off the bathroom light and, for a moment, it was as though she’d been disappeared from the room.

“I wasn’t sure you’d be here when I got out.”

“Should I have left?”

She reached her hands up and squeezed the towel. “I had to get that smell off me. It was too much.”

He got up from the bed and walked toward her. She let herself be trapped against the wall.

He kissed her neck. Her skin pinked where he touched her. She was so clean, it was like licking a balloon. She didn’t resist him. She could be a Buddhist submitting to a mosquito. She seemed to understand that he needed this and that, as long as it didn’t last too long, as long as he didn’t insist that it be fun, she would let him take her. He understood this and, even though he felt a bit shattered, it soothed him.

He stopped. “Did you get your interview?”

She retrieved her notebook and muted the TV. “Listen to this stuff: ‘Performers are more primitive than fans. Everyone is born a performer. Our parents are our first audience; they’re our fans.’ He has this idea that being a fan is how we teach ourselves to love.”

“More autonomic nervous system?”

“Exactly. He said it’s something you taught him.”

“He’s given me credit for a lot of things I’ve had almost nothing to do with.”

Her fingers glided across his cheekbone. She found a tender spot. “What happened here?”

“I think he punched me.”

“Some thanks.”

She pressed her lips to the spot. “Better?”

“It’s a good story, at least.”

Maya put her notebook down. “Do you want to watch TV again?”

Peter said that he did.

Maya got under the covers.

On the television, solemn-looking actors pretended to be the slaves who’d built the Egyptian pyramids.

Peter took his shoes off and lay back on the bed.

“Are you going to be okay?”

“I am.”

“Somebody is going to have a lot of fun nursing you back to health.”

It was a very nice thing for her to say. He said, “That’s a nice thing to say.”

She had her phone out again.

“Are you texting your boyfriend?”

“Do you mind?”

It turned out that he didn’t.

When we returned to Pittsburgh, one of Rosalyn’s oldest friends felt it necessary to confide in me that “Rosalyn’s having a midlife crisis.”

Maybe she hoped I’d be repulsed. “I know,” I said. “We’re having one together.”

Rosalyn asked me to be there in the recovery room after her surgery — it was a big success; the surgeon was optimistic he’d removed all the cancer.

When she went through chemo, I cleaned and cooked for her. It had been ages since I’d cared for anyone other than myself. Eventually I won her friends over.

AFTER HER SIX-month PET scan came back clear, we allowed ourselves to imagine that we could have a life together. She returned to her job. I’ve been volunteering for the local historical society — I’m helping them build a database.

A few weeks after her oncologist pronounced Rosalyn in remission, I logged in to JimCrossCompendium. It felt odd at first, but the website had always been about my experience of the world. I posted a new message: Rosalyn and I Have Decided to Share Our Lives with Each Other. I suppose I was writing to myself; after I left the tour, the site had become something of a mausoleum.

It came as a surprise when people wrote me back to congratulate us. The other day I got a message that said: Oh, my! The Restless One is finally settling down. We printed it out and taped it to the refrigerator door. It reminds me of Rosalyn’s reaction when, after telling me about her cancer, I told her that I’d found out that Gabby had gotten engaged. She’d said, “Oh, happiness.”

Maya was snoring when Peter awoke. He sat up in installments, afraid he’d wake his hangover. He pulled on his shoes, then slipped out of her room.

How much time would pass before he woke up beside someone again?

Out on the street, people were already going about their days. He caught himself glancing back the way he’d come, as though he expected someone might be following him. His hotel lay in a particular direction, but for the time being he was just glad to be walking.