Naja Aidt - Rock, Paper, Scissors

Thomas stands in the doorway of the office and gets Maloney’s attention. “Who ordered candlesticks?”

“I did.”

“I thought we agreed no party supplies in the store.”

“Candlesticks are not party supplies. Candlesticks are decorations.”

“Decorations are party supplies. Besides, we don’t sell ‘decorations,’ either.”

“C’mon, Thomas. They’re damaged now anyway. I’ll cover the costs.”

“I don’t like the thought of you ordering tasteless things behind my back.”

“For God’s sake, Thomas.”

“You know how much I hate party supplies.”

“And I love them. The kitschier the better! Novelty toys and clown noses! Balloons and fake beards! Bibs for grown men with pictures of naked ladies!”

Thomas shakes his head, grumbling.

“But candlesticks aren’t kitschy,” Maloney continues. “I’ve carefully selected them so that I wouldn’t offend your aesthetic sensibility. They’ll sell like hotcakes.”

Maloney looks at Thomas. Then Thomas turns to leave and bumps into Peter, who’s returning to give his report.

“Fourteen red candlesticks smashed, eight transparent, seven green, and only two blue. All in all, one hundred twenty-nine candlesticks aren’t broken. I’ve thrown out the damaged ones and noted them on the purchase order. Thirty-one pieces were lost.”

“Good work, Peter. Go out and have yourself a smoke now.” For a moment Peter looks flustered, but then he goes. A wide smile crosses Maloney’s face.

“They’re even tinted ?” Thomas says.

“They look awesome,” Maloney smiles, propping his legs up on the desk. “You can take a few home to Patricia on my tab.”

Time passes. Lunch and more coffee. Maloney takes a nap on the office floor, his legs tucked under the desk. Toward evening, Thomas assists Maloney in filling the empty slots on the shelves by putting out the recently received products. Envelopes, letter paper, notebooks. They discuss arranging a spring cleaning of every shelf and cabinet, but when? And can Eva do it by herself? Can they afford to hire additional staff to do it? If they decide to go ahead with it, Thomas thinks they should be on-hand to make sure everything stays in order and nothing gets damaged. He imagines Eva emptying a bucket of dirty, soapy water on the gilt-edged paper that he now holds in his hands. “We did it last year with Peter and Annie,” Maloney says, dropping to one knee to fill the pencil cases in a metal box on the lowest shelf. “We didn’t even pay them extra, did we? That was drudge work.” They decide to speak to Eva. “Because I won’t do it again, I tell you,” Maloney announces once he’s on his feet again. After that, he entertains Thomas by telling him about his trip to the bar over the weekend. He’d played pool and drunk piña coladas, then he’d gone to a different place and had beer and played more pool, until a few guys he knew showed up with some women. They’d wound up at some place with live music, where they danced, and Maloney found himself dancing, mostly with a girl named Lauraine, who was very blonde and a little older. “But she had these fantastic hips.” He succeeded in coercing her home with him, and they’d executed a coitus uninterruptus , despite the fact that he’d been piss drunk. “You can keep the coitus uninterruptus part to yourself next time,” Thomas says. No longer does he see images of water spilling onto letter paper, but Maloney in his bed having sex in the gray morning light; he imagines the gently intertwined flesh, hears the half-choked sounds. “I think it was quite a feat,” Maloney remarks cheerfully. “But I slept all Saturday, and Sunday I washed clothes, did that sort of thing. Then Jenny visited me in the evening.”

Thomas stiffens. “Jenny visited you? Why?”

Maloney shrugs. “I think she just needed to talk.”

“But you haven’t even seen each other for years.”

Maloney smiles. “You don’t know anything about that. Love doesn’t fade that easily.”

“Jesus. I don’t understand anything.”

“There’s nothing to understand. She just swung by. Wanna get out of here?”

According to the clock, it’s already past 7:00. They’re finished now and carry the empty boxes to the door. Thomas slowly dims the chandelier. The fading sunlight is gorgeous, and dusk gradually begins to appear in the corners. Maloney gets their jackets and locks the door behind them. They haul the boxes to the recycling container and break them apart.

“I’m in the doghouse with Patricia,” Thomas says, turning up his collar. “She keeps bugging me about having a kid.”

“Would it really be that awful?”

“Yes. You don’t want one, either. Right?”

“I’m not like you. You’ve got Patricia and your good taste. All I’ve got are dubious encounters with bleach-blondes and a one-bedroom apartment with a ‘nice’ view. Ha!”

“But I really don’t want one, Maloney. You know that. I mean it.”

“Go home now and talk to her. Are you having a mid-life crisis or what? I’ll see you in the morning. Remember to set your alarm clock.”

Maloney clasps Thomas’s arm as he talks. Then he pats him gently on the shoulder and pulls his hat over his forehead. Then he’s gone. Thomas braces himself against the wind and heads toward the train station. What’s Jenny up to? Why does she need to talk to Maloney? He feels violated, misled. But how? Confused and exhausted, he piles into the train, squeezes in between people and their smells. My life is one continuous repetition of activities and tasks. Maybe I really don’t have any drive, and now I’m going home to an unhappy Patricia, and that’s all my own doing.

But Patricia isn’t unhappy. She’s set the table and is frying chicken and vegetables in the big wok. She looks vigorous and sexy; her mouth is the same color as her newly-painted red nails, and her skin’s damp from the moisture in the kitchen. Thomas took the stairs up and he’s out of breath, but greatly relieved, almost joyful. The apartment seems warm and cozy, and his anxious concerns about the money in the microwave and Jenny’s visit with Maloney give way to thoughts of enjoyment, pleasure, food. He pours white port wine and fills glasses with seltzer, he slices a lemon and drops a couple wedges in each glass. Lots of ice. She puts the glass to her red lips and swallows the bubbly, refreshing liquid. “The catalog’s finally finished,” she says, pleased. “It’s off to press tomorrow.” They eat in the living room and watch a film after they’ve washed the dishes. Neither of them mentions yesterday’s argument. They lie close to one another, their bodies intertwined on the couch watching TV. She fingers his earlobe, he plays with her hair. Suddenly she strips off her panties and goes wild. She stands, she drops to her knees, she straddles his face, she’s wet and tart; she whimpers and moans and comes but is eager for more. His head tingles with arousal. This body is alive, he thinks, we’re alive. Patricia’s desire is overwhelming and unencumbered. She doesn’t hold anything back. When she opens her mouth and growls or screams it’s both frightening and ecstatic, a powerful force rising within her. She thrums and sweats and rolls her eyes. At last they fall together onto the carpet, exhausted; he pulls the condom off and ties it into a knot. Patricia’s face is quite soft now and it fills his vision. But when they’re lying in bed, it’s the money he thinks about. What the hell do I do? Nothing, he thinks. Let the money stay where it is. His sore cock is shriveled up, shrunken, still moist. Patricia sleeps like a child under the white duvet. Oh, peace. Remember this now, he tells himself, you can relax, there’s nothing to fear. We just have to get past that stupid funeral.