Naja Aidt - Rock, Paper, Scissors

“What do you mean ‘the other way around’?”

She smiles. “Exactly what I said. Say hello to Patricia for me, okay? I’ll call you when I hear about the job, okay? Thanks for coming.” She squeezes his shoulder and hurries back to the group, while Thomas sneaks away without saying goodbye to the others. The air is thick with the smell of body odor and heat; it’s like a blessing to step out into the cool evening. His ears are ringing, and in the sky the stars shine like small silver tacks. For a moment he enjoys a cigarette, and then he sees it. Mingo was right. The middle section of the street really is in fact lined with high-rises, and it narrows and curves only to open once more on the other side, where it sort of widens. And in this last stretch it’s almost got this small-town feel: smaller, older houses, tiny front yards. But after that, the street runs into a broad, high-traffic boulevard. He ambles through the gorge between the houses (and it really feels like a gorge) and thinks about what Alice said. That it was the other way around. That the girl had filled Mingo with drugs? Does she sell them? And what about Alice? He decides to show up unannounced at her new apartment. Then again, maybe he should just keep away. Should I watch over her now like I’ve watched over Jenny? But I’m not tired anymore, he thinks, surprised, walking under tall trees, up the boulevard opening wider and wider with its broad green median. I’m not the least bit tired anymore, it’s passed. And he who is awake can keep watch. But what good is it to keep watch when it feels like a duty? Does it do any good? At home, Patricia sleeps peacefully under the blanket on the sofa. The TV is on, and the cat meows, lovingly rubbing itself against his leg. Thomas sits in the armchair and closes his eyes. An image pounds through his brain and clutches onto his retina: He sees the fat girl at the restaurant staring at her knees with this strange, hard glare, a look he remembers vividly, physically, in his own eyes: that’s exactly how he stared, at his shoes, at the floorboards, at dirty floor-mats and linoleum, filled with shame, whenever his father yanked on his arm in front of others. And suddenly he smiles to himself, putting his arm around the cat, because he’s not the zombie anymore. He’s still haunted, as always, but by neither zombies nor his father. This time it’s a girl with black eyes and long, shiny hair who’s staring at her knees. Now it’s himself. And here in the armchair Thomas O’Mally Lindström falls asleep with a sigh, completely at ease, content. A cloud floats across the sky, exposing a sliver of new moon. The cat curls itself, purring, onto his lap.

The following day he rises early. Dressed in a bathrobe and rubber boots, he finds the basement keys in the drawer in the entryway and takes the stairs down. This time it doesn’t take him long to find the right unit. He snaps on the light switch to the bulb hanging over the boxes and the microwave, and there he finds the money. Exactly where he put it. Two packets of bills. Even this — entering the basement without fear or anxiety — feels like a fountainhead in his body. It’s bubbling in there, running, gushing. There’s the money, and here he stands. It’s not a nightmare, it’s real, and it’s just a man and a stack of bills. He closes the microwave and turns off the light, locks the door, and heads back to the apartment. Patricia’s still asleep on the sofa, fully clothed, one arm dangling over the side; she’s kicked the blanket onto the floor, and her T-shirt has slid up. Each time she takes a breath, her belly moves gently up and down. He brews coffee and feeds the cat, he makes toast and fries an egg and tomatoes in chili and oil. He grinds peppercorns over the food and puts out cheese and jam. He wakes Patricia with a kiss. Still drowsy, surprised at his morning caress, she follows him into the kitchen. The sun’s already above the rooftops, and the river flows jade-green through the city.

Patricia takes his hand and smiles, her mouth full of food. “What’s got into you?”

“I don’t know. But I’m not so sleepy anymore,” he says, winking at her. This too is a caress, this wink, which makes her blush. She laughs. “Good. I was getting sick of you,” she says. “But maybe that’s all behind us now?”

“Is anything ever behind us?”

“I don’t know. Isn’t there? Like when people get divorced. Or when someone dies.” She looks directly at him.

“Maybe,” he says. “In any case, I’m feeling better.” He stands and adds: “Today. I’m better today. For now. .”

She drags the newspaper to her side of the table. “By the way,” she says, “I asked at the museum. But there aren’t any openings at the moment.”

“No openings for what?”

“Alice,” she says, distracted, her eyes focused on the paper. “A job for Alice. I promised to ask, remember.” She’s already begun to read.

Thomas takes a shower. He considers masturbating, but there’s not enough time. His cock is half-stiff, but he brings it down again by thinking about the business. Aren’t they doing the spring cleaning this afternoon? Did they decide to close early? He doesn’t remember much about the last few weeks. It’s as though a steamy, wet fog enshrouds those days, as though he were standing in a bog. Patricia enters the bathroom and embraces him. “Can we get drunk soon or something? Get away. Or swim in the sea? Out at the little beach?”

“It’s too cold.”

“Not for me.”

“We have to go to Kristin and Helena’s this weekend. There’s no way out of it.”

“I know. But I’m actually looking forward to it. As long as we’re not forced to make textile prints like last time.”

“Textile prints for egg warmers , to be exact.” They eye each other in the mirror and laugh.

She frees herself and squeezes a dollop of toothpaste onto her toothbrush. “Who even uses those things nowadays,” she says vaguely, toothbrush in hand. “Egg warmers. .”

He kisses her goodbye. She turns on the shower and steps out of her pants. He gets dressed and chugs the rest of his coffee. Down on the street he puffs on a smoke, and with a new-found confidence in his body, he strolls calmly in the flickering spring light. The trees are light-green clusters of leaves. Birdsong and the hard clicking of women’s high heels against the flagstones. A skirt pulled taut over a shapely ass. The spice of men’s cologne like an extra, invisible garment rustling against passersby, so intimately that, once again, Thomas’s cock presses against his left thigh. When he arrives at the store, the others stare at him for what feels like several minutes. “What?” Thomas says, throwing out his arms. Maloney barks a laugh. “You’re radiating !” he says and clutches Thomas. “It’s time to waltz,” Maloney says. “Jesus,” he groans after a little while, “let go of me, you fiend, are you trying to kill me?” Watching their bosses, Peter and Annie stand as though paralyzed.

Close to lunch time, Thomas manages to close a deal for a new coffee automat with another company. Maloney grumbles. “Why is it so easy for you?” Thomas shrugs and rocks backward in the boss’s seat. “It’s a question of style,” he smiles. Maloney says that if he smiles like that one more time he’ll throttle him. Annie takes care of the customers. Peter flattens cardboard boxes. Some sales rep wearing a light blue suit and large, horn-rimmed glasses tries to sell them plastic sleeves. “What the fuck kind of costume was that?” Maloney grunts, sinking his teeth into a slice of cherry pie. At 4:00 P.M. Eva and her pretty niece arrive with the floor polisher and a slew of buckets and bottles of cleaning agents. Then Alice calls. “I didn’t get the job,” she says softly, “they said I didn’t have enough experience.”