Naja Aidt - Rock, Paper, Scissors

“Yeah,” Thomas says. “This is the place. Want to come in?”

“No thanks.” Luke straightens up. “I need to get going.”

Thomas turns to Luke. “Thanks for the ride.” It’s an awkward moment. Should I hug him? Instead he claps him on the shoulder. It feels wrong. “No problem,” Luke says, giving him a passing smile. It’s not until Thomas has already stuck his left leg out on the street and planted his foot on the ground that Luke suddenly says, “Maybe he just didn’t understand you.” Stopped in mid-stride, Thomas turns back. “What do you mean?”

“Maybe Jacques just didn’t understand you.” Luke narrows his eyes just like Rose had a few hours earlier. Cold, rejecting. Thomas gulps for breath. “Maybe you got on his nerves.”

“I really don’t think it’s that simple,” Thomas says with as much composure as he can muster. He climbs out. Before he can even shut the door, Luke pulls it closed from inside. “See you later!” he shouts. He’s one big, pleased smile. He guns the engine and speeds off down the street. Let him imagine he’s special, Thomas thinks. But why ? Why did he say that? He didn’t need to. No, it’s not even worth thinking about. Still, it takes him some time before the sense of betrayal leaves him. Also the feeling that there is something fundamentally wrong with him. An age-old feeling and a recurring theme in his life so revolting that he could vomit. A little shit like Luke. Now it’s not only inconceivable that he’d wanted to penetrate him, that he’d ever felt that way, the heat flushing through him — it’s disgusting and terribly embarrassing. Thinking of it nauseates him, overwhelms him with self-loathing. Standing on the street, Thomas can’t find the energy to set his body in motion. He lifts his arm and studies it as if it belongs to someone else. Two women regard him curiously when they walk past. He observes his arm. He lowers his arm. Twilight closes in on him, growing denser, fluffy, green. But there’s still daylight. A heavenly light: the sky is yellowish, violet, soft. It’s summer , Thomas thinks. And all at once tears fall from his eyes. It’s so pathetic. Even in the midst of his crying fit he’s aware of how pathetic he is and how endlessly sad and true everything feels. His entire face dissolves, his mouth and eyes twitch. Here come the tears, and they’re huge. They wash over him, a cascade of liquid salt and animalistic noises. He can’t control himself; here he is, firmly glued to the same flagstone on the sidewalk, snot barreling down his chin, the tears sounding foreign and loathsome and much too old, the tears are an old man, something beautiful and shiny breaking apart before growing ugly and shapeless, an old man no one wants to look at, for God’s sake, unarticulated, raw grunts climb up from the depths inside him, and now he wants to scream, his scream will put an end to his shame, but there’s no end to shame , he thinks, and he’s losing it, it’s wrong, all wrong, but then, in a split second, he recognizes self-pity as something that packages up his crying, puts an end to his tears, hides the pain, encapsulates the pain , and then he gets a hold of himself. He has nothing but contempt for self-pity, that much he knows, even now. Hell, he thinks, I’m no better than Jenny. A neighbor strolls down the street, a newspaper tucked under his arm. He greets Thomas warmly and Thomas returns the greeting, his face turned. With the sleeve of his shirt he mops his wet cheeks. Finally he pulls the key from his pants pocket and lets himself in. The apartment smells dusty and stuffy. It’s baking hot. The hallway light is on. There’s the bag they brought this weekend, and there are her shoes. But she’s not home. Only the cat, which meows neurotically, rubbing hard against him. Thomas brings back his right leg and kicks it, and it slides across the slippery parquet floor. It smashes against the wall, yowling, and falls over. It looks confused. Then, with difficulty, it gets to its feet and slumps away. Thomas notices, almost gleefully, that it’s limping a little on its right back leg.

By Monday morning his mood hasn’t improved much. When he awakes, Patricia’s fast asleep at his side; stripes of sunshine slip through the cracks in the blinds, partly lighting up her face and the white bed sheets. Her eyelids quiver as if she’s in the middle of a dream. Tentatively he puts his hand on her belly, but she rolls onto her side with a sigh and goes on sleeping. The cat’s still hobbling. Thomas doesn’t stick around long. He rides his bicycle. It looks as though it’ll be a very hot day; the air is humid: thick, clammy heat. Where does Patricia go at night? The question opens a chasm in him: He pictures her in the arms of other men, at a dance club and dizzy with alcohol; he sees her naked in some dark bedroom, alone on a dark street, drunk and exhausted and hailing a taxi as she stumbles along on high heels. The tip of her tongue. Shiny, parted lips. Her face in subdued light. Her lustful gaze. He imagines her enjoying another man’s cock. He’s out of breath, and not because he’s zipping along on his bike but because his desperation encloses him in a tiny room, restricts all movement, and he feels something squeezing against him on every side, compressing his body into a tapering shape he can’t escape. But as he enters the store, he sees Alice and she gives him a big smile. That helps. Everywhere he looks the store is dazzlingly clean and spotless, and the shelves are already being stocked. Peter and Maloney came to work early, and now they’re practically emptying the stockroom in the basement, hauling box after box of product upstairs. Alice is helping Annie by putting everything into place. She embraces Thomas. Annie says, “It won’t take long when there’s two of us.” And it does go fast. They’re finished before lunch. There are empty spaces on a few of the shelves, but they’ve got to order more product. They do that while eating their lunch in the office. Annie and Alice chat up a storm and really seem to like each other. They’ve taken their sandwiches outside, in the sunlight. Customers ask about the break-in, there’s lots of talk, and the atmosphere is pleasant all day: connections, warmth, Thomas feels better and better. “Thanks for the wonderful weekend,” Maloney says, throwing some crumpled-up envelopes into the paper basket, “they’re great people, your aunts. I’m still wiped out after chopping all that goddamn firewood, but it was a pleasure being up there. It’s good to breathe some fresh air, for once.”

“Maloney,” Thomas says. “Maloney?”

Maloney looks up. A pause, a glance. “What?” he asks, low. His smile vanishes abruptly, like someone fearing bad news.

“I think Patricia’s seeing someone else.”

“Oh, Christ,” Maloney blurts, relieved. “I thought it was something serious. That you were sick or something. You look like an undertaker. There’s no way she’s seeing someone else. As affectionate as she is to you? What are you thinking?”

“Is she affectionate?”

“Yes! Don’t you have eyes in your head?”

“She goes off at night. She’s gone every evening.”

“Have you asked her where she goes?”

“She won’t tell me. She doesn’t respond.”

“Oh. Well,” Maloney says, “I don’t think you should take it so seriously. Maybe she just needs to go out and get blitzed. Would that be so strange? You’ve been a rather heavy burden on everyone these past few months. She probably just wants to have some fun.”

“I think it’s more serious than that,” Thomas says, staring at the floor. Maloney shrugs. “What do I know,” he says, rubbing an eye. “You need to talk with her.” Thomas nods weakly.