Naja Aidt - Rock, Paper, Scissors

“Ha!” Luke laughs with food in his mouth. “I don’t think you can get rich doing the kind of fishing I do. Besides,”—and now his grin is gone—“I’ve actually been saving money. Just not enough.”

“Enough for what?” Alice asks.

“Impressive,” Thomas says, chewing a piece of tough chicken that activates his gag reflex. He holds it in his mouth a moment before he finishes chewing it and swallows.

“Come on, Luke,” Alice nudges him, “what is it?”

There he sits in the evening light, suntanned, with all his freckles and his amber-brown eyes. His curly, disheveled hair — now long and paler from the sun — falls over his eyes. His scent reaches Thomas’s nostrils, this mysterious aroma of flowers blended with many other smells: sweat, dirt, sourness, something almost bitter. Once again he feels this knot of desire.

“But. .” Alice scrutinizes Luke.

“You might as well let it go,” Luke says.

“You’re so weird,” Alice says, swishing beer around in her mouth. Luke rocks back in his chair, a self-confident expression etched onto his face. “Well,” Thomas says, “then I would like to say something.” He simply can’t keep his mouth shut. “I might as well say it now. You’ll learn sooner or later anyway. Patricia and I have split up. She won’t be coming on Tuesday. I just wanted you to know.”

They stare at Thomas, dumbfounded, but there seems to be something cheerful in Luke’s eyes too, a flash, and then it’s gone. And maybe that’s something Thomas imagines because he’s so attracted to him. Because yet again he’s unbelievably attracted to him, and it feels like that time in the car, after they’d visited Luke’s mother, a powerful urge to force himself into his body, behind what’s visible, wanting to be consumed by him; Luke exudes and discharges steam, that’s how it feels. He drops all four legs of his chair back on the floor now, precise and elegant; he looks so damn appealing, and there’s this unpredictability about him — which almost scares Thomas. “There’s nothing particularly spectacular about it,” Thomas says. “We’ve agreed that it’s the right thing to do. It’s a mutual decision. I guess you could say we’ve grown apart.” He knows how stupid this cliché sounds, this pathetic lie. “That’s the way it goes. And she’s also pregnant.”

Alice sets her fork down, gasping. “ What did you say?”

“She won’t get an abortion. We don’t know who the father is. In any case I don’t.” Alice continues to stare at him, her eyes wide, and she is silent, almost contrite. Then she looks down at her hands and scratches at the paint. A short silence. Luke watches Thomas light a cigarette. He’s barely touched his salad.

“Does it make any difference?” Luke says slowly. He dries his hands meticulously with his napkin. “I mean, a baby’s a baby, right?”

“Luke!” Alice pushes her half-eaten burger away. “You can’t say that! Jesus! Put yourself in Thomas’s shoes!”

Luke smiles. “I’m sorry, Thomas. I didn’t mean it like that.” Yes, you did, Thomas thinks. That’s exactly what you meant, and why did you say it?

“I was just being funny.” Luke grins.

“But it’s not funny!” Alice shouts, gesticulating wildly.

“But hey,” Thomas says. His eyelids narrow to slits, and deliberately he takes his time before adding, “Patricia mentioned you’ve promised to help her move?” Luke glances at him quickly, and Thomas continues, “That must mean you already knew we split up. She must have told you? Why didn’t you say anything?” The silence isn’t awkward, but hard and intense. Thomas pins Luke with his eyes without blinking.

“What?” Alice looks at Luke. And then at Thomas. “What is this?”

“No,” Luke says at last. “I didn’t know anything. She just asked me if I would help with some boxes. I thought she meant the museum or something. You know, old catalogues and whatnot.” Thomas keeps his eyes drilled on Luke. “It sounds strange,” he says. And Luke can’t look at Thomas anymore. He turns away. “I just wanted to help.”

“It doesn’t really matter to me,” Thomas says. “You should help her move.”

“I just wanted to help her. Like I’m helping you paint.” Luke looks at Thomas, now with a child’s open, innocent face. And then abruptly he needs to leave. “Thanks for dinner,” he says, and offers his hand formally to Thomas. Does he feel a tiny bit of shame now? Discomfort? Did Thomas catch him red-handed? In any case Luke hustles away, without a glance back, even when Alice thumps on the window with her knuckle as he walks past. “Do you think he was lying?” she asks.

“I don’t know.”

“Bizarre.” She stretches the “a” in the word and her eyes widen. “But that wouldn’t be like him. He’s never lied to me. He’s all about honesty.”

“You two still aren’t dating?”

“No!” Alice smiles warmly. “And we won’t, either. I haven’t even kissed him or anything. I’m seeing someone named Eli now.”

“Eli? What happened to Ernesto?”

“That’s over. A long time ago. Eli also writes, like me.”

Thomas regards his niece, pretty and straight-backed and covered in paint.

“Imagine that, Alice — you writing poetry.”

Then Alice wants to go home, too. She’s tired. She still lives with Luke’s friend, but he’s never there, she says, so it works out nicely. She wants to find her own place, now that she actually has a regular paycheck. Thomas counts his money and pays her generously for painting. “Buy a dress so you’ll have something new to wear at the opening. It brings luck.”

“Who says that?”

“I do.”

Smiling, she shakes her head. “There’s no way I’m going to be squeezed into some dress, I’ll have you know.”

“Don’t say anything to your mom about Patricia and me, okay? I want to tell her myself.”

“Of course.” She leaves. It looks like a thunderstorm is on its way. The air is oppressive and dense. Thomas drinks his third beer. He’s the only customer in the restaurant, and the waitress is cleaning up. Though it’s still pretty early, he needs to go home soon; if not he’ll end up sloshed, and that’s no good. He’s still a little under the weather following his bout with heat exhaustion. And Luke lied, Thomas is sure of it. Something’s going on, he just can’t tell what. But he simply can’t envision Patricia dating him. And what about all that money he was talking about? Or the savings he’s got, the plan? If Luke has been with Patricia, he’ll kill him. Thomas examines his hands. Luke, bent over Patricia. His pink tongue slithering into her mouth. He clenches his fists. I’ll kill him . Still, Luke’s presence clings to him like a yearning he doesn’t understand. He feels his cock rising insistently against the crotch of his pants. He pays the bill and leaves.

The cat hisses at him when he returns home. It’s standing at the far end of the hallway staring at him with its yellow eyes, its back arched, its tail stiff and bushy. “Hey! Chill the fuck out,” Thomas says. Patricia apparently fed it, but it hasn’t touched the food. The litter box has also been changed. She damn well better take that fucking cat, he can’t stand the sight of it. Now it’s sitting in the windowsill watching the sky. The apartment is quiet in a way Thomas doesn’t like. Unlived-in. He’s alone here. He’ll be alone from now on. When he gets home at night, everything will be as he left it in the morning. There will be no more surprises. There will only be what I do or don’t do, he thinks miserably. Only my own fucking mood. In the living room the boxes are sealed, stacked, and shoved against the wall near the hall. He peers in the bedroom closets. She’s taken all her clothes. Her creams and makeup are also gone. And many of the pots, pans, and kitchen utensils. She must have been pretty efficient. Maybe she had help. Not Luke, because he was painting all day, Thomas thinks, almost relieved. He sees how she tried to disassemble the sofa, the open tool box is on the floor beside it, but evidently she couldn’t figure out how to do it. If the store resembled an empty room calmly awaiting, then the apartment is the exact opposite: Something that’s been ripped up, consumed, something sad, drained of life. Standing in the center of it all, he doesn’t know what to do with himself. Then Jenny calls.