Shadows in the Night

Chapter 5

Chapter 5I wake to jackhammer sounds out of a groggy sleep. Saliva dampens my pillowcase as I lay immobile in bed, a pain needling the back of my head like a toothache.

Soft morning light pours through the drapes on the balcony door that I forgot to lock last night. Everything after, “f**k you, Jack,” is a blur. I do not remember Steve leaving or when I stumbled back into the apartment and hid beneath the sheets.

The bedside lamp is still on, burning amidst the bright sunny room.

I moan against a headache drilling in the back of my eyes, and as I sit up, a wave of nausea stabs me. I fall backward on flat pillows indented with deep crevices of a ghostly outline. The pillowcases smell musky.

The hammering outside intensifies.

I take a moment to sit on the edge of the bed and gather myself. My heavy head falls to my chest, and I am slipping back into a restless slumber.

Edgy, agitated, my body is vibrating, my spirits frayed, prickling with nervous energy. The linoleum floor is cold on the bottoms of my feet. As I stand, the room reels.

Dizzying as if drunk, my head whirls in a state of agitation.

I turn to glimpse the time on the microwave: 7:36 A.M.

“Hell.”

I attempt to stand again, reaching out for the dresser to anchor my next move. I pad to the bathroom to take a long piss. My aim at this early hour is atrocious.

I grumble and shake my d**k dry, tuck it back into my damp boxers when a heavy knock on the apartment door rattles me. I stumble to the bathroom door, and lean against the wall, scratching my goatee.

More knocking. Forceful this time.

“Yeah. Yeah. I’m coming!”

I knuckle my eyes on the way, passing an overflowing trash can reeking of last night’s fish dinner. I unclasp the four Yale locks I had installed after my ex-boyfriend showed up last year as another hard rap on the other side of the door tests my limits.

“Christ on a f*****g cracker,” I yell, pulling the door wide open without looking to see who it is first.

I am stunned at the sight of Steve standing in front of me holding an armful of pink roses.

He’s come to apologize, the voice in my head whispers. I want to smile and reach out and hug him. I want to kiss him. He looks so f*****g beautiful and sorry and sad. The color of his eyes is darker since he took out his blue contacts. He tucked his pink-blond curls beneath a baseball cap, pulled backward.

His short shorts reveal a bulge between his spaghetti-thin legs. His ropey muscles tug at the fabric of the white T-shirt and his taut model frame. His eyes are blotchy, bloodshot.

The sound of cellophane crinkles under his trembling hand.

I do not know how to read him, or what to say.

He breaks the awkwardness. “I am an asshole.”

I run my hand over my military buzz cut and inhale deeply, feeling horrible about last night. I wave him inside.

“I can’t stay,” he says, holding out the bouquet of roses in a rehearsed, mechanical gesture. “I’m sorry.”

As I reach out to grab the flowers, our fingers touch. Warm. Soft. Welcoming. “Can we talk?” I ask, almost pleading.

“I can’t stay,” he reminds me, wiping his eyes with a long finger.

“About last night,” I say.

Steve cuts me off. “I’m sorry, Jack.” He is agitated and starts coughing.

I want to tell him that I accept his apology, but he surprises me with a grand sweeping statement. “You deserve better than me.”

“What? Wait a minute.” I am fully awake now, clenching the roses and pricking my palm on a thorn. If I am bleeding, I do not notice. I stare dead calm at the man I love as if he delivers end-of-the-world news.

“I’ve been up most of the night thinking about what I said last night,” he says, “and how I said it. I am a f*****g prick who doesn’t deserve you.”

I open my mouth to speak, but he silences me by placing his finger on my lips. He clears his throat and coughs, pulls his hand back. “I strip and dance for men for a living. The men pay big money to watch me undress. They jerk off in dark corners of the club. Then they go home to their wives and girlfriends and lie to them about where they’ve been.” He pauses, draws a breath, coughs into his hand. “Is that who you want for a boyfriend?” He holds up a hand. “It’s not fair to you, Jack, and you deserve better.”

I am not good at goodbyes. Not with Steve.

He tells me he loves me. “You’re caring and thoughtful. I love that about you. I’ll miss you.” I start to speak, but he cuts in, “I don’t have a lot of time. Just hear me out.”

I glance at the roses hanging low at my side. Tears swell in my eyes. I cannot bear to look at Steve.

“You’re a special man, Jack. I’ll always appreciate your generosity. The way you love me.”

“Steve—”

“But we’re different people living different lives.”

“I want you to stay. Our opposites, I think, strengthen us. Coming here and telling me that it’s over—” My thoughts trail. I scrape the bottom of the barrel for something—anything—to keep Steve talking. No words are forthcoming.

He leaves.