Page 30 of Mine

“He’s fighting alone.” I sighed. “I think he’s mad because he thinks I didn’t need him earlier today, which isn’t the case, but you know.”

“No, I don’t know, and I don’t wanna know ’cause it’s none of my fuckin’ business. But what I do want is for him not to get drunk at my goddamn bar. And I can’t watch him all night so—oh, never mind.”

“What?”

“I see Skyler and Nate; they’ll babysit him.”

“Do me a favor.”

“What?”

“Water down his drinks, okay?”

“Will do. See ya.”

Normally I would go to wherever he was, take a seat on the other side of the bar from him, and keep an eye out, making sure that everyone understood that if they touched him, got too close, or even breathed on him, I’d remove their lungs. It was one of his favorite games, and my friends asked me how come I never went, sat across from him, and flirted with other people. Why didn’t I ever give him a dose of what he gave me? Turnabout was fair play, wasn’t it? Why not let some guy, or some girl, put their hands all over me?

The answer was simple: it would kill him, and I liked him alive and breathing. If the man ever saw me allowing someone else to touch me, it would break his fragile heart into a million, trillion pieces. We existed on the premise that he was the only one for me; he could never be shown any different.

After I got my order, tied up in a plastic bag to keep it dry, I walked home as fast as I could. I was still drenched by the time I got to our building and went up the stoop and through the outer door, where I stopped to check the mail before continuing through the inner door toward the elevator. It was a converted freight elevator, but I liked it.

Once inside the apartment, I checked the radiator, realized it hadn’t kicked on yet, dumped the food in the kitchen, and went to stash the gun and take a shower. I was starting a fire when the front door flew open with a bang, slammed closed just as loudly, and Landry stormed in, boots loud and clomping on the varnished wood floor.

“I just came home to change,” he announced haughtily.

“Sure,” I said softly, returning to the task at hand.

He disappeared into the bedroom through the double French doors.

I got the fire crackling nicely as I turned on the stereo and got Melody Gardot, one of my favorites, crooning softly in the background. I sat at the small butcher block kitchen table, unwrapped his meatball sub and the horrible deep-fried pickles he liked, and poured his cream soda. He came out a few minutes later, all in black, the boots still on, jeans and a turtleneck sweater now making up the outfit. I was struck by how beautiful he looked, but I swallowed down the compliment as I ate my food.

“What is that?”

“You should eat,” I told him, my voice husky and soft. “Don’t wanna drink on an empty stomach.”

“I’ve already been drinking.”

“Dancing, then.”

“I guess,” he snapped at me.

He took his usual seat beside me instead of across from me, which was more telling than he realized even though we ate in silence. When I was done, I got up and went to the refrigerator to get my tiramisu but then thought better of it. My plan was simply to pass out; I’d save it until I could enjoy it.

“Your cannoli’s in here,” I told him. “You want it now or later?”

“Later,” he said, and I saw the muscles in his jaw clenching, the way he was chewing on his bottom lip, and how crumpled his napkin was from being crushed in his hand.

I cleared the table and wiped it, and still he sat there.

“Thank you for remembering the pickle chips,” he said softly.

“You’re welcome.”

I did the dishes, the two plates and two glasses, and put them in the dish rack to air dry.

“Where ya gonna go?” I asked, leaving the light on above the sink but flipping the kitchen one off, only the fireplace illuminating the apartment.

“To Spin, I think.”