Breathers (22 page)

I haven't felt this excited since, well, since Rita and I walked into Soquel Village hand in hand. I want to share this with someone, this moment of triumph, of self-actualization. But my only companions are a 2001 Dominus Cabernet and a half-finished jar of Ray's Resplendent Rapture.

I sit down on my mattress and shovel another forkful of venison into my mouth, then wash it down with the last of the Dominus, both of which taste exquisite. While I've always been able to appreciate the savory and musky flavor of Ray's delectable treat, it seems to have taken on a stronger taste. More flavorful. I'd attribute it to something as simple as a different batch of venison, except all the food I've eaten over the past few weeks seems to have developed an improvement in flavor. At first I thought Mom was just adding more seasoning, but that wouldn't account for the wine. And the Dominus isn't the first bottle of wine I've actually enjoyed of late, though if I didn't know better, I'd swear I was beginning to feel a bit tipsy.

Probably just the excitement of all the walking and talking I've been doing.

As my feelings of exultation begin to ebb and the empty jar of venison joins the empty bottle of Dominus on the bedside table, the silence of the house and the solitude of the wine cellar start to close in around me like a burial vault.

I need to find someone who understands what this means to me, someone who will appreciate what I've accomplished, someone who can relate to the excitement of discovering that I'm not the rotting, croaking, shuffling zombie I used to be. And there's only one someone who comes to mind.

I get dressed as fast as I can, then check my reflection like
a teenager checking for zits. I consider putting on some of my mother's makeup, then remember the cellar door is locked from the inside.

“Uck it,” I say.

Before I head out the back door, I grab a bottle of 1982 Borgogno Barolo Reserve and wrap it in a towel, then stuff it into my backpack. From under my pillow I grab an envelope and slide it into my back pocket. With a final glance in the television screen to check my stitches and gray pallor, I'm out the back door and headed for the gully.

It's a perfect late-November morning—blue sky, cirrus clouds, and all around me the trees still burn with the colors of autumn while dead, fallen leaves scatter in the breath of the wind.

I'd forgotten what it felt like to experience the nuances of the changing seasons, to appreciate the light filtering through the trees or the grace of a leaf drifting to the ground. In spite of the sun, there's enough of a chill in the air to warrant a sweater. Not that the weather has much of an impact on my wardrobe decisions. Since zombies don't exactly get hot or cold, we can pretty much wear whatever we want, whenever we want. Still, that doesn't mean we don't realize what we're supposed to wear.

It's confusing being a zombie, for reasons other than the obvious. You don't experience sensory input the way you did when you were alive, yet you have the memories of how that input made you feel. So you rely on those memories to help you adjust, to help you try to fit in. Except you don't fit in, you never will, and you know it. But that doesn't stop you from trying.

I'm wearing a hunter green cable-knit sweater from Macy's, a pair of Levi's, Columbia hiking shoes, and a black knit beanie from The Gap. To some extent, I'm dressed based on
my expectations of what I should be wearing. And strangely enough, it even feels a little cold, though I attribute that more to learned perception than an actual sensory experience. But to a larger extent, the clothes I'm wearing I chose because I wanted to make a good impression.

As I traverse the gully, aware that I'm not dragging my left foot as much as yesterday, I keep reciting the haiku I've written for Rita under my breath—just loud enough so that I'm able to hear what I'm saying. Not every word is intelligible, but I manage to enunciate about every third or fourth word. Granted, in a haiku, that doesn't come to more than four words. Five, tops. But other than my linguistic exercise this morning, that's more than I've managed to spit out in the past four months.

Maybe there's something in my genetic structure that is somehow helping to heal me. Or maybe I'm just getting used to my physical limitations instead of fighting them. Whatever the reason, I'm not complaining.

I check my back right pocket to make sure the haiku I wrote for Rita is still there, the folded envelope with a single piece of paper containing three lines that came to me without effort, as if they'd been in my head all along and were just waiting to be written:

I just hope her mother's not home.

eople who've lost an arm or a leg to combat, infections, or chainsaw accidents frequently report experiencing phantom limb syndrome, where they can still feel their missing arms or legs.

Standing in front of Rita's, raising my fist to knock on her door, I swear I can feel my heart thumping and the sweat flowing from my pores, pasting my shirt to my skin. It's been more than a dozen years since I had romantic intentions toward a woman other than Rachel and I'm more than a little rusty. I feel like I'm in high school, going to get my prom date. But instead of feeling self-conscious about a zit that just erupted in the middle of my forehead, I'm concerned about the stitches that run from my chin to my left eye socket.

An instant before my knuckles hit wood, the male self-destruct system for confidence kicks in and I wonder if I'm making a mistake. I wonder if she'll laugh at me. I wonder if I should have applied more cologne to mask the stench of decay.

I knock three times and wait, hoping Rita answers and not her mother. Even if a Breather has a zombie living at home, answering the door to find a card-carrying member of the living
dead standing on your doorstep has to be somewhat unnerving. And I'm not in the mood to have someone scream at the sight of me. It's not exactly a confidence builder.

After a few moments of silence, I hear the sound of approaching footsteps that stop at the door. There's a peephole mounted in the door at eye level and I sense someone studying me. It can't be more than a second or two but it seems as though I've been standing on the doorstep for hours. I almost turn to leave but then the door swings open and Rita is stepping across the threshold with a smile on her lips and her arms open and all of my anxiety drains away.

Rita's wearing a short-sleeved, white T-shirt and faded blue jeans. She's not wearing socks, makeup, or a bra. Even with my diminished vision, I can see the outline of her nipples pressing against white cotton.

“Hi, Andy,” she says, wrapping her arms around my shoulders, enfolding me in her embrace. My right arm encircles her waist. Although she shouldn't have any body heat, I feel a warmth radiating from her skin.

We stand holding each other for I don't know how long but it's not long enough. When she pulls away and takes my hand, I'm aware that I've got what Jerry would call a stiffy. Apparently, Rita is aware as well.

“Come inside,” says Rita. The look on her face and the sensation in my pants makes me wonder if her words were meant as a double entendre. It doesn't matter. I'm following her wherever she wants me to go.

She leads me down the hallway, past the kitchen and the living room, past the bathroom and a bedroom, to the last room at the end of the hallway. The bed is unmade, clothes lie strewn across the floor, and a half-empty Mason jar of Ray's Resplendent Rapture sits on the bedside table. Cylinders of lipstick in dozens of colors and shades cover the dresser.

Rita closes the door behind us, leads me to the foot of the bed, sits me down, then grabs the Mason jar and joins me. With a fork, she removes a chunk of venison and offers it to me without a word. I open my mouth and accept. It's amazing how much better food tastes when it's fed to you by a beautiful zombie.

Rita takes a bite and lets out a little moan of pleasure. I watch the fork withdraw from her lips and let out a little moan of my own.

She feeds me again and then herself, back and forth in silence until the jar is empty, then she runs her index finger inside the jar, takes her finger, glistening with the juice from the meat, and offers it to me.

I've completely forgotten about my haiku.

I suck on Rita's finger and watch her smile, keeping my eyes open so I don't miss anything. When I'm finished, Rita puts her finger in her mouth, watching me while she does things to her finger that would make me blush if I were still alive, then she gets up and steps over to her dresser, where she picks up a cylinder of lipstick, an Optic Fuchsia, and coats her lips so they look like she's just eaten a candy apple. After pursing, she licks her lips and smiles, then extends the lipstick out to its full length and bites it in half.

This is more than I can stand.

Before I can get to my feet and stagger over to her, Rita is on top of me, pushing me back onto her bed, her lips against mine, her tongue searching for the back of my throat. I taste lipstick, I feel the chunk of Optic Fuchsia pressing against my teeth, and it's exquisite.

Rita pulls away and slips out of her T-shirt and blue jeans like a magic trick. The next thing I know she's naked and straddling me, unzipping my pants and disappearing from view.

This time, I close my eyes.

s it necrophilia if we're both dead? Rita is curled up next to me, my right hand caressing her bare shoulder as she traces the stitches on my face. The rest of my clothes have joined hers in a pile on the floor.

Some zombies, like Jerry, due to a physiological reaction immediately after death, continue their existence with permanent erections. I am not one of those zombies. I haven't experienced an aroused physical state since the accident and because reanimated corpses can't produce erections or sperm, I never expected to have sex again. But I've already had two orgasms in thirty minutes and, apparently, I'm interested in pursuing a third.

How is this possible?

Rita raises herself on one elbow and looks at me as if she just realized I was Elvis Presley. “What did you say?”