Disintegration (12 page)

I come to in her bed, some other room in her house, upstairs I think. How did she get me up here?

It's a large king-sized, four-poster bed, with intricate carvings running up and down the posts. There are human forms, and mythical figures, dancing around massive oak trees, branches reaching off into the distance, pillars and mausoleums, nymphs and hairy beasts. The headboard is a dark velvet, padded and secured with buttons here and there. I'm totally naked. She's taken off her coat, but still has her clothes on from the bar. She's sitting next to me, the room filled with candlelight, and everything is quiet. I must have been out for a while.

“You're okay,” she says.

I look down at my side and see a bandage.

“He didn't get anything major. I gave you a couple of stitches and a shot. You'll be fine.”

“What are you, a nurse?”

“Just prepared. These things happen sometimes.”

“Your arm?”

“Just grazed me,” she said.

“How is it that I'm naked and you're still dressed?”

“I couldn't get the corset undone,” she says with a laugh. “I'm still pretty drunk.”

She leans over to the side table and hands me a beer. I take it. I'm thirsty all of a sudden, and so is she. We drink them down quickly, her eyes on mine the entire time. She takes my empty bottle away, and places them both on the nightstand.

“You know, I still don't know your name….”

“Shhhhhhhh, don't worry about that,” she says.

She pulls out a locket and cracks it open. She takes a fingernail and dips it into the coke and sprinkles it on my stomach.

“What are you doing?”

“I'm not done with you yet,” she says.

She snorts the line off my stomach and sits up. Taking another fingernailful she taps it onto her chest.

“Come here,” she says.

I sit up and my side screams, but I've been waiting for this. I snort the coke off of her chest and then lick it clean. She closes her eyes, moaning gently. Standing back up she unzips the back of her pants and pushes them down to the floor. Gingerly she steps out of them, her long pale legs shimmering in the candlelight. She walks over to me and sits on the edge of the bed, facing away. My hands are shaking but I undo the knots and let the corset release her. She exhales with relief. I can see the indentations in her back from the tiny eyelets that have been pushing into her skin. I run my flat hand up and down her spine, every little vertebra another bump in the road. She exhales gently. She stands up again as the corset slides to the floor. I'm ready for her.

She slides back onto the bed, a shock of moonlight glancing through the drapes, the windows running high from the floor to the ceiling. She eases her way up my thighs, and I can't drink in her body fast enough. Every curve is perfection, her muscles taut, her face serious and chiseled, a glistening of sweat just starting on her forehead. Her tiny pink nipples jut out into the air, her hands rising up to cup her breasts, twisting her nipples hard between her thumb and forefinger, pulling, her eyes closing, a small gasp escaping. She straddles me, her glossy wetness sliding over me. With one hand she reaches down and guides me in. She is a furnace, and I shudder.

She places her right hand directly on my wound and pushes. I moan, stars shooting across my vision, a halo of dingy yellow ringing her head, her eyes filled with the Milky Way, vast and dark, sprinkled with diamonds, her mouth parting ever so slightly. Blood oozes out of the gaps between my stitches and she places her bloody handprint on my chest, on her thigh, on her breast as she slowly rocks back and forth. I can't breathe. If this is how I'm going to die, so be it. She places her hand on my wound again, coating her palm with blood, as she grinds me deeper inside her.

“Punch me in the face when I come,” she says.

“Get up.”

I'm shrouded in a gray gauze, a stabbing pain in my side, and a female form hovers over me. She's wearing a silver robe, short and silky, with Chinese lettering and a jade dragon wrapping around her. Lotus flowers run down the sleeves. Her left eye is shrouded in purple, puffy and tinged with red.

“Hey, buddy, time to get up.”

As I pry my gluey eyes open she drifts into focus. It's mostly dark outside, and the candles are all out. I'm still naked, and the cream sheets are splattered with blood, partial handprints on my body. She stands with her arms crossed, her long black hair wet, her features dulled. She looks like an angry little girl.

“What's going on?” I ask.

“It's time for you to go.”

“What, no breakfast? No uncomfortable chatter over toast?”

“No. You need to go.”

“Did I do something wrong?”

For a moment she pauses and takes a deep breath. She sighs. A grin slips over her face.

“No, you were great. It's not that. But this is a place of business, I have things to do, and I need to get some more rest, and I can't do that with you here.”

“I understand.”

“Stand up and I'll clean you off.”

“What?”

“Just stand up,” she says. “Don't be shy now, I've seen it all—touched it, licked it, stuffed it inside me.”

I ease off the bed, groaning, and stand next to the nightstand, one hand keeping my balance. She bends down to a large copper bowl with a sponge in it and starts to clean the blood and dried fluids off my body. I'm oddly touched by her gesture, the warm water with a hint of lavender, shadows scrolling across the wall as a car drifts by outside in the snow. There's a dull pain at my side, and I look down.

“Sorry, just checking out your wound. It's fine. I wouldn't do any bull riding for a couple days.”

“Yeah, you either.”

She looks up at me and for a second I see the girl behind the dominatrix. She came here from a small town, someplace in the Midwest, Iowa or Indiana. She had one boyfriend in high school and he was a jerk—a redneck asshole that treated her like dirt. But he had a car (a pickup truck, actually) and he spent money on her now and then. When she left him to go to college, Columbia College here in Chicago, he freaked out, got drunk, wrecked the truck and screwed her best friend. She never talked to him again. In college, she met a wide variety of artists and had her first lesbian experience. She started sleeping with boys too, when she realized she had all the power. She took film classes and started to write, she sculpted erotic media of mixed metals and clay, barbed wire wrapping around breasts, rebar impaling large mountains of clay, with vagina caves on either side. She dropped acid, got her first tattoo (a Celtic heart), and started getting rough in bed. When one of her professors got her high and paid her to spank him, she realized she had a gift. And could earn.

Or something like that.

Standing up she runs the sponge over my chest, cleans my face, her eyes big and soft, filled with a sad wonder. The room is quiet but for a brushing of snow against the windows,
shoosh
ing over the beveled glass.

She dries me off and points to a pile of my clothes, folded on the nightstand. I get dressed in silence as she retreats to the master bath to pour out the bloody water. She stands in the bathroom, her back to me, and she looks so small. I don't know whether to pity her or fear her. I ache in places I shouldn't, and bits and pieces of our marathon night flash through my head, body parts framed in moonlight, her silhouette, her mouth gasping, her strong hands, sweat running down her back, the sheets damp with our exertion.

I'm dressed and ready to go when she comes back. She pulls the sheets off in one violent motion and tilts her head to the stairs.

“Out,” she says, grinning.

If she wasn't so fucking hot, so vulnerable, I'd be offended.

Down the stairs, a mint-green wallpaper gives the sensation of water, with tiny florets, bulbous shapes in ornate scrollwork, and an inverted die cut of an ancient pineapple shape. It's elegant, and if I squint I swear there are tiny skulls where the lines meet.

I turn to her, and she frowns, her arms full of our dirty laundry. I lean over and kiss her anyway, and she's chaste now. I open my eyes and her pupils scatter, darting around, and I feel her anxiety.

“I'm going. Don't worry, no trouble from me.”

I kiss her again, and she responds, gently pushing back.

“Now go,” she whispers.

I grab my coat off the hook and pull it on. It's going to be cold. My hat is in one pocket, my gloves in the other, and I turn the locks and open the door.

“See you around,” I say.

“I'm sure you will.” She grins again.

Out the door and the cold slaps me in the face, and suddenly I'm flashing back to the bathroom from last night, bending her over the sink. The door clicks shut behind me and she disappears down the hall. In tiny type, in the center of a metallic oval is the name Isadora. There is no phone number, no website or email, just Isadora. Wonder how she gets clients. Maybe she'll send me a bill.

I shuffle down the stairs and turn right, back up Damen. A high fence runs around her property but I take a glance toward the backyard anyway. Between a crack in the boards I see her, outside. She must be freezing. She is standing over a large oil drum, flames spitting out of the top. She tosses the sheets in, and the flames leap higher. She peels off her silk robe, and her pale skin shines in the dark space, her wet hair glimmering in the light of the moon, the yellow of the streetlamps. She is a goddess for a moment, her curves perfection, stopping me in my tracks. Then she is gone. And my heart starts up again, and I can breathe. And I wonder what I've started.

I'm retracing my path from last night, trudging through the snow. It's really late, or really early, depending on how you look at it. The sky is a rusted gray, a hint of blue at the edges, crisp and deep. As I get close to Thomas and my right turn back home, I walk by the spot where we scuffled last night. There's no blood as far as I can see, the steady fall of snow covering whatever evidence there once was. I don't see any sign of our foe, and then as I'm about to turn the corner, I see two boots, just the tip of them, poking up out of the snow.

“Shit, we killed him,” I mutter.

It looks like he tried to crawl up the street, maybe back to the alley he came from, maybe back to the Innertown Pub for help. He didn't make it. Just under the surface of the snow is the outline of his body, dull and dark. He must have finally collapsed on his back, staring up at the power lines, shiny icicles like a display of daggers, hovering over his head.

There is a bloop behind me and a flash of color. I turn my head to see a cop car rolling to a stop. Goddamnit.

“Hey, buddy, everything okay? Something catch your eye?”

His window is down, and he's dressed in dark blue, one elbow leaning out the window, headlights pushing on up the street, exhaust belching out the back muffler.

“All good. To be honest, I was thinking of taking a piss, and was looking for something a little bit more private.”

“Why don't you take that on home, okay, pal? You're a big boy, right? Can you hold it?”

“Sure, Officer, no problem.”

I stand in front of the body, hoping that I'm blocking his shoes, but afraid to look down, to draw any more attention to the lump in the snow.

“Kind of late to be out wandering.”

“Well, you know,” I say, “met a lady, and well, now I'm heading home.”

“Ah,” he says. “I gotcha.”

He turns to his partner and mumbles something.

“You live far, buddy? Want a lift?”

A lift. No. I don't want that. I don't think these are the guys who were at my apartment before, but all the same, I'd like to keep my distance.

“I'm cool, the fresh air is good for me, clearing my head up.”

“Okay,” the cop says.

He eyeballs me a bit more, looking me up and down. He squints his eyes a bit, looking down at my boots, and when I glance down there are drops of blood on both of them. It's faint, but I can see it. Can he? He opens his mouth to say something, and a nest of vipers swirls in my gut. A ripple of pain shoots through my stab wound, and my face scrunches up just a bit. I've given myself away.

“You sure you're okay?” the cop asks again, tilting his head.

I open my mouth to answer and a voice crackles out of the radio.

Car 11 we have a 211 in progress, alarm has gone off at…

“There's something about you I don't like,” he says, spitting on the ground, the smile disappearing. The car lunges ahead, spinning its wheels, and they shoot forward, heading north, engine revving as they break the silence of the night, lights flashing, fading away. I take a breath.

I turn and head east on Thomas, off of Damen, and take back streets the rest of the way home. I keep an eye on the streets, wary that they'll come back to ask more questions. I don't quite fit in with the hipsters in the area, too old to be some punk kid. My face is riddled with stubble and I have an air about me. I tense up and go cold when I'm about to get violent, and he read me like a book. The cop knew that I was thinking of running, that I had something to hide. He just wasn't sure what it was.

I'm home in no time, key in the front door of the building, a mist of flakes drifting through the streetlamp glow, up and down the street, an abandoned wasteland. There's an audible crack, followed by more cracks and creaks, and a large tree branch across the street falls with a heavy thud on an aging red Accord, the ice tinkling to the ground, the car dipping, an alarm going off, the night suddenly alive with noise, a whoop and a harsh beep, repeating, the car covered in bark and ice, the windshield cracked. Jesus. I don't need to be here for this, so I slide in the door and close it, fast. Up the stairs and I pass Guy's, not a peep. When I get to my door there is a yellow Post-it note.

Thanks, bro.

I turn my head to his door and stare. What did I offer him last night? What did I tell him?

Nothing, I hope.

I key the locks, and open them in rapid succession. I'm exhausted. The minute the door opens, Luscious is at my feet, mewing and spinning in circles. I'll sleep good tonight.