Nicholas Claro

“Is there someone else?” my fiancée Kristen asks while I grabbed a sweatshirt out of the dresser. She’s asked this before. Back when it first started happening. “It’s the only thing that makes sense. That there’s someone else. And that’s why you can’t fuck me. Or don’t want to. Did you forget to wear a condom and are waiting on test results? That would be so polite of you.”

“Kristen,” I say. “How many times do I have to tell you that there isn’t anyone else? Stop asking, will you? I don’t know what this is.” I grab my cock, limp and useless behind the underwear I slipped on a minute ago. Ashamed, embarrassed, and desperate I start motioning vaguely at everything, anything. “But it’s not that.”

She looks angry, yet like she might cry.

“It’s me then? That’s it?”

She’s asked this before too.

I don’t say anything because there isn’t much to say. I’ve run out of excuses. All that was left to say I didn’t think I could say. Saying it might kill her. It might just kill her if I say it.

“You can sleep on the couch again,” she says.

I don’t argue because we’ve already done that. I take the top sheet, a pillow, and Kristen, still naked, gets out of bed to close the door behind me. She doesn’t slam it which somehow makes things worse. In the hallway I wait for the lock to click until I remember there isn’t a lock.

“Goodnight,” I say, and hear the mattress groan, then nothing.

On the front porch I stretch my legs and drink my beer and my whiskey. I keep cigarettes and a lighter behind the ferns on the wicker table next to the door. The same thing happened last night. I’d left my glass back there. I set the empty glass down next to my full one and light a cigarette.

I ash into the flowerbed. It’s late November, cold and growing colder, and there’s nothing alive in the flowerbed, not even weeds. I slip the cigarette butt into the mouth of the empty beer can and finish my whiskey. Back inside I fix another and pack more ice into the glass all the way to the rim. The cubes pop and burst when the whiskey runs over them. I take a sip, drain half, pour some more. This time the ice stays quiet. I take the bottle with me to save trips.

The neighbors’ porchlight was on before and now it’s not. The street is quiet with cars parked along either side, trash cans pushed to the curbs for tomorrow’s pickup. A few blocks down it isn’t so quiet. It’s busier out there, even at this time of night, traffic moving steadily in either direction. Beyond the traffic, there’s an office building complex and drugstore. The drugstore’s lights were also on before.

***

Kristen wasn’t totally off the mark. I’d been thinking about other women. Not because there was one, or that I was looking for or even considering another. I thought thinking about other women might help me sleep with her again. I hadn’t been able to sleep with her and didn’t know why. Kristen is honestly one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen. She’s three years younger than me, has thick, curly black hair, dark brown eyes, and a practiced, Hollywood starlet smile that looks even better in pictures. And she’s all legs. What I mean is she’s tall. I hardly have to bend down to kiss her. Anyway, she’s the type of woman that people looked at and then looked at again after they thought they were done looking. And while I thought about these other women I’d suggest other positions. Other positions where I could focus on the other parts of Kristen’s body that could have been other parts of any other woman’s body.

I’m not proud of that.

I will say I’ve never thought about other women I know. Friends, coworkers, even ones I’ve seen at bars—all off limits. I thought about other women who seemed purely fantasy because I didn’t know them in real life. Elizabeth Olsen, singers, this tattoo artist from Brazil I follow on Instagram. Other women like that. Plenty of times Kristen and I tried things with the lights off and sometimes it almost worked. The thing is, Kristen has this high voice. Not, like, helium-straight-from-a-balloon high—nothing annoying as that. But it’s high and its highness makes for its uniqueness. When the lights were off, when things started to work, she would say things like, Yes, there. There, right there. Yes. And I’d feel the blood drain. Other times all it took was a moan to take me out. I hadn’t realized how much a person’s individual voice came through when they moaned.

***

Maybe halfway down the block someone walks in my direction. Their breaths blue clouds in the moonlight. This person starts clapping. Every few feet they stop walking and stop clapping to listen and look around. Whenever this happens I listen too, though I have no idea what I’m listening for.

After watching them repeat this for a minute, I figure they’re drunk. Maybe high.

We don’t get many people roaming our neighborhood even though we live close to Broadway—one of the less fortunate strips in Wichita where tents, sleeping bags, and shopping carts packed with junk line the sidewalks. Where unhoused people wrapped in blankets huddle in circles next to this stuff. Some talk to themselves, fight the air, smoke, and drink without hiding it. Some watch cars go by without discernible expressions.

I assume this clapping person is one of them, until she’s close enough to make out the basics of her face in the darkness. I hadn’t expected it to be a woman. I splash more Maker’s into my glass and stick the cigarette into the corner of my mouth, but wait to light it.

“Have you seen a dog?” the woman says. “A little short haired white dog. She’s about this big?” She holds her hands out about a foot wide. She’s shivering.

I like her voice. It’s low, raspy.

“Haven’t seen her,” I say, then hold up the bottle. “Would you like something to drink?”

“I should keep looking.”

“You’ve got to be freezing.”

She thinks this over for a second before telling me she’ll stay for a quick one. We sit on the steps, and I give her my name. The woman gives me hers—Ricki. She has on a puffy yellow jacket. Sitting there her head barely comes up to my shoulders and her red hair sits on top of her head in a sleek, round bun like a little pumpkin. She has a plain face and beneath the puffy jacket I can tell she’s skinny.

I hand her a pour of Maker’s and she tells me she lives down the street. Not very far, maybe a half-mile or so. People are over. Some friends from the restaurant where she works. One of her work friends stepped out to smoke and Lana made a break for it. Ricki told her friends to stay put in case the dog came back.

“It’s so unlike her. Lana’s never darted off before. Never,” she says. “I’m really worried about cars.”

“Try not to worry. There aren’t many cars this time of night. Listen.” I shut up for a second and Ricki tilts her head back. I give it a second. Wind cuts through the semi-leafless boughs, rattling what’s left clinging to them. “See? Nothing. I’m sure she’s fine.”

“Hope so.” Ricki sniffs, sips the drink, and makes a face before sticking out her tongue. She coughs and after collecting herself, says, “You’re an optimist. We need more of that.” She coughs again, says, “Sorry. I don’t normally drink whiskey.”

“If I had anything else to offer, I would,” I say.

“I didn’t mean—” Ricki laughs nervously, then shoots the rest of the glass. She holds it in her mouth, cheeks puffed out, and breathes through her nose. A few seconds pass before she gulps it loud enough for me to hear it drop down her throat. “Would you look at that? I’m a real, bona fide whiskey drinker now. No coughing.”

***

It doesn’t take much to convince me. Plan is I’ll whistle and she’ll clap. I suggested whistling might help, something to do with the pitch. Regardless of the outcome I’ll walk her home. She tells me she has plenty of booze. No whiskey. But some other good stuff. If I see something I like, she says, I should go ahead and take it.

***

The moon is high and full in the sky. A bright blue ring glows around it. We walk one block and circle another clapping and whistling. We walk long enough for me to smoke four American Spirits. At the corner of this block, Ricki stops clapping and cups her hand around her mouth and in her low, raspy voice calls out, “Come.” She says, “Please, come.” She claps. “Please,” she says, clapping a couple times more. I wait for her to say something more.

***

A little later Ricki pauses in front of a yellow bungalow. All the houses in this neighborhood are bungalows.

“This’s my place,” she says.

The porchlight is on, moths curlicuing in the air, pinging against the glass. A wreath with a big red bow hangs on the door. The front windows are lit up, the blinds drawn. We climb the stairs. I stand next to Ricki while she takes hold of the doorknob. Inside, I hear laughter over some indie rock.

Ricki twists the knob but before she turns it the rest of the way she reaches out with her other hand and grabs my wrist, giving it a quick squeeze.

She looks plainer in this light.

“Sorry I wasn’t more help,” I say.

“You did what you could,” she says. “You kept me company. That’s important, you know? It was more than enough.” She pauses and looks at the ground, sniffs, wipes her face, and lifts both hands before letting them drop to her waist.

I close my eyes, and as she pulls me toward her, I open them. She’s yanking her jacket zipper down. Then she guides my hand beneath her shirt, flinching when I touch her, laughing.

“Let’s go in and warm up,” she says.

She twists the knob and shoulders the door open.

It’s hot inside. The air is thick and smells like sweat and overripe fruit. Three space heaters stand spaced out along the small living room. A man and two women dance close to one another with their backs to us. They didn’t see or hear us, even after Ricki shut the door. Cello accompanied by symbol crashes and a strident voice boom from a portable speaker on a thin table to the left of the door. This is surrounded by a phone and cans of White Claw, a bottle of tequila, shot glasses, wedges of lime that sit like miniature canoes on a blue cutting board. I take a step in and my foot comes down on the heel of a cowboy boot, which because of that last whiskey, is enough to throw me off balance. I reel back and elbow the wall, and apparently the light switch.

Everything goes dark and one woman lets out a high-pitched scream.

“Did we lose power?” the man yells.

“I don’t think so,” one of the women yells back. The same one, I think, goes, “Wouldn’t that, like, fuck with the speaker?”

Then there are a few tiny barks.

I feel Ricki’s hands on me trying to make their way to the switch. I brush my hand up and down the wall, ignoring the dull sting in my elbow until I find it.

The two women and the man face us now. Their faces red and glassy-eyed. One woman in a Carhartt beanie with shoulder length brown hair holds a small white dog in her arms. When Lana sees Ricki, she loses her shit; starts whining and wriggling and kicking. I half expect her to piss on the woman. Meanwhile, her collar tinkles over the crashing symbols and heavy cello and guitar chords that continue to blast from the speaker. The woman in the beanie sets Lana down and she bolts across the living room in a flash of white.

Ricki kneels and catches her when she jumps and lifts her up. When Ricki starts crying, Lana licks her face.

“You stupid shit,” Ricki says. “You scared me so bad.”

The man goes and picks up the phone next to the portable speaker and pauses the music.

He tugs his mustache while looking at Ricki.

“I tried calling you,” he says. “But realized we’re using Spotify on your phone so we don’t have to listen to any ads.”

“It’s fine. I don’t care. It doesn’t matter,” she says. “Everything’s fine.” She buries her nose into Lana’s fur. “Isn’t that right?” Ricki says.

Lana responds with a single bark and licks her face some more and keeps wriggling.

“Who’s the guy?” the woman with shorter dark hair and a lip ring says.

“Ben helped me look for Lana,” Ricki says. She points to the man. “That’s Logan.” She moves down the line. “Avery. Haley.”

Haley has the beanie on.

Everyone waves.

“Nice to meet you,” I say, waving.

Avery gives me this mortified look and places a hand over her mouth.

“Your nose,” she says, looking away. “I don’t do well with blood.”

I run a finger beneath it. My hand comes away with a brushstroke of red stretching to my wrist. I turn to Ricki, who sets Lana down. The dog runs in circles around her feet, yipping.

Haley claps and says, “Come here, stinker,” and Lana runs to her.

By the elbow, Ricki leads me to the bathroom where she closes the door, wets a towel, and gently begins to wipe my face.

The music kicks back on in the living room.

“Not sure why that happened,” I say.

“You must’ve been outside longer than I was.” She dabs my face once more, looks me over. “There,” she says, “all better.”

She kisses the tip of my nose and I kiss her back. Neither the towel or jacket make a sound when they hit the floor.

***

I can’t do this. I should be honest with Ricki. Tell her why. Though I think it’s too late for that now. Instead, I make up an excuse and tell her I’m going to grab a wedge of lime.

“For my breath,” I say, and it’s in this moment I notice a bottle of mouthwash next to the sink, but Ricki doesn’t say anything about it. She’s topless, her jeans around her ankles. She’s shimmying out of a pair of lacy black underwear.

It’s still boiling in the living room. The music exploding from the small speaker with more cello, more guitar. Haley’s curled on the couch with Lana snuggled against her lap. Both of them are asleep. The other two, whose names I’ve already forgotten, sit together on a large leather chair and are too busy making out to notice me. I grab the tequila and swing the door open. I look back. Lana lifts her head and cracks her small black eyes open, yawns, then drops her head back down and closes them.

***

At home I sit back on the porch. I can’t get Ricki out of my mind. I figured the walk would have settled me down, but I’m like a horny kid in the classroom, shifting in my seat, desperately pushing my hard-on down, hoping it goes away.

I smoke a cigarette. There isn’t as much tequila left as I thought. After I finish my smoke, I bring the bottle to my lips and take two large pulls and it’s gone. Nothing left to do but go back inside.

In the bedroom, I clumsily step out of my shoes, pants, and underwear. Kristen breathes slow, rhythmic breaths. I hardly lift my feet as I walk, and soon my knees touch the edge of bed, which creaks beneath my weight when I lay on it. I half-expect Kristen to ask me to go back to the couch, but she doesn’t budge. I get beneath the covers and inch next to her and place a hand on her waist. I’m surprised when she angles her hips toward me. Her breathing shallows. I slip my thumb beneath the elastic strap of her sweatpants and pull them down as much as I’m capable. She stirs a little more. Not much. I kiss her shoulder and slide her sweatpants the rest of the way down with my foot.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she says softly, and arches her back. She slips an arm between us and runs her hand down my stomach until her fingers comb through the tuft of my pubic hair and grabs a hold of me. “Oh,” she says, genuinely surprised. “What’s gotten into you?”