The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 4

by Maxim Jakubowski

  “We both know that that isn’t true.”

  “God, I’m so sick and tired of you acting all vague and cryptic. How do you know what I’m feeling?”

  I crack my knuckles, and undo the top button of my shirt. I want to say the right thing here . . . as if our whole relationship is balancing on the next sentence that comes out of my mouth, and suddenly I feel tired, balancing something so heavy. My throat muscles go limp, suddenly afraid to push any words out of my mouth. I clear my throat but my voice cracks as I say “I see you crying at night. That’s how I know what you’re feeling. I don’t know exactly what it is you’re feeling, but I have a pretty good idea.”

  Ursula snaps to attention, her eyes narrowing in the darkness. “You’ve been spying on me?”

  “No, I’ve been waking up, alone, in the middle of the night.”

  “Oh. My world doesn’t revolve entirely around you, you know.”

  “I know that.”

  “Then why do you think that it is our marriage making me cry?”

  “What should I think? You don’t talk to me about what you’re feeling. You hardly talk to me at all. In fact, I talk to your sister more than I talk to you, and you talk to your sister more than you talk to me. We might as well be married through her rather than to each other.”

  “Why haven’t you said anything if you’re this upset about it?”

  “I figured you would come to me when you were ready. I thought that maybe you . . . I don’t know what I thought.”

  “Maybe I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

  “Maybe you should have shared that with me. It breaks my heart to reach out for you at night and find nothing, and it hurts even more to see you crying to yourself when I can do nothing but watch.”

  “It’s not easy being green,” she quips.

  “So we’re going to make jokes?” I run my fingers through my hair, clenching them into fists. “I’m going to bed.”

  “It’s early.”

  “I don’t care,” I snap, stalking out of the room. It’s the second time today, the second time in our entire relationship that I’ve walked away from her, but I don’t know what else to do. I don’t know how to do anything any more. I wish I could just fall into the floor until our lives reverted to the marriage I envisioned when I proposed to her. Later that night, she crawls into bed next to me. I can feel her body, cool, slightly damp from the shower, and I can hear her breathing as she tries to find a comfortable position. My throat is dry, so I swallow, again feeling the need to say something. Minutes pass.

  “Are you awake?” she asks.

  I roll on to my back, looking up at the ceiling. There is a long cobweb dangling precariously over the bed and I wonder if and when it will fall. “Yeah. Can’t sleep.”

  “I fell asleep on the couch.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’m just explaining why I’m coming to bed so late.”

  I turn toward her and try to slide my hand across to her, but I stop mid-way, clenching my fingers into a fist. “I appreciate that.” Then I change my mind and inch closer toward her, resting my ear against the flat of her back.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m listening to your body.”

  “Do you hear anything?”

  “I can hear your stomach gurgling, and I can hear your heart, and I think I can hear your blood flowing.”

  “That’s gross.”

  I rest a hand against her thigh. “It’s beautiful.”

  “Michael, I don’t feel like there’s any potential left in my life.”

  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “It feels like there is nothing to look forward to. I’m too old to be a prodigy at anything. From here on in, my accomplishments will be unremarkable. And even with us. When we were engaged, we had the wedding to look forward to, and now there’s only tomorrow.”

  I exhale loudly. I didn’t realize I’d been holding my breath. “I’m not sure what I’m supposed to say to that.”

  “You don’t have to say anything. I guess what I really mean is that I look forward to spending my life with you and realizing all the plans we’ve made together. I just don’t know how to get through all the tomorrows that lead to those plans.”

  “I’m looking forward to tomorrow because I know you’ll be part of it.”

  “Did you get that from a Hallmark card?”

  I can feel tears welling in the corners of my eyes. I quickly brush them aside, reminding myself that boys don’t cry and turn away from her. “I guess so. Good night.”

  “Michael,” she says, grabbing my shoulder. “Don’t be like that. I didn’t mean to be sarcastic.”

  “Yeah, Ursula . . . you did.”

  “Fine,” she snaps, also turning in the opposite direction. “You know everything, as usual.”

  Seventeen minutes later, I ask, “Why do we keep ending up like this?”

  I wait another seventeen minutes for an answer, but she says nothing.

  The day before we married, my parents called me because circumstances dictated that it was the right thing to do. It was an awkward conversation, not because they don’t love me, but because none of us really knew what to say. They apologized for not being able to make it to the wedding, and I reassured them that I wouldn’t be bitter about their absence. My dad said a few words about what it takes to be a good husband, reminding me that my wife will always be right. My mom told me to anticipate Ursula’s needs. And then we three were silent, because we had exhausted our reserves of familial wisdom. It was then that I began wondering if it is possible to run out of words to share with the ones you love . . . if there’s a limit to what you can say to another person over the course of a lifetime. And now, I’m starting to think that maybe there is.

  Three weeks later, on a Saturday afternoon, Ursula and I are on the couch watching golf. It’s not really her thing, but I enjoy it and she is humoring me. Candace is out with friends. For the first time in a long while we are alone. We haven’t been fighting lately. It’s been more of the same silences. Our conversations are becoming fewer and farther between, and I’m finding it hard to even pick a fight with her. It’s like I can feel myself losing interest in doing something about whatever problem there is between us. I think that scares me more than the silences themselves. Part of me thinks that I should shower her with gifts and affection and weekend get-aways, so that all these tomorrows are more bearable for her, but the more sensible part of me realizes that she probably wouldn’t appreciate the gesture.

  In a moment of paranoia, I feel like I’ve forgotten the sound of her voice, so I ask, “Anything exciting happening at work for you next week?”

  She shakes her head. “More of the same.”

  I smile to myself and nod.

  “What about you?”

  “Work? Nothing new. My work is very . . . predictable.”

  She sighs and I can feel the muscles in her shoulder tense against mine. “I think, of all the words in the world, I hate the word predictable the most.”

  I put the TV on mute. “Why is that?”

  “It’s so depressing.”

  “I gotcha,” I say, but I don’t really understand what she means. In my opinion there’s a lot to be said for predictability. I lean over and kiss her on the cheek. She arches an eyebrow and smiles. I can tell that she’s forcing her smile because the little muscle along her jaw line twitches slightly. Shrinking away I turn the volume up on the TV. “I was trying to be unpredictable.”

  “You were? I mean, that’s so sweet honey.”

  “That’s me, babe. Sweet. Sweet and predictable, and basically what you’re telling me is that you’re bored with our marriage, only not in so many words. The constant sighing and the crying and the arguing . . . that’s what it’s all about.”

  She looks at her hands, and I glance downward. She has the most wonderful hands of anyone I’ve ever been with. I’ve memorized every line, every texture that her hand has to offer. When we ho
ld hands, I fall in love with her all over again, because as my thumb brushes across the back of her hand and her thumb brushes over mine and our fingers clasp together, I feel larger than whole. I’ve never told her this, and now there seems no point, but more than anything I want to take her hand in mine so I can feel good again, so I can care about caring about us.

  “It is not something personal against you Michael,” she says softly. “I love you, and I know that. But I also know that we don’t have a lot to look forward to and I can’t get over letting that bother me.”

  I stand up and begin pacing across the living room. “Were you paying attention when we exchanged our vows?”

  “No, I took a mental nap.”

  I can feel my nostrils flaring and my head is starting to pound. “This conversation is going nowhere.”

  “You started it.”

  “You’re right. And now I’m ending it. Are we still going out with your parents tonight?”

  She plays with the frayed cuff of her jeans. “We’re supposed to, but I can call and cancel if you’d like.”

  “No, we’ll go. I wouldn’t want to upset your mother.”

  She sneers. “Of course you wouldn’t.”

  Ursula hates that her mother and I get along. Two peas in a pod she calls us whenever she’s irritated. I don’t see what the big deal is. I thought I was supposed to get along with her family, but I think she sees us getting along and views it as a personal affront. She’s also bitter about the fact that her mother pressured her for years to get married. My relationship with my mother-in-law is nothing but a reminder of that. Sometimes I think that the only reason we got married is so that her mother would leave her alone.

  I toss the remote control into Ursula’s lap and go to our room and, after I undress, I take a long shower. When I step out I slide across the bathroom tiles and stub my toe against the toilet. Yelping, I grab my foot and start hopping around, cursing up a storm. Ursula appears in the doorway and giggles.

  “What’s so funny?” I ask, glaring.

  “You’re all red and wrinkled and, well, it’s funny from where I’m standing.”

  “I think I broke my toe,” I huff.

  “Let me take a look at it.”

  I pout slightly and hop out of the bathroom and fall down on the edge of our bed staring at my toe, expecting to find a protruding bone. She kneels in front of me and gently wiggles my toe back and forth. “Does this hurt?”

  I wince and draw my foot away from her. “Yes.”

  She kisses the tip of my toe and massages my foot. “Does that hurt?”

  I clear my throat and try to look tough. “Nah. Maybe it’s just a sprain.”

  She smirks, but nods seriously. “That’s probably all it is.” She kisses my toe again and starts drying me off with a towel. It’s warm in the room, from all the bathroom steam, but I shiver and look at the goose bumps rising across my collarbone.

  “This was pretty unpredictable wouldn’t you say?”

  She stops, draping the towel over my head. “You don’t have to try so hard Michael. This really is about me.”

  I pull the towel off and wipe my face. “Whether you realize it or not, it’s about me too.”

  She pats my knee and stands up. “You’re good to go. Follow up with my office in a week or two.”

  I wiggle my toe tentatively. “We should get dressed.”

  She starts chewing on her fingernails like they are a buffet. “You’re right. Any thoughts on what I should wear?”

  I stand up, wrapping the towel around my waist, before I hobble toward the closet. “Something totally trashy.”

  She laughs. It’s the first laugh I’ve heard in months so I close my eyes and record the sound in my memory. “That will go over well with Barb and Richard.”

  As I pull a suit off the hanger, I turn around and grin. “A parent’s love is unconditional.”

  She heads into the bathroom. “No one’s love is that unconditional.”

  I toss my clothes on the bed and turn to answer her, but the door is closed behind her.

  After dinner we walk her parents to their car and decide to stroll around the Haymarket, the old part of town. It’s late and the sidewalks are empty. We head past the train station and along the railroad tracks toward the rail yard. We’re holding hands and I’m full of steak and wine and I’m enjoying the sound of gravel crunching beneath my shoes.

  “If you think about it,” she says, “this is the most exciting place in Lincoln.”

  I look around at broken glass bottles and weeds between the rails and large, unidentifiable hunks of metal. “That doesn’t say much for the city does it?”

  She snorts. “What is there to say about this place really? But seriously . . . these tracks can take you anywhere in the country. When I was a kid, I wanted to spend my life hitching rides on trains, like a hobo, never knowing where the train would end up.”

  In the distance, I can hear the low wail of a train’s whistle. “When I was a kid I wanted to be a bailiff.”

  She squeezes my hand harder. “Have you noticed that we never become what we thought we’d become when we were kids? It’s strange, almost sad.”

  “Our needs change, I think. And when our needs change so do our desires.”

  “I knew I could count on you to have a logical answer.”

  I let go of her hand. “That’s who I am. That’s who I’ve always been.”

  “No, no. I wasn’t being mean. I was just . . . never mind.”

  “You were what?”

  “I was just saying that I know I can count on you for that . . . giving me answers to big questions. I like that about you.”

  She takes my hand in hers again and I feel a wave of satisfaction. “I love the way your hands feel,” I tell her impulsively.

  She leans into me, resting her other hand against the center of my chest. “I feel the same way. I feel lots of things, Michael, that I don’t share with you, and I want to, I swear to you I do. But sometimes I forget how, and sometimes I’m so wrapped up in my own strange thoughts that maybe I do forget that I’m supposed to be building a life with you.”

  My back stiffens. “Do you need some time to yourself? Should I move out or something?”

  “I don’t think my pre-mid-life crisis qualifies for such drastic measures.”

  “I wish there was something I could do to fix you.”

  Ursula gives me a look that I can’t quite read, and I am strangely uncomfortable because, in the past, I’ve been able to read her looks . . . predict her intentions. “I don’t need you to fix me, Michael. Like I said, I don’t know what I need, but I will work on figuring that out, and when I need your help . . . I’ll ask for it.”

  “What should I do in the meantime? I need a task, as stupid as that sounds.”

  “I don’t know. I’ve been saying that too often lately, but it’s all there is to say. Just be yourself and be patient.”

  “Okay,” I hear myself saying, but I’m thinking that I want to do more and I’m thinking, praying really, that sooner or later her heart will work its way back to me . . . to us. And I’m realizing that so much – maybe too much – is going unsaid and I’m hoping that this moment is the beginning of the end of the strange silence that has been living with us.

  We’ve reached the train yard now, and it’s a deserted maze of boxcars and train tracks. The wind is blowing – there’s a sharp pitch to it, and it feels like only in this place does wind have a sound. Ursula stops and motions toward the nearest rail. On either side of us are tracks in each direction and again I can hear a train’s whistle. I sit down slowly, looking up at her.

  “Is there a reason why we’re stopping here?”

  She shakes her head and places one finger across my lips. “You think too much.”

  I open my mouth to say something, but she presses a second finger against my lip. She kneels between my legs, and clasping her hand around the back of my neck she begins kissing me softly, so softly that I c
an barely feel her lips against mine. Her other hand slides down my chest and between my legs. She begins unbuttoning my slacks. My eyes fly open and I look from side to side but she grabs my chin and makes me face her. “Look at me.”

  “We’re in public,” I stutter.

  “Look at me,” she says, very deliberately.

  I breathe deeply and look at her. Carefully, she inches my pants down around my ankles and lifting her skirt, straddles my lap. I lean forward, resting my head against the small of her throat, moving my hands under her blouse until I can feel the weight of her breasts in my hands. I don’t know why we’re here, or what we’re doing. As I feel her body wrapping around me the tracks begin to rumble and she makes a faint choking sound. She lifts my head and presses her forehead against mine, and it almost hurts to look into her eyes.

  From the corner of my eye I can see a train approaching on the adjacent track, its headlight cutting through the darkness in a singular beam of light. Ursula covers her mouth with mine. Our lips are moving so slowly it’s like they’re still. But it feels like she’s trying to swallow me into her body. I close my eyes for a moment and imagine my heart, lungs, liver, flowing from me into her. The palms of her hands are firmly pressed against my cheeks, and another train begins coming from the other direction, and here we are, between them. The closer they get the more the tracks rumble, and her tongue is inside my mouth now, roughly running over my teeth and my tongue and the back of my throat. Her hips are rising and falling against mine. My mind is almost blank, thoughts canceling each other out until I stop thinking and I let myself fall into the rhythm of our bodies. As the two trains pass by, a gust envelops us. My ears are ringing, but I swear, in this moment of silence and noise and flesh, I can hear her saying, “I love you.”

  Feel the Pain

  Michael Bracken

  I screwed the barrel of my .38 into the spot behind Jeremy Wilson’s left ear where his jaw attached to his skull.

  “Go ahead,” I said. “Give me a reason to pull the trigger.”

  Jeremy slowly raised his arms. Blood dripped from his knuckles and down the backs of his hands.

  “Get your clothes, Cassie,” I said to the plump brunette with the pulped face.