Jim Gore

14 June 20XX

Home

LESSON

“Thanks,” she says, again.

“Hey, no problem,” I say, again, like always. “Anytime.”

She stands outside the laundry room with shopping bags full of soiled clothes. She organized them by color, I can tell. It looks the same every time we do this: same bags, same clothes, every week, the same thing.

She’s sitting on the floor watching the washer spin, like always. I don’t say anything. I don’t bother to talk; I just witness. She doesn’t care. We do this for a few minutes—wash and wait—until I give up, swallow words, and leave. I’ll leave you to your crazy shit. Usually, it goes like this. But today… I stared at her today, though… for some reason.

“Hey,” she said. “Hey, take a picture. It’ll last longer.”

“Sorry,” I say. It’s all I can think of. Hopefully it’ll move us past this moment. Be cool, forget it, you’ve learned your lesson.

She makes eye-contact. “Don’t be. I don’t mind if you like… look at me, that way.”

“I’m sorry. That’s not how I meant it.”

“No,” she stands up. “I don’t think so.” Back and forth—part-morbid valley girl, part-old soul, part-succubus, part-serial killer—here’s Lisa S.

I watch her standing there. I go into her eyes, so brown, so goddamn brown. Nobody says anything.

“You wanna eat somethin’?” It’s about dinner time, I bet she’s hungry. She’s a skinny shit. I don’t wanna think of her naked.

“Like?”

“I can make sandwiches, pasta,” I say. “We prolly have some frozen stuff, too.”

“Please, thank you,” she says.

“What would you like?”

“You pick.” So we split a brick of ramen.

This is the kind of fun I get up to when nobody’s home. I feed gangly hood-rats. I let them shower in my bathroom and do their laundry.

“When are your parents coming back?” she asks. She looks pathetic.

“Not ‘til after dark.” I can guess where this is going.

“Is it fine if I stay the night?” There it is.

“Sure,” I say without thinking. But even if I had thought about it, the answer probably wouldn’t have changed.

“I’ll set ya up in the guest room.”

“Thank you,” she says, again.

“Ya already said that.”

“I mean it, though. You don’t have to do this.”

“I know.”

“Why, though?”

“We’re friends,” I say, and wow, isn’t there some weird, hot shame in those words. It’s true, but it feels wrong to say it.

She averts her eyes. She doesn’t say anything. The situation’s awkward now. Forget it, press forward. I only told the truth. I think I shouldn’t feel bad for being honest.

I woke up to find her in my bed. She wasn’t there before, that much I distinctly remember. Her ribcage pressed against my body. Her skin was warm and she smelled like piss and old deodorant. Part of me was disgusted. I was also sorry.

“I don’t wanna fuck you.”