e x c e r p t from the story "Stalking God"
They swap: his American Spirit for her Dunhill Light. Light their cigarettes off the candle burning at her bedside. The black hair of Blaine’s body stands out like ink on her cream sheets. Jayne leans back against the wall—there is no headboard, and her head hits the bottom of a framed Matisse above the bed—and inhales, tries to look casual.
“Look at you, posing,” says Blaine. “You can’t wait to get dressed, can you?”
He does not permit her a moment’s peace in her pretenses—she remembers that now, how uncomfortable it makes her. How it kills everything in the moment and only makes her love him more afterward. Jayne flings back the sheet and walks naked—what the hell do naked people do with their arms?—to the armoire and gets out the decanter of Jameson.
“Do you care for a drink? We can take it on the balcony.”
Half of Blaine’s mouth turns up. “Like this?”
“Hell yeah.”
“It’s September.”
“Oh, that’s right, Southern Boy. You’re a weather pussy.”
But in the midnight air, her pale skin glows conspicuously—he is at home in the darkness. She has never put any chairs out on her balcony; the cement is chilly on her ass. Soothing. No stars are visible—the lake is indistinguishable from black air. This is not even a balcony, really. There is no rail; it’s just a slab of cement that you have to crawl out a window to access. The management planned to install sliding doors but then changed their minds—cheaper, no doubt, to go without. Jayne scoots closer to the edge, says, “Wanna give the neighbors a show?”
“What neighbors? I don’t think anyone can see us here.”
“Them.” Jayne points a finger down.
He perks up: a little boy, curious, eager to think he can stir things up. “How?”
And then she is hanging, breasts flopping toward her chin, the edge of the cement pinching into her stomach. From above she hears Blaine’s “Whoa, shit!”—she’s swinging upside down, legs and hips still steady on the slab above, straining to reach the window beneath her own. The lights are on, but she doesn’t see anyone inside. Knuckles barely grazing the glass pane, she knocks.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Blaine is pulling at her legs—no, knocking her off balance, the weight of her top half tipping her forward. She squeals, “Let go!” but he has yanked her back, cement scraping the tender skin of her abdomen. She lays naked beneath him like a fallen angel, twisted up to shield her wounds.
“Why did you pull me like that? You could have killed me!”
“Are you out of your mind? You could’ve killed yourself.”
“I’ve done it before without anyone here. I love heights. I’m not afraid.”
“Whatever, girl.” He is bored with it already: nobody defying death, nobody to rescue. She is not appropriately grateful. She suddenly wishes for her clothes.
“Thanks for trying to help, though.”
“Uh-huh.” His ass cheeks parting as he climbs back through the
window strike her as less vulnerable than sinister; animalistic. His nudity
seems cloaked by hair, while she is truly naked. Even with all his lovers,
he is insecure—confided once that he hoped to have electrolysis done on
his back once his paintings started to sell and he had some cash. Though
he’s thirty-five and has only shown his work in a couple of amateurish
neighborhood galleries where people came for free wine and didn’t buy
anything, Jayne trusts he’ll be famous someday, if only because she won’t
be at his side to enjoy it.
By the time she joins him, he has pulled on his underwear and trousers. He is dressing jerkily, agitated—she has never seen him anything but languid before. Desperation rises.
“Blaaiine. Look, I’m sorry I scared you. But I mean, you of all people should understand. It’s just a high, that’s all. It’s like drugs, only I like it more because I can control it.”
“Sounds to me like you’re trying to die but don’t have the balls to kill yourself.”
“Jesus, don’t be melodramatic. I could say the same thing about you!”
“Yeah, you could’ve.” Almost sadly. “I’m working on changing. That’s
why I haven’t been coming ’round too much. Nothing personal, but I got
my own demons, you know.” He tugs his belt too hard: “Ain’t you heard,
baby? Thanatos can kill you.”
