Crane

How much time on our knees is sufficient

for mercy? Neck strained upward

toward the beamed ceiling, the stained

sunlight. What happens when knees no

longer agree to bend, or worse--

when the refuse to unbend? They say birds

always know where they're going

and when, except for when they don't and

men, in a crane-like plane, must guide

them through their migration. There

is a fine line, it seems, between a bird

and a machine. There may come

a time when I can no longer

distinguish between the trumpet-

like mating call and the rumble of chains

and sheaves, the Crane

Duet Concertina. How much can be

folded from its naked two-dimensions

crease by crease into a mimicry? A

bird that rests on the corner of

my desk until I run out of notepads and

my pen needs something

to scratch.

Taper

The weight of a book will change the longer you hold it. The ink can morph--after all, it is a liquid that chooses to secure itself, to take hold of what was also once liquid, moist pulp pressed and dried. Paper. Cyprerus papyrus. What is permanency? If even pages can be deinked with the right chemical, returned to its natural, unmarred state. Erased. Reborn. Bleached to create that perfect virgin-white. Are there words behind these words? Forgotten and removed? If you think of all the things that can be buried, you might just learn you don't know anything at all. You sit by the fire, dog-earing and un-dog-earing each and every page until you can't tell where you are and where you've been.

Headline

1.

A headline:
Suspect arrested...trial pending
Then a picture:
a slight underbite, a scar
almost hidden int he wrinkle of his eye.

The expression of your face--
it's almost as if you watched
my heart fall through
my bowels and to the floor when
I read it.

There's more to this than you know.

Sit down and I'll try
to explain. The story is
faded; most of the words
are lost. What I have is a series
of images, that's all.
The white space
is yours--open for
your interpretation.

2.
Some things you can't help but remember.

Ice clanking against
            ice                                 and glass.
His tongue scraping
                       across porcelain
teeth.
Brown eyes drifting
over.                              They don't break
         away
when they find
                                                               mine.

I thought I saw a tremor.
A pure white
            shiver,                   a sigh
of something like relief
                                        but not quite.

Sometimes forgotten
                              broken
                                        memories get stuck int eh senses.

The black-light
stench
                     of the dance floor fueling
the breath on the nape
         of my neck.
Bodies blurring
                         lurking
around and behind
                                        dancing the sweat-
polluted atmosphere
               over my taste buds.

It's something like my failing ozone layer.

                                 There's a stale sound of
                                                        and I'm almost sure
it's my breath
hung up
           between two ribs.

He didn't ask my name
but he covered my tab
and watched me all through
the
                                   memory.

3.
The door of the ladies' room closes slowly enough
for me to see he's just outside it.
There's no easy way out of a bathroom window
like they always make it seem
on screen. Instead I have to wait
and wait
for someone to come--to answer the phone.

Women don't walk
alone in this town
after dark.
Not home from a bar or
anywhere else.

Some cats will wait forever
for the mouse to come out of its hole.
Others
move on to an easier catch.

4.
                               Every line has a hook
                               to suffocate with and it will
                               if the velar stop is
                               held.
                               The thick of the tongue tight against
                               the soft palate creates a
                               barricade that cannot
                               be penetrated by airflow.
There's something about a tapered spine,
a trailing point blade,
that quenches the rising
sound that lifts
from some unexplored depth and claws
through the fingers
the silver chain locked
around her windpipe.
                             Sometimes I see her
                             in the shadows and wonder what she saw
                             in the shadows that night.
                             Pinned, brick in her back
                             A distress call in silhouette? No,
                             the clouds were too thick to drop
                             shapes of any kind. 
It was three months before they found her
body, wrapped in the silk wings
of decay, rising up
from the melting snow
like a moth caught in its chrysalis.
The scurrying of rats beneath
made her appear
to almost breathe. 

Not the Least Obeisance

           As far as Ross was concerned, it all came down to one thing: that goddamn calico cat.

            Ross looked at the clock: 5:25. He'd been sitting behind his desk since 3:55 waiting for a student to come make up her final exam. Their appointment was at four. His foot tapped against the worn carpet and he clicked his pen in and out, in and out, then tossed it on the desk and stood up. He unlocked the top drawer but didn't open it. He paused for a moment, then pushed the office door closed. From the drawer, he pulled his stainless steel flask. Only half full, he tossed back what was left and dropped the empty container into the pocket of his bag. He slid into his North Face jacket, loaded a stack of papers into his messenger bag, and left, locking the door behind him. He crossed the hall quickly and slipped out the side door before any of his colleagues could strike up conversation. Outside, Ross cut toward the bike rack, unlocked the chain, and peddled fast toward home.

            There was an accident on 14th and Main, his usual route home, and the road was closed. There were a number of alternate routes to take, 17th, Jefferson, Oneida, but those were longer and it was already getting dark and cold and Ross was exhausted. Instead, he swerved behind the residential area.

            The alley was devoid of life save him and the calico cat that leaped from some unseen place and into the dumpster. He saw the glass two seconds too late and it crunched beneath his tires. He hopped off the bike, hoping...but he could already hear the air hissing away. The cat looked up from the trash pile, a mouse limp in her jaw. He stared at her, entranced, until the cat jumped out of the dumpster and disappeared between two buildings. A brief wind whipped through the alley brushing leaves and loose garbage into the air. Ross drew his jacket in tight and walked his bike. His hand in the pocket of his bag gripped the flask, as if he could somehow fill it through his fingertips.

            Not much further down, a figure leaned against the brick wall. Smoke trailed from its hand. The cigarette fell to the ground and the figure stepped into full view just as Ross passed. It was fast, too fast: a knee to his groin, a fist in his kidney, his jaw, a heavy book against his knee. Ross was on the ground, bike wheel spinning at his side, papers floating in the air. The figure was gone and so was Ross's wallet. Then there was the cat. Ross's vision circled in and out, dragging his stomach along. The cat's weight settled on his chest, her green eyes staring into his until everything went black.

            Scenes from the hospital came in flashes. He drifted in and out of consciousness, trying to absorb the doctor's muddled words. Broken...something. Bruised...something. Overnight observation. He dreamed in fragments. Full-speed wipers countering the rain pellets, a man with his thumb in the air, then lying in the burrow pit. Ross's hands gripping the wheel.

            He came to in a much clearer state the following afternoon, surprised to see Fiona Kelly, his colleague, at his side. Though why he was surprised, he wasn't sure. It seemed she was always there, inviting him to department parties, helping him off the ice when he slipped and broke his wrist last winter.

            "Morning, Sunshine."

            Ross groaned.

            "Doctor says you can go home now."

            "How did you kn..." Ross's head started to spin fiercely and for a second, he was afraid he would puke, but then it settled. "I don't need any..."

            "Help. I know, I know. I'm just here to give you a ride. They want you to take this wheelchair home with you. You're not gonna be on your feet anytime soon."

            Ross lifted his head, wanting to protest, but it fell back to the pillow instead. "What the hell happened?"

            Fiona chuckled. "Someone knocked your lights out. Took your wallet too."

            "Asshole is seven dollars and an empty debit card richer. Almost feel bad for him."

            Fiona drove Ross home. There were three steps to the front door--low stairs, like the ones they put in for elderly people--but they might as well have been Mount Everest. He tried to stand, but Fiona's hand fell on his shoulder and pushed him back down into the wheel chair.

            "Don't be stupid. Your knee is shattered to pieces. It's not going to hold you for a second."

            Ross groaned again. "Fine, then. Wheel me around the house. The back door is ground level."

            Ross told Fiona to leave him in the doorway, as she pushed him through the sliding glass door, but instead she wheeled him to the living room and parked him next to the recliner. She disappeared into the kitchen. His good leg bounced nervously as he listened to her rummage through the cupboards.

            "Really, Fiona, I'm fine."

            "I'm just bringing you a few things." What he wanted was a glass--or a bottle--of scotch. She reappeared with water instead and a plate of various food items: an apple, a package of Ritz, half a loaf of bread, and all the fixings for a sandwich. She set it all on the coffee table in front of him. "Call me if you need anything, alright? Here's your cell phone and your pain killers." She pulled the last two items out of her purse and set them beside the plate of food. She hesitated for a moment then let herself out the front door. Ross wheeled over and twisted the lock, then returned to his place in front of the television.

            He looked around for the remote. "Damn." It was sitting on top of the entertainment center, well out of his reach. He was feeling pretty good at the moment, Vicodin coursing full power through his system. Taking hold of the wheels, he pushed as hard as he could, propelling himself forward across the hardwood floor. He made it all the way into the kitchen before slowing to a stop, which wasn't very far but he was still impressed. For a second he was twelve years old sitting in his grandma's chair flying down the hospital hallway, his mother's voice chasing sharply after him. On the open kitchen floor, he locked the left wheel and use the right to spin around in circles. He spun several times before gripping the right wheel hard, stopping the motion abruptly.

            The cat was standing at the back door.

            The right side of her face was an almost mosaic of black and orange, white and brown, but the left side was solid black. In fact, the entire left side of her body was black except for the small spot of white just above the tail. Under the right high-key lighting, she would have appeared to be only half a cat. Half a cat with one green, glowing eye floating where the other half should have been. Her mouth moved, lips parted, but the glass silenced her meow. Ross reached out and pulled the string, lowering the curtain over the door but it was no good. The sun painted her silhouette on the bamboo.

            The turned away and wheeled himself back into the living room, telling himself that she'd eventually wander back to wherever she came from if he ignored her long enough. He hit the power button on the TV and as the picture came into full, John Wayne's face filled the screen. He'd apparently lift it on the movie channel--that's good. Though the current movie was unfortunate, he supposed it could have been much worse. He wheeled back by the recliner, picked up the apple Fiona left for him, and took a wide bite.

            He had dozed off somewhere near the end of The Searchers and awoke part way through Rio Bravo. Oh, God, he thought. It's a John Wayne marathon. He winced as he leaned forward, reaching for the bottle of pills and the glass of water on the table. He thumbed off the cap and popped two pills into his mouth, assuming it was his screaming knee that woke him, but then the doorbell rang again. He set everything back on the table and wheeled over, turned the lock, and took hold of the handle, wheeling himself backward dragging the door with him. It was god-awfully awkward. There, in the open doorway, stood Fiona. He sighed and welcomed her in.

            "Sorry, I tried calling..."

            "I was sleeping."

            "Oh," Fiona shifted her weight. "Well, I just wanted to bring you something for dinner." She handed him a sack.

            "Thank you."

            Fiona didn't move and Ross sighed again. He hadn't realized until just then how often he expelled disgruntled air when she was around. Suddenly he felt a twinge of guilt. "Do you want to stay and have dinner?"

            She smiled and took a seat on the couch beside him. Her hand disappeared into the bag and reemerged with three Chinese boxes. Fried rice, Mandarin chicken, egg rolls. Ross had a sneaking suspicion she'd planned to dine with him all along. Even between the two of them there were still plenty of leftovers, which Fiona placed on the bottom shelf of the fridge where he could easily reach them.

            "I guess I'll be going now," Fiona said.

            "Alright, then. Thanks again."

            "Oh, and hey, are you going to Sean's wedding Saturday? Because if you need a ride or..."

            "No, I don't think so.”

            "Right. Well, take care of yourself." Fiona let herself out and once again, Ross followed and locked the door behind her. He turned back to the TV only to see the opening titles of True Grit. He hurried over and hit the power button again, picking up his ratted paperback off the far end of the coffee table on his way back. Just as he opened to his bookmark, a tail swished across his peripheral vision. He jerked his head around toward the hallway where he thought he saw it but there was nothing there.

            "Don't go crazy yet, Rossy," he said. "You've only been holed up here for less than a day." He set down the book and wheeled over just to prove to himself that nothing was there. And nothing was. Just the empty hallway and nothing more. He peered into the bathroom but it was empty too. Ross shook his head and went back into the living room.

            The next morning Ross awoke with a tight kink in his neck. He hadn't intended to sleep in his wheelchair at first, but when he tried to hoist himself onto the couch, his knee had protested loudly. So loudly, in fact, that he'd popped his next dose of narcotic an hour and a half before it was due. He wondered when he had gotten old enough for this. In college he could sleep anywhere. Nights of hard boozing had left him waking in some of the strangest places: a folding chair, a bathtub, a cement porch, under tables, and once halfway under the bathroom sink. He'd wake with a headache and a twisted stomach, but no muscle cramps or contorted limbs.

            The sun spilled through the window above the sink as he wheeled into the kitchen. He usual cereal breakfast was out of the question as the bowls were out of reach. Instead, he pulled out two slices of bread and stretched his arm across the countertop until his finger finally grazed the edge of the toaster, pulling it forward until it was close enough to slip the bread into. When it popped, he ate it dry, butter being on the top shelf of the refrigerator. A shot of whiskey washed down the dryness of the toast anyway.

            Still wearing the torn khakis and blood-stained polo from the mugging, Ross wheeled toward the bedroom to change. As he rummaged through the clothing hamper to find something acceptably clean (unable to reach the shirt drawer or the hangers in the closet), something crashes behind him. He spun around to see his old globe broken on the floor. His eyes drifted up the bookcase. Her tail swept back and forth as though dusting the air. Ross looked over his shoulder. The door was closed, wasn't it?

            He looked back as the cat raised slowly, arching her back then stretching her front paws as far forward as they would reach. She dropped from the shelf to the floor like a long flowing dress. Ross lifted the plastic hamper and flipped it over the cat, trapping her in a cage bedded with dirty laundry. He wheeled over and scooped all the books off the lower shelf and stacked them on top of the hamper, weighing it down as best he could.

            Fiona came by after work per Ross's request and followed him to the bedroom where he stood in the doorway and pointed.

            "Since when do you have a cat?"

            "No. No, I do not have a cat. It must have slipped into my house when you were coming or going yesterday. I need you to get rid of it for me."

            "What do you want me to..."

            "I don't care, I just want it gone."

            "Okay, okay. What's the big deal?"

            "Just get rid of it."

            Fiona looked at him for a moment then turned and carried the cat away and let it free out the front door.

            "Thanks," he said, lowering his eyes to the floor. As Fiona was about to leave, Ross offered her a glass of wine.

            They sat in the kitchen while Fiona sipped down glass after glass of Merlot. Ross reluctantly drank water per the instructions of his prescription label. He could already picture Fiona's cocked eyebrow and finger shaking in his face. She asked where the bathroom is and stood. Her heel caught on the floor and she stumbles, letting out an awkward sort of squeak and grabbing the edge of the table.

            "Two glasses too much for you there, cowboy?"

            "You hush."

            Alone at the table, Ross rubbed his finger over the rim of his water glass. This was the closest thing he'd had to a date in years. In fact, he wasn't even sure who his last date was with, or where or when. It was strange to think that Fiona was the only woman who had been in this house since he bought it. He looked at the three empty chairs surrounding him, stared toward the hallway and envision his empty bed, the empty spare room and its white walls, clean carpet, toy-less closet.

            "Can I ask you something?" Fiona said as she reappeared.

            "I really hate that question. By asking if you can ask me something, you've already done just that."

            Fiona rolled her eyes. "Fine. I'm going to ask you something." She sat back down across from Ross. "Why isn't there anyone here to take care of you?"

            Ross just looked at her.

            "I mean, I know you're kind of a loner at work," she paused for a moment as if waiting for a reaction, then smiled and continued. "But what about family?"

            Ross shrugged and took a gulp of water, wishing even more that there was alcohol in it. "I don't' think I'm drunk enough for this conversation, Fiona."

            "Oh, come on."

            "Only child, two dead parents..."

            "Oh."

            "I'm fine, Fiona, really. If I wanted more people in my corner, I'd make more friends."

            Fiona nodded solemnly as if his words dripped with some deep philosophy of life.

            They chatted a while longer, until Fiona looked at the clock. "Wow, how did that happen? I better get going. Hungry dogs at home, papers to grade. Thank you for the wine." She smiled, her teeth stained a grayish-purple.

            "Are you alright to drive?"

            "You aren't still hung up on that stumble are you? Really, Ross. My heel just caught."

            "No, I know. I just...how many did you have again? Three? Four?"

            Fiona stared for a moment, eyebrows tensed. "Three and I'm fine."

            "Still, I'd feel better if you'd let me call you a cab."

            "Ross, I'm fine. I know my limits."

            "I don't want you driving. Let me call you a cab. I'll cover it."

            "Not your call. I'll check on you tomorrow. Bye, Ross." She grabbed her purse and walked out the door.

            Ross sighed, poured himself a glass of scotch, and wheeled back to the living room where he lit (or rather turned on) the electric fireplace and sat alone in his house eating leftover fried rice and stale Cheetos for dinner. The fading sun casted long shadows that stretched across the floor, slowly folding themselves over the living room. It wasn't long before everything was dark. Beams of light filtered in through the open blinds as cars drove past. Ross wheeled over and pulled them closed. The bare branches of the tree out front scraped against the window in the wind. He drifted off to sleep and dreamed. He dreamed about his childhood, thinks he hadn't thought about consciously or subconsciously in years. He was sick with mono, his mother dabbed a damp cloth across his forehead. Then he was older, twenty-two and on his way home from overseas. His wife greeted him, her belly swelling beneath her cardigan sweater. He dreamed in black and white except for the pair of glowing green eyes that superimposed themselves over everything. They faded in like the Cheshire and everything else spun out of focus. Then he was awake, sweating.

            Ross thought about the dream as it slipped from his grasp. There were only two truths: mono and the cat. He'd never married, never had children. He didn't even know the face of the woman in his dream, if she had one at all. And there was no war to come back from when he was twenty-two. Just as he was about to drift off again, there was a soft pawing at the door. He wheeled toward it all the while wondering why. He knew what was there, what was on the other side, but still forward he moved. Even as his hand turned the knob, he told himself to stop. But he didn't. The door swung open and the cat crossed the threshold.

            Not the least obeisance made he, Ross thought. He'd been grading too many papers for his 19th Century Romanticism class.

            The cat walked past him with disregard. She leaped, more like floated, onto the back of the couch.

            But with mien of Lord or Lady, perched...

                        Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

            Ross laughed loudly, almost obnoxious in the dead silence. "I think I'll call you Lenore," he said. Then a child scurried up his spine, settling somewhere between his shoulder blades.

            Ross wheeled himself back, resting a couple feet from his spot so as to keep a more comfortable distance between himself and the cat. The dull hum of the fireplace almost lulled him back to sleep but not quite. There was something about the cat, about its presence, that kept him alert. He watched her through his peripheral vision, as if he could do anything at all if the beast suddenly decided to pounce. But still he watched. He didn't know how much time passed but as the cat's eyes slowly closed, so too did his own.

            He dreamed again. Rain slicing through the headlights, a man on the side of the road then suddenly in the middle of it. Or maybe not. Maybe the truck had swerved off. Ross's foot was too heavy to lift from the gas and before he could think, the man was under him and then behind. A bundle of human mass crumpled in the ditch, barely visible in the rearview mirror. The rain fell hard, Ross could smell the whiskey on his own breath.

            When he awoke, the cat was gone. He searched the house, knowing he wouldn't find her. Maybe she was gone or maybe she was hiding under, inside of, or between something like cats had the unique ability to do so well. Either way, Ross had a feeling that the cat would only be seen if and when she wanted to be.

            Fiona had lowered the coffee pot for him upon her last visit and so he brewed himself a pot. He sipped from his nearly overflowing mug, savoring each wave that passed over his tongue. In the bathroom, Ross pulled his razor and cream out of the drawer. His chair made him too short to see his reflection in the mirror, so he wheeled over to the body-length one in the corner. A wife's mirror, he'd always said. He'd been meaning to take it down since he bought the place, but never got around to it.

            He massaged the cream over his face and began to shave. One line, two, then he dipped the razor in the sink and started a third, nicking the skin just below his jawbone. He leaned down to grab a swatch of toilet paper and looked back into the mirror just in time to see the long, black tail slither out of the doorway. He turned around, but it was already gone. He faced the mirror again, his eyes fixing on the blood dripping then they drifted to the corner of the mirror where the tail had been. He held the toilet paper against the cut and stared into the reflection of the empty hallway.

            It was a long, dull day and Ross didn't see the cat again until later that night. He didn't see where she came from, but suddenly she was at his feet looking up at him. He tried to shoo her away with his good leg but she didn't move, just sat and stared. He tried to break away from her eyes, but they wouldn't let go. Something boiled in his chest, a strange and unfamiliar sort of panic. Somehow, he knew she knew. As if her bright green eyes now nearly swallowed by black pupils could pierce through his shell and into that dark place. He saw his faceless bride again, the cat's eyes settled where hers should be.

            He fell further and further, deeper down. He was in a theatre, the orchestra's breath trailing up toward his balcony and overcoming the air. On stage, it's the Bal des Ardents. Women in long, heavy gowns, their faces shrouded in black, gold, and red. Jewels and feathers plastered to their hard plastic skin. Their bodies move in odd patterns beneath the limelight. The shadows of flickering torches dance with them. Then five wodewoses, costumed in flax and pitch and hair, rose from beneath the stage. They shifted among the women, around and between, until one by one they turned too close to the fire. The flames licked at their costumes and it was only moments before the stage was alive with the elaborate dance of flame. The distant scream, the pop and crackle of burning men drowned out the orchestra.

            Ross reached out for reality, something to take hold of and pull himself from that place. The Venetian masks melted away to reveal the featureless faces yet he felt he knew each one. Finally he broke through the veil and found himself in the living room again. The cat had disappeared.

            Fiona stopped by late morning Saturday. "Just checking in," she said. To his surprise, he was glad to see her. "Softened up, did you?" She kinked her head toward the back of the couch where the cat was perched.

            Ross didn't respond. He didn't know how to. He just parked his wheelchair and Fiona sat on the couch beside him. The cat stood slowly and stretched, revealing her claws for only a moment then retracted them and leaped softly onto Fiona's lap. She purred as Fiona's hand trailed down her spine.

            "So, have you slept in your bed yet?"

            Ross shook his head. She asked when he might but he told her it was still too painful, which was only partly true. He imagined the cat leaping silently, almost weightlessly into the bed, curling up on his chest, purring softly as he struggled in his sleep for one last breath. He didn't tell her that he couldn't sleep at all. Not with those demon eyes. He didn't tell her he tried to throw the cat out twice. In fact, he didn't really say much at all.

            As he watched her leave, a heavy dread settled over him. He knew it meant it was just him and the cat again. He stared at the cat, watching himself through her eyes. It wasn't just his movements that reflected back, but things inside him as well. For a split second, he thought he saw the face of the man on the highway. But how could he? He hadn't seen it that night and there were never any pictures. He didn't know where the cat was and he didn't care. He pulled out a bottle of Johnny Walker and as he almost emptied it, finally drifted off into a dreamless sleep. He slept for thirteen hours straight and when he woke, there was still no cat. The dream-like haze he'd been wandering around in for days had lifted and he finally felt in control of himself again, finally thinking only of the things he wanted to be thinking of. Part of him almost wondered if it hadn't all been a strange sort of drug-induced dream. A dream within a dream. He grabbed the bottle of Vicodin off the table and threw it in the garbage.

            He wheeled himself out the back door and took in the rare warm sun. It was still a little brisk, but not bad for the time of year. From where he sat, he could see his truck. It was too far to see the dent but he knew it was there, the mark of John Doe's shoulder. The papers never named him. A drifter, no ID. Hit and run. They hadn't cared enough to even look for Ross and until the papers printed the story, a small paragraph buried in the middle of the issue, he hadn't been sure it'd actually happened. Twenty-one years, it had stayed buried in the back of his brain. One cat. That's what it took to dig it back up. One goddamn calico cat.

            As the sun started to fall away and the temperature began to drop, Ross bid his backyard farewell and went back inside. He wheeled back to the television. Now able to reach the remote thanks to Fiona, he flipped through the channels. He ground his teeth in harmony with his throbbing knee. There was a loud crash from the bedroom and Ross wheeled over quickly. As he entered the room, he saw a box overturned in front of the closet. A box he'd almost forgotten about, tucked away on the top shelf for years. Its contents are scattered, his mother's rosary, his father's pocketknife, papers of all sorts. The cat lay amidst the clutter, something barely sticking out from beneath her. Ross wheeled toward her, back and forth, trying to scare her away. Finally she moved, annoyed at best, revealing the cut-out article. The edges were curled and yellowing, the words Hit and Run a faded black. Ross leaned over the side of his chair, reaching for the ground. His fingers barely caught the edge of the article and he scooped it up, crumpling it in his fist. He left everything else where it lay and wheeled back into the living room.

            The glass scraped against its frame as he opened the panel over the fireplace and tossed the paper inside. Heat swam over his face as he watched the paper catch fire and shrivel out of existence. In the embers he saw it all again, all the lies he'd told himself: the wife and children he never wanted, the man he never killed, the drinks he never took. The masks, the costumes, the production of his life after that night. The fire that melted it all away to its rawest truth.

            Cell phone slick in the palm of his hand, he dialed Fiona's number and held the phone to his ear. He would invite her back over, she wouldn't need a reason, and when she came, he'd tell her. He'd tell her about John Doe, about that drunken night. He'd tell her how he left him alone in the ditch in the middle of the pouring rain and maybe she'd turn away in disgust. Maybe she'd call the police and never speak to him again. Maybe he'd finally get the justice he deserved. Or maybe her hand would fall on his and for once, he'd actually feel the sensation of touch--of being touched--and not have it tethered to the guilt of secrets and blood.

            The phone trembled in his hand, his fingers greased across the screen, hovering over her name. His mind moved between the phone, the truck, the bottle of rum on the bottom shelf of his bedroom closet. The cat. The flames danced in front of him, his face numbed. He wheeled to the computer, pushed the desk chair away, and opened up the browser. A 1982 Chevy might not go for much, but he didn't care. He posted a listing, no picture, just a description. Make me a bid. He set the phone on the desk and stared off somewhere between it and the glowing monitor. Outside was quiet, no wind, no rustling of leaves, no cars driving past. Inside was quiet too. Just the buzz of the computer, the hum of the fireplace, and the tick of the clock in the kitchen.

            Then he heard a light patter over his shoulder. Her eyes, black spheres encompassed by a green halo, pierced down at him from atop the entertainment center. The soft glow of the lamp contorted her prim figure into a grotesque shadow that fell over his hunched form and he thought to himself, Nevermore.