See You in Paradise by J. Robert Lennon Page B

could count. Chloe and Matt were once an item, as were Chloe and Paul. Rick and Jane had once seemed destined to spend their lives together, but they had broken up, and now Jane had married Matt. Paul and Rick had spent a drunken, carnal week together in a cabin upstate, and now Paul was in a relationship with a man twice his age, a painter from Long Island, and Rick had a girlfriend in Brooklyn. Chloe evidently had a boyfriend—they lived in New Haven—but I had long carried a torch for her, and she and I had managed a few moony glances at each other over the course of the day. I had a good feeling about Chloe. Hearing her call Dan a fucking zombie sent a pleasurable itch across my back. She had always been vulgar.
    “I’m afraid you’re right,” Paul groaned.
    Matt sighed, shaking his head. “How did we ever get into this mess?”
    “It’s my fault,” said Jane, who always blamed herself for everything.
    Rick said, “Let’s just tell Ruth to go to hell.”
    “Oh, we can’t do that,” I said.
    “Fuck, no,” Chloe agreed, offering me a sly glance from the corner of her eye.
    The group parted at the subway station. I lived nearby and could walk. Instead of following the others to the trains, Chloe grabbed my hand. “Let’s go to your place.”
    “Don’t you have a boyfriend?” I said.
    “Feh,” she said, with a shrug, and we walked off arm in arm.

    As the days passed by, Dan slowly came around. He looked pale, and there were bandages on his head and neck where the revivification fluids and electrical current had gone in, but his eyes were clear and he followed us with them as we moved around the hospital room. Chloe and I had taken to sharing one another’s shifts.
    “Let’s make out,” she said one morning.
    “He’s watching us.”
    “So?”
    She sat on my lap and we snogged as a cool polluted wind blew through the open window. I hazarded glances at Dan, who gazed at us intently, blinking. His soundless mouth opened and closed. Without solid food, his doughy countenance had given way to a new and slightly frightening chiseled look.
    “I think he’s trying to talk.”
    “Who?” Chloe said.
    “Dan.”
    She tossed her hair over hear ear and winked at Dan. “Zombie Dan,” she said. “Do you remember sex?”
    A small groan seemed to escape him. Or maybe it was a noise from outside.
    “How about boobs? Do you remember boobs?”
    “I’m sure he remembers boobs,” I said, trying to nip this one in the bud.
    “Here,” Chloe said brightly, hopping down from my lap. I awkwardly adjusted myself with a sweaty hand. Chloe stood beside the bed, unbuttoning her blouse. Dan stared. He seemed excited, though not in an especially lascivious manner. Before he died, women’s breasts had always rendered him speechless; he tended to ogle. It had always irritated me when this resulted in his getting laid, which was most of the time.
    But now his excitement seemed purely empirical, like that of a scientist gazing in sober wonder at the test results scrolling across a computer screen. Chloe unlatched her bra and did a little dance. “Remember, Dan? Boobies?” She scat-sang the stripping song.
    “Okay,” I said. “That’s probably enough.”
    “It’s therapy,” she said. “We’ve got to get his motor running.” She leaned over, bringing her chest about six inches from Dan’s stunned face. “Here ya go, pal, get a good look.”
    Neither of us was prepared for the speed with which Dan’s hands shot out from under the sheets and clamped themselves onto Chloe’s breasts. She yelped. I gasped and jumped out of the chair to pull her away. But she warded me off. “No, no,” she said. “I think it’s all right. Look at the little bastard go.” Dan had settled into a firm, somewhat mechanical knead, palpating Chloe like a masseuse-in-training. He scowled, licking his lips. A sound escaped him.
    “Was that a word?” Chloe asked.
    “Oh my God,” I said.
    “Stizz,” said Dan.
    “It was a