The More You Ignore Me by Travis Nichols Page A

pale thighs exposed in the living room, barely a shy mouthful for the lunging Corn mouth.
    My mind made a fist.
    â€œWait,” she said.
    Withdrawn, his mouth dispossessed.
    â€œDon’t,” she said, then giggled, pushing down her skirt. “Let’s skip it and go to the Boiler Room.”
    I found I could breath again.
    It was nothing.
    Days passed.
    The skirt stayed down.
    But then I saw her again squirming away from his mouth, her hand covering her wet ear this time, and I wondered why these types of scenes kept happening—why didn’t she simply call the police?
    â€œStop,” she hissed.
    He once more pushed his open mouth onto her taut lips anyway.
    â€œHave you flossed?” she asked him.
    Drooping back to the corner of the couch, he began to sulk.
    â€œWhat?” she said. “It’s disgusting! I don’t want you slobbering all over my ears if you haven’t flossed!”
    (Good girl!)
    â€œFine,” he said.
    I know he hadn’t flossed.
    I know his belly was heavy with desire, his head leaden.
    He tried to stroke her leg with a feigned casual finger from across the sofa, but she withdrew.
    â€œI think you should go.”
    He rose to leave and I scrambled back to my spot in the scrub, delighted.
    â€œI’ll see you at the Boiler Room. Later,” she said from the doorway.
    â€œFine,” he said, moping across the driveway.
    He had no power. They both knew it. We all knew it!
    That night, rejected Corn went ahead to the bar (I followed), and there he started drinking with Rico, who no longer seemed concerned about winning Rachil’s affection.
    He spent quite a bit of time there at the bar, alone, his floral shirt gathering filth.
    True, he had been in the hospital after complaining of auditory hallucinations to the student health center, and they sent him home to the church, where he cut his wrists with a kitchen knife.
    Mesmerized, I watched the blood run over the white dinner plates he had set out on the table, but then I walked to a payphone and called the police so the plates wouldn’t get too bloody before the firemen showed up.
    I knew they would get sticky, so I let myself in to wash the plates as the ambulance pulled away from the church. I left no note, not needing acknowledgment of my good deed.
    Rico had been prescribed a full menu of medications, including clonazepam, which he now handed over to Corn.
    I sat there in the bar, in the booth behind the two “friends,” taking mental notes and surreptitiously sipping gin from my thermos.
    â€œAs long as you don’t plan on getting lucky tonight,” Rico told Corn, his voice sluggish and detached, “you can take these and level out with no worries.”
    â€œNo chance of getting lucky,” Corn replied glumly, holding out his hand, “so, yes please.”
    â€œI thought you two . . . ?” Rico said, shaking the pills into Corn’s palm.
    â€œNope. There’s no chance,” Corn said, though I noticed he had clearly flossed earlier. I saw the blood smeared on his incisors as he popped the pills into the back of his throat and washed them down with beer.
    (Screenplay adaptation note: ROWDY MUSIC — BAR MONTAGE — THE CLASH — THE RAMONES — THE BAR PHONE RINGS — IT IS FOR CORN — A SMILE SPREADS ACROSS HIS FACE — FADE OUT )

CHAPTER 8
    Corn sprinted out of the bar, nine blocks to Rachil’s apartment.
    I arrived later and saw from my tippy-toe perch—ghastly!—her hand gripping his forearm, pulling him into her room.
    â€œYou want this?” she whispered, or something to that effect. I couldn’t quite hear as I settled atop the trash bins in the rear of the complex.
    Why this sudden change? She didn’t appear drunk. Mysterious.
    Perhaps it was that they were now, instead of at the church, in her room, where the windows were more discreet. Perhaps she felt somehow “safe,” away from a