black streaks for a full ten seconds. When I opened my eyes, the blond boy was on top of me, screaming.
“You didn’t see anything! Repeat that! Repeat it!”
I felt the cool blade pressed against the hardness of my Adam’s apple. I thought about Paul.
Please, Paul, keep running.
“Repeat it!”
“I…I…did…not…see…”
“See what!”
“Anything…”
I could feel the blond boy’s hardness through his jeans on my thigh. He started pressing it against me.
“Repeat it!”
I could not open my eyes, tears stinging, “I…did…not…”
He began pumping against my thigh, pressing the blade deeper against my throat.
“…see…any…thing…”
Suddenly his mass lifted off of me. Jessie had pounced on top of him, shouting furiously, rolling him away from the tree. I saw fists pounding. Hair yanked. Words of anger whacked each other like two-by-fours. The knife raised into the sunlight. And suddenly the action ceased.
Through my salty wet tears, I saw the blond boy stand slowly.
Jessie lay still on the ground in the tall dry grass.
Beyond Jessie’s body, I saw Paul’s blurry wide-eyed face, crouched in the green brush near the stream.
Don’t look, Paul. Don’t see what’s about to happen. Close your eyes...
The curtains of the Perfects’ bedroom opened.
I shook my head to refocus.
Mr. Layworth stood in tight boxers, rippled with hairy, toned perfection. Mrs. Layworth flung open a window and lit up a cigarette, wearing only a white bra and white panties.
Odd. Why would she feel the need to stuff herself into panties and a bra after what they just did rather than thrown on a nightie, or a slip or a bathrobe or a quilt? Unless she never took them off to begin with, but then…that was confusing…
The light in the bathroom window was on. Steam hovered above the tiles, fogging up the mirror. It was three in the morning. They were both tightlipped and stern, hardly making eye contact with each other. Perhaps the Perfects’ sex was not so perfect. Perhaps switching holes with that much rapidity took a bit of a toll on the ship’s mast.
Mr. and Mrs. Layworth stared absentmindedly out into the courtyard, saying nothing. They appeared not merely tired but exhausted.
I saw the corner of Marzoli’s card sticking out from under the computer keyboard.
It was not all my imagination after-fucking-all.
The night crystallized into clarity as my brain regained authority. I heard a Vader-deep breath release from the bottom of my lungs, and I realized I had actually been holding it, doubting my capacity to grasp reality. That, in itself, was a kind of crazy.
Involuntarily, I pressed Marzoli’s card to my lips.
Schwing.
I looked down at the sudden tenting in my sweatpants.
For real? Just from his business card?
Mr. Perfect crossed to the kitchen, holding a pair of pliers. No, they were smaller than pliers. They were wire cutters. I recognized the orange grips from the last time Mrs. Layworth attempted to wire a painting of a rainy Parisian café to hang it on the kitchen wall. Although I seemed to be increasingly open to all sorts of sexual variations, for the life of me I could not imagine what role a pair of wire cutters would play into any behind-the-curtains misbehavior.
As my mind began to explore any and all avenues of possibility to explain their function, Mr. Perfect performed a very simple act that caught my full attention, banishing every last grain of three-in-the-morning haziness.
He washed the wire cutters in the kitchen sink, scraped off what looked like dark, dried grease with a paper towel, and placed the tool in a kitchen drawer. Not just placed it. He opened the drawer entirely, buried it in the very back, and closed it. Then walked the paper towel back through the bedroom to the bathroom…
…and flushed it down the toilet!
I’ve no doubt that would have passed completely unnoticed by any casual observer amidst the whirlwind of courtyard activities on any given
“You didn’t see anything! Repeat that! Repeat it!”
I felt the cool blade pressed against the hardness of my Adam’s apple. I thought about Paul.
Please, Paul, keep running.
“Repeat it!”
“I…I…did…not…see…”
“See what!”
“Anything…”
I could feel the blond boy’s hardness through his jeans on my thigh. He started pressing it against me.
“Repeat it!”
I could not open my eyes, tears stinging, “I…did…not…”
He began pumping against my thigh, pressing the blade deeper against my throat.
“…see…any…thing…”
Suddenly his mass lifted off of me. Jessie had pounced on top of him, shouting furiously, rolling him away from the tree. I saw fists pounding. Hair yanked. Words of anger whacked each other like two-by-fours. The knife raised into the sunlight. And suddenly the action ceased.
Through my salty wet tears, I saw the blond boy stand slowly.
Jessie lay still on the ground in the tall dry grass.
Beyond Jessie’s body, I saw Paul’s blurry wide-eyed face, crouched in the green brush near the stream.
Don’t look, Paul. Don’t see what’s about to happen. Close your eyes...
The curtains of the Perfects’ bedroom opened.
I shook my head to refocus.
Mr. Layworth stood in tight boxers, rippled with hairy, toned perfection. Mrs. Layworth flung open a window and lit up a cigarette, wearing only a white bra and white panties.
Odd. Why would she feel the need to stuff herself into panties and a bra after what they just did rather than thrown on a nightie, or a slip or a bathrobe or a quilt? Unless she never took them off to begin with, but then…that was confusing…
The light in the bathroom window was on. Steam hovered above the tiles, fogging up the mirror. It was three in the morning. They were both tightlipped and stern, hardly making eye contact with each other. Perhaps the Perfects’ sex was not so perfect. Perhaps switching holes with that much rapidity took a bit of a toll on the ship’s mast.
Mr. and Mrs. Layworth stared absentmindedly out into the courtyard, saying nothing. They appeared not merely tired but exhausted.
I saw the corner of Marzoli’s card sticking out from under the computer keyboard.
It was not all my imagination after-fucking-all.
The night crystallized into clarity as my brain regained authority. I heard a Vader-deep breath release from the bottom of my lungs, and I realized I had actually been holding it, doubting my capacity to grasp reality. That, in itself, was a kind of crazy.
Involuntarily, I pressed Marzoli’s card to my lips.
Schwing.
I looked down at the sudden tenting in my sweatpants.
For real? Just from his business card?
Mr. Perfect crossed to the kitchen, holding a pair of pliers. No, they were smaller than pliers. They were wire cutters. I recognized the orange grips from the last time Mrs. Layworth attempted to wire a painting of a rainy Parisian café to hang it on the kitchen wall. Although I seemed to be increasingly open to all sorts of sexual variations, for the life of me I could not imagine what role a pair of wire cutters would play into any behind-the-curtains misbehavior.
As my mind began to explore any and all avenues of possibility to explain their function, Mr. Perfect performed a very simple act that caught my full attention, banishing every last grain of three-in-the-morning haziness.
He washed the wire cutters in the kitchen sink, scraped off what looked like dark, dried grease with a paper towel, and placed the tool in a kitchen drawer. Not just placed it. He opened the drawer entirely, buried it in the very back, and closed it. Then walked the paper towel back through the bedroom to the bathroom…
…and flushed it down the toilet!
I’ve no doubt that would have passed completely unnoticed by any casual observer amidst the whirlwind of courtyard activities on any given
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