“I didn’t mean for any of that to happen. I’m sorry. They didn’t mean it either. They’re blowing off, that’s all. I just want you to be sensible and let me take you home so you won’t get sick again. Jesus, Deanie, you got nothing on your feet but those shitty sneakers and there’s three, four inches of wet slush on the sides of the road.”
She answers with a sullen thump of her sneakers to his dashboard. After a long silence, she shivers and reaches for his lunch bucket. “Right. I forgot you’re a frigging saint.”
For a moment she concentrates on stuffing half a sandwich. She slurps some tea that must be at best lukewarm from his Thermos, and then starts peeling a banana. She sniffs. “Think they’ll use any game footage on the news tonight?”
The smell of banana brings saliva to Sam’s dry mouth and he gestures to her to share.
“Maybe. You did good.” He stops himself from bringing up the errors he noticed. She is already sore at him and she takes criticism unpredictably. Better hold it until practice.
Walking on her knees, she crosses the seat to put a lump of banana into his mouth. His stomach lurches at the touch of her fingers on his mouth. She stays there, feeding herself, then him, fingertips gooey and sweet, pushing the chunks of fruit between his lips. Her chains ripple under streetlight against her cheek and the lower ones sway with the slight movement of her body as she balances against the motion of the truck. The slick glob of banana clogs his throat and he nearly strangles getting it down. Her hand falls to his thigh and she leans against him, breast against his jacketed arm.
The wet black road is streaked watery red from taillights ahead of him. He feels blinkered, unable to see anywhere but straight ahead. The road just goes on and on, a meaningless slick ribbon through the night. Her touch, her proximity confuses him, panicking him with the knowledge of his susceptibility. The turn comes quickly and he takes the truck to the secluded parking spot he has used on previous trysts.
She offers the last piece of banana and he opens his mouth for it and she pushes it between his lips, rolling her fingers against his mouth and into it and he sucks at the gummy sweetness and she takes them out and her mouth is on his, her tongue and his mashing the soft sweet lump of fruit. It breaks up into a cloying stickiness and he tears his face away from her and pushes her off him.
She shrugs. “I’m going to the Mill anyway. Tony worked the day shift this week so they’ll be wasted by now. I don’t want to go home until they’re under the table.”
While it’s a relief to hear her say she wasn’t going out partying, the matter-of-factness of her plan chills him. He feels stupid for seeing their use of the Mill as a kind of vandalism when the place is her refuge. With the jeering in the school parking lot hardly faded from his ears, he finds the thought of her spending the rest of the night alone in the ruined Mill by herself horrible. But if he goes with her, they will have sex again, or try to, yes they will.
He comes to an abrupt decision. They can go to Rick’s house later.
Dragging her gear behind her, she slips out of the cab without another word and picks her way through the brush to the path through the dark woods. He closes his eyes for a second and when he opens them, she’s gone. Hastily, he kills the ignition and yanks a flashlight from the glovebox.
Blundering through punky snow into the trunks of trees and tangles of brush, he feels as if he is fighting his way through a wall of thorns. A frozen stick cracks loudly under his foot and he realizes he’s sweating as violently as if he were in a losing overtime.
As before, she has chosen her candles over the electric light and there is a glow from the watchman’s cubby. When he fills up the doorway, she looks up, unsurprised, from unlacing her ties. He clicks off the flashlight and sets it on the counter. When he turns to her, she holds out her hands. He moves toward her, drawing her close. He gasps at the pressure of her chains rolling over him. For once, her urgency is as great as his.
“Do it,” he begs her and she gasps and claws at him.
Momentarily he’s lost in the shellburst of his own orgasm. She still struggles in its lee and he tries to help, continuing to move in her, but soon they concede to the recession, the ebbing of arousal. Her head rests against his chest as his heart slows again to a mundane rhythm. If he could take her there—he doesn’t know what would happen but surely something would change, something fundamental.
“I have to work a double shift tomorrow. You want to try to meet here Sunday afternoon? Work on your foul shot? I’ll buy us a take-out lunch and we’ll picnic.”
Her eyes shine. He likes that. If it weren’t so late, he’d take her to Rick’s. Next time he gets the chance. No big deal. Just Deanie’s with him—sometimes. A friend of his, whatever else happens between them, and so he expects any other friend to treat her decently. Those assholes in the parking lot will just have to eat it and smile to his face.
At the edge of the supermarket parking lot, Sergeant Woods smokes a no-count cigarette in his cruiser. He waggles a flipper at Sam as the truck passes—maybe he’s only encouraging smoke out the open window.
The baby’s crying leaks down the back stairs to the kitchen as Sam lets himself into the
