Pariah

was not an option-he didn’t know her that well.

Easing away, Alan’s crotch slowly broke free of Ellen’s rear end with a moist shluck. She made some sleepy mouth noises, smacking her lips, then rolled onto her stomach. Free of contact, Alan maneuvered off the bed, stumbling slightly, as this mattress was farther from the ground than his, then patted the air in front of him, blindly making for the nearest window, not lifting his feet off the ground, shuffle-walking.

Several muted toe stubs later he reached the wall and felt along it. The moon was out and the faintest amount of bluish light outlined the window frame. As he edged to the right he remembered that this was the window Mike had fallen from. Why tempt fate? he thought, edging along to the window with the fire escape. As in most New York apartments, a sturdy window gate barricaded this portal, but beyond the gate the window was open and Alan positioned his penis between bars and let fly. The spattering ricocheted off the cast iron stairs, amplified by the all-consuming silence.

Ellen awoke, excited. “Is it raining? Mike? I mean, Alan?”

“No, no. Sorry I woke you. It’s only… I was taking a leak. Sorry.”

“Oh. Oh. It’s okay. I just thought… Rain would be wonderful, though, wouldn’t it? It’s been so long. What, like a month, maybe?”

“Almost. It’s been dry, that’s for sure.” Mundane chat about the weather. The more things change…

“Yeah. Remember how they used to have water shortages,” Ellen continued, “and they’d tell you not to shower for more than five minutes or to not water your lawn in the suburbs. ‘Don’t wash your cars,’ they’d say. Or, ‘kids, don’t run the fire hydrants! Not during a water shortage!’ Those assholes didn’t know what a water shortage is.” Though the words were sharp there was no bitterness in Ellen’s tone. She sounded wistful. “You coming back to bed?”

“I can’t sleep.”

“Come back to bed and I’ll suck your cock.”

How could those words, cribbed from every hackneyed porno movie ever made, sound so melancholic and uninviting? Alan’s penis, still scorched on the insides from the caustic urine, twitched in expectation. Even now it wanted to do the thinking. No amount of this is wrong from the brain could dissuade the little head from wishing to be ministered to. The corpora cavernosa began to fill with blood. Maybe it will help you sleep, his penis signaled. Come on, we’re all on the same team. You can’t fool me with this self-righteous “gotta do the right thing” hooey. Get me into that mouth and we’ll finally get some much-needed rest. Do it.

“Come back to bed, Alan.” And he did.

Ellen lay next to Alan, the sour taste of his ejaculate lingering in her dry mouth. It had been a while since she’d fellated Mike, so she couldn’t compare offhand, but it had never been about taste or texture or any criteria she’d applied to other comestibles. But maybe that would change with Alan. Even rawboned, Alan’s cock was thicker and firmer than Mike’s. And wasn’t spooge a source of protein? Protein was hard to come by.

These are the thoughts of a lunatic, Ellen chided internally. My husband is dead. The father of my dead child, Mike, with his bad posture and small, thin penis is dead. Chunks of him are resting in the alimentary canals of walking corpses that still linger beneath my window. His bones are still in full view from the window. I did nothing. I could have gone up to the roof and gotten bricks from John to drop on the heads of the guilty. I did nothing. My baby died. I did nothing. I’m not a wife. I’m not a mother. I have no career by which to define myself.

“I am nothing,” she said aloud.

Alan slept soundly. Good. She’d done some small amount of good. Now it was Ellen’s turn to leave the bed, only she knew the lay of the land and made a beeline for the front door, unlocking it. She stepped onto the landing. She could hear Eddie berating Dave behind their front door, but only his tone registered, the dull roar of an underdeveloped mind purging. In the unbroken darkness she plotted the course upward toward the roof without incident. It was only as she stepped onto the tar paper and felt a soft, wonderful breeze across her clammy skin that she remembered she was completely naked. Whatever. She closed her eyes and basked in the gentle caress of the faint airflow.

Though the sky was cloudy there was sufficient moonlight to see their roof, the tarnished reflective silver paint creating an eerie network of geometric outlines to follow. The other roofs, topped in traditional black tar paper, were invisible. It was like she was marooned on a trapezoidal island floating six stories above the ground.

Ellen padded across the rooftop and stood at the lip of the slight incline that led to the roof’s west-facing edge. The pitch of the acclivity was maybe thirty degrees or less, wheelchair accessible should someone confined to such a chair wish to roll themselves off the roof to their doom. She was sure that was not the intent of the slope. And besides, the only way up to the roof was the stairs. There was no wall on the York-side end of the roof, just a faint rise of decorative cornice, then a straight drop. A fall from here might do the trick.

No, she didn’t want to join Mike.

Ellen lay on her back, staring up at the moon’s pitted face, almost full, but not quite. The air movement felt both invigorating and soothing. It was the middle of July and she wondered if any of them would live to see the fall. And those things on the street, how long would they continue to shamble around? How many survivors were there in Manhattan, or the outer boroughs? Were there other naked women lying on rooftops in the vicinity, staring up at the moon? Or clothed ones? Or men? Or children? If so, was that a comforting thought? What was comforting? That Alan was sleeping in her bed? She wanted Alan there so she wouldn’t have to be alone, yet here she was on the roof. Dabney didn’t count.

She used to define herself, like zillions of other people, by what she did for a living. Her career. Now her career was living to see the next day, for no discernable reason other than just to do it. Now she was defined by her sex. She and ancient Ruth were the only two females in the building-maybe the world. Gerri, the floating wild card, didn’t count. She came and went by and large unnoticed.

“Gettin’ a moon tan?” came a deep voice from the dark. Dabney.

Whether modesty was demode or not Ellen felt the flush of embarrassment. It wasn’t like Dabney could see much, but her nudity made her feel vulnerable. Ellen shook her head. Like she was anything to look at-a flimsy rack of bones held together by a pallid veneer of skin, her slack abdominal skin lightly puckered by a petite frowning cesarean scar. What a fox. She didn’t see much of John, not being a habitue of the roof, but he still seemed formidable. At least that was her mental picture.

“S’okay,” Dabney said, his voice a baritone purr. “Moon rays don’t do any harm. Sun’ll just give you cancer, not that it much matters. What’s cancer gonna do? Shave a few precious days, maybe hours, off your life?”

“I think I should be going,” Ellen said.

“Not on my account, I hope. Only visitors I get up here are the fellas. Nice to hear a sweet voice. One lacking testosterone.”

“Oh.” Ellen didn’t know what else to say.

“How’s your lesser half?” Dabney asked.

“Huh?”

“Your lesser half. I’m just joshing. Mike. How’s Mike? He hasn’t paid me a visit in a while.”

“Mike’s dead.”

A faint breeze filled the awkward silence. Dry leaves rustled in the corners of the roof.

“When did this happen?”

“This morning.”

“I didn’t know. I’m sorry. With everything on the avenue, nobody said anything. How did it… I’m sorry. I don’t mean to pry.”

“It’s okay. Mike fell out the window. I think he broke his neck. He just lay there as they ate him. He was still alive. But not anymore. Just like my baby.”

Dabney leaned against the stairwell housing, where he’d been all along, wondering if it was possible to suck all the air out of a room outdoors.

Answer: YES.

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