The Ruins

'It's just going to get darker. I won't be able to see if I wait much longer.' He held the sunshade toward her, and she reached to take it, extending her arm into the rain, goose bumps forming on her skin. Mathias dragged his hat off his head, wrung it out, put it back on. 'I'll try to be quick,' he said. 'All right?'

Stacy nodded. She gathered her courage, ducked out though the tent flap. It was like stepping into a waterfall. She moved toward Pablo's lean-too, crouched beside it, trying not to see the Greek-his gaunt, mud-spattered face, his wet hair-too frightened to confront his misery, his suffering, knowing that there was nothing she could do to ease it. She held the sunshade above her head, pointlessly-it was just something for the wind to yank at. Mathias remained there for another moment, watching her, the rain pouring down upon them. Then he turned and strode off across the clearing, vanishing into the darkness.

Eric had curled into a ball, burrowing beneath the sleeping bag, trying to find some warmth. The rain was falling, and Stacy and Mathias were outside in it. The wind kept gusting, shaking the tent. Eric was exhausted, but he wasn't going to let himself sleep, not without someone watching over him. He was just going to shut his eyes, only for an instant, a handful of seconds, shut his eyes and breathe, resting, not sleeping. Then Stacy was back, quite suddenly, stooping over him, asking if he was okay. She was wet, she was naked, and she was dripping on him; the roof was also dripping. And Eric thought, I'm asleep, I'm dreaming. But he wasn't, or only half so. He was conscious of her in the tent with him, could hear her rummaging through the backpacks, patting herself dry, pulling on new clothes. He felt with his hand, searching out his wounds, worried that the vine might've attacked him while he'd lain there drowsing, but he discovered no sign of this. He ached-his entire body seemed to be throbbing. Even his fingertips felt bruised, the soles of his feet, his kneecaps-everything.

He heard voices and lifted his head. Stacy was standing by the tent flap, silhouetted there, talking to Mathias. Eric's eyes drifted shut once more, only for a moment it seemed, yet when he reopened them, he was alone. He checked his wounds again, thought about sitting up, but he couldn't find the strength for it. The rain was loud enough to make it hard for him to think; it sounded like applause.

He could feel himself sinking back into sleep, and he fought against it, struggling to surface. He was teaching, his first morning at his new job, but every time he tried to speak, the boys would start to clap, drowning out his voice. It was a game-somehow he understood this-yet he wasn't certain of the rules, knew only that he was losing, and that if this kept up, he'd be fired before the day was through. Oddly, he felt comforted by the prospect. Part of himself was still awake-he knew he was dreaming. And from this still-sentient sliver of consciousness, Eric could even manage to analyze the dream. He didn't want to be a teacher-this was what it was saying, that he hadn't ever wanted to be one, but could only admit it to himself now, trapped here, never to return. What, then? he thought, and the answer came in a way that made him understand this, too, was part of the dream-this self-appraisal-because what he realized he'd always wanted to be was a bartender in an old-fashioned saloon, not a real saloon, either, but a movie saloon, from a black-and-white Western, with swinging doors, a drunken poker game in the corner, gunslingers dueling in the street. He'd fill mugs with beer, slide them down the countertop. He'd have an Irish accent, would be John Wayne's best friend, Gary Cooper's-

'It's making it up. Okay? Eric? You know that, don't you?'

The tent was dark. Stacy was crouched above him again-wet, dripping-prodding at his arm. She seemed frightened, jittery with it. She kept glancing over her shoulder, toward the flap.

'It's not real,' she said. 'It didn't happen.'

He had no idea what she was talking about, was still half-immersed in his dream, the boys clapping, the creak of the saloon doors swinging open. 'What didn't?' he asked.

And then he heard, faintly, beneath the rain's downpour the words Kiss me, Mathias. Will you kiss me? It was a woman's voice, coming from the clearing. It's okay. I want to. It sounded like Stacy, but the voice was blurred slightly; it was her and not her all at once.

Stacy seemed to sense what he was thinking. 'It's trying to pretend it's me. That I said that. But I didn't.'

Hold me. Just hold me.

And then, what sounded like Mathias's voice: We shouldn't. What if he-

Shh. No one will hear.

'It's not me,' Stacy said. 'I swear. Nothing happened.'

Eric pushed himself up off the floor, sat cross-legged, the sleeping bag wrapped around his shoulders. From outside, in the rainswept dark, came the sound of panting, softly at first, but then growing in volume.

There was Mathias's voice again, almost a sigh: God, that feels good.

The panting became moaning.

So good.

Harder, Stacy's voice whispered.

The moans built slowly, inexorably, toward a mutual climax, with something like a scream coming from Stacy. Then there was silence, just the rain splattering down, and the start-stop rasp of Pablo's breathing. Eric watched Stacy through the darkness. She was wearing someone else's clothes. They were a size too small for her, clinging wetly to her body.

It shouldn't matter, of course. Maybe it had happened, and maybe it hadn't-either way, he'd be a fool to worry over it at a time like this. Eric could see the logic in such an argument, and he spent a few moments struggling to find a way to achieve the proper distance for so rational an approach. He toyed with the idea of laughing. Would that be the right strategy? Should he shake his head, chuckle? Or should he hug her? But she was so wet, and dressed in those strange clothes, like a whore, actually. The thought came unbidden. Eric even tried to suppress it, but it wouldn't let him be, not with her nipples standing so erect beneath her blouse, not with that skirt riding up her thighs, not with-

'You know it's not real,' she said. 'Don't you?'

Just laugh, he thought. It's so easy. But then, without really meaning to, he started talking, his voice spilling out of him, propelling him down a different path altogether. 'It doesn't make things up.'

Stacy was silent, watching him. She folded her arms across her chest. 'Eric-'

'It mimics things. Things it's heard. It doesn't create them.'

'Then it's heard someone having sex at some point, and it mixed our voices in.'

'So that's your voice? You said those things?'

'Of course not.'

'But you said it mixed your voices in.'

'I mean it took our voices, things we've said, and it put them together to say new things. You know? It took one word from one conversation, and another word from-'

'When did you say ‘harder'? Or ‘kiss me'?'

'I don't know. Maybe it-'

'Come on, Stacy. Tell me the truth.'

'This is stupid, Eric.' He could sense how frustrated she was becoming, could feel her working to control it.

'I just want the truth,' he said.

'I've told you the truth. It's not real. It's-'

'I promise I won't be angry.'

But he was already angry, of course; even he could hear it in his voice. This wasn't the first time Eric had asked Stacy to confess to some infidelity, and he felt the weight of all those other conversations now, pressing down upon him, prodding him forward. There was a pattern these confrontations inevitably followed, a script for them to honor: he'd badger her, reason with her, methodically eliminate her evasions and diversions, slowly cornering her until the only choice remaining was honesty. She'd start to cry; she'd beg his forgiveness, promise