Bad Glass

what I could see, the squares of fabric formed geometric waves, all in varying shades of blue.

“Weasel stayed here off and on,” Taylor said, pointing down at the futon. Several colorful blankets had been pushed down to the foot of the mattress, and dirty clothing lay scattered at its side. “It’s your room now. You’re welcome to stay here for as long as you like.”

“And Weasel?” I asked.

She shook her head and gestured me down toward the futon. I took a seat on the thin mattress, and she sat down on the folding chair across from me. “I’m done apologizing to you, Dean. He’s my friend, and he helped me through some bad shit when the city went crazy. He hooked me up with the commune—the Homestead—when that’s where I needed to be. And if not for him, I doubt I’d be alive right now.” She reached out and touched the sewing machine, running her hand across its domed surface. It was an idle gesture, something to occupy her hands, something to look at other than me. “I like you, Dean. Really, I do. But I’m loyal to my friends. And Weasel deserves my loyalty.”

I nodded. I didn’t really feel any better about the situation, but I couldn’t argue with her, and I couldn’t change her feelings. Her words made sense, whereas my hurt feelings did not.

Perhaps sensing this, she leaned forward, hesitated for a moment, and gave my hand a tentative caress.

“How about this,” she said. She was perched right in front of me, and I couldn’t avoid meeting her eyes; they were deep, dark, and filled with honest emotion. “We forget about this for a while, okay? We see if you fit in here. We see if there’s something—” She halted abruptly and looked away, blushing slightly. The awkward motion caught me by surprise.

And how does that sentence end? I wondered, watching her shift uncomfortably in her chair. We see if there’s something … between the two of us? Was she acknowledging—in that broken sentence, in that blush—the possibility of a relationship?

And just like that, my hurt feelings were gone, swept away with those unspoken words.

She continued: “If after a week you still don’t want Weasel here, we’ll figure something out. Okay? Does that work for you?”

“Okay,” I said, and I smiled. It was a genuine smile.

“Good. I’m glad that’s settled. Maybe now you can stop your pouting.”

Taylor grabbed a milk crate from the stack against the wall and started packing up Weasel’s things. There was a pile of black-and-white composition books near the head of the futon, and she took care tucking them into the bottom of the crate.

“What did he help you with?” I asked as I watched her work. “You said he helped you when the city went crazy. What did he do?”

Taylor paused for a moment, frozen over a pile of clothing. She stared into the milk crate for a couple of seconds, lost in thought, then resumed her chore, gathering up dirty flannels, wool socks, and a pair of ratty jeans. “My parents,” she said. Her voice was low. When she’d been placating me earlier, her voice had been strong, cajoling. Now it was breathy and weak, like the wind had started to leak from her lungs. “Back in September, my parents … something happened. They were just … gone. Weasel helped me cope. He kept me fed. He kept me from giving in to despair.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, suddenly realizing just how little I knew about her and her life. “Is it like Charlie’s parents? Maybe they’re still here somewhere?”

“No. Not like Charlie’s parents.” She shook her head, a hint of frustration coming into her voice. “My mom and dad … they’re just gone. Gone. And they aren’t coming back.”

I stood up, wanting to comfort her, wanting to put my arms around her and lend her some of my strength, but she abruptly turned and put the milk crate between us. “I’ve dealt with it,” she said, her voice suddenly hard. “It’s in the past, and it’s not something I want to talk about.”

I nodded.

The moment was gone. The vulnerable, caring Taylor had disappeared, chased away by my stupid questions.

I could tell I wasn’t getting the whole story—about her, about her parents—but I didn’t want to push her any harder.

“You should move your stuff up here. Get yourself settled in,” she said. “You’ve cluttered up the living room long enough.” And with that, she turned and left, taking Weasel’s belongings with her.

After moving my stuff up to the new room, I sat down at the sewing table and started to change the dressing on my hand. The wounds on my palm had reopened a couple of times during the day, and the gauze was tacky with drying blood and pus. I hissed as I pulled it away from the skin, a sharp stab of pain radiating up my forearm.

“Shit, man. Let me help you with that.”

I turned and found Floyd standing in the open doorway. He had a guitar case dangling from his hand, an old, well-used case covered in stickers and hand-drawn graffiti. The words Pretty Boy were drawn across the front in bright pink nail polish. He propped the case against the wall and came over to the table, taking a seat next to the sewing machine.

He lifted my hand and started studying my palm. There was a thin trickle of blood seeping from the largest puncture. “Fuck, I can’t deal with blood,” he muttered, turning my hand toward the sunlit window. His face was going pale, but he didn’t look away.

“You don’t have to do that,” I said. “I can clean the gore and blood. Just help me wrap it up when I’m done, okay?”

Floyd stood up and walked over to the window. The window was in the wall over the futon, providing a view of the street out front. “I didn’t used to be such a pussy,” he said, shaking his head. “Fuck, I’ve laughed off shit worse than that.” He pointed toward my hand. “When I was living in Santa Cruz, I wiped out jumping off the side of a parking garage, fell ten feet onto a concrete divider. I broke my ulna—my fucking forearm,” he said, seeing the question on my face. “A compound fracture. And I walked six blocks to my friend’s house, laughing the whole way. Granted, I was pretty fucking delirious, but I wasn’t a shrinking pussy about it.”

I poured rubbing alcohol onto some paper towels and began scrubbing my open palm. “What happened?” I asked, gritting my teeth against the chemical pain. “What changed?”

“My knee,” he said, reaching down and rapping his knuckles against his right kneecap. I remembered that gesture from my first night at the house; it seemed like an automatic motion, some type of unconscious reflex. “And I didn’t even see the blood that time. I was in a competition, and they had a medical staff—they put me right under when my knee exploded. The kicker is, it wasn’t even a spectacular wipeout! I just landed wrong, my weight coming down just a couple of degrees too far forward.”

Floyd let out a disgusted grunt, a low sound, like a growl, at the back of his throat. “And that was it. No more Pretty Boy Floyd. And now I can’t stand the sight of blood.”

When I finished cleaning my wounds, I found bright pink rings starting to form around the punctures. I ran my finger across the puckered flesh: the damaged skin felt hot to the touch. It’s just bruised, I told myself. Just bruised flesh, flush with blood.

“Help me wrap it up,” I said. I hid my wounds beneath a fresh bandage, then nodded Floyd toward the roll of gauze. He wrapped my hand up tight, securing the dressing with a fresh strip of tape.

“Does it hurt?” Floyd asked.

“Yeah,” I said. “It throbs. And my whole arm’s sore.”

Floyd went over to his guitar case and set it atop the futon. He opened it up, revealing a shiny red acoustic guitar. Unlike the case, the guitar looked like it was in pristine condition, its lacquered finish polished to an immaculate sheen. He lifted the instrument and began digging through a small compartment hidden beneath its neck. After a couple of seconds, he came up with a handful of picks and several prescription pill bottles. He studied the labels for a couple of seconds, then upended some pills onto his palm. He bounced them a couple of times in his loosely curled fist, his face screwed up like he was engaged in some inner debate, and then handed them over.

Four pills. Small green circles, light and insubstantial in my uninjured hand. “OC” etched on one side, “80” on the other.

“Oxycodone,” Floyd said. “They’ll help with the pain.”