You’re destroying me. You’re good for me.

She said it hours ago, before falling asleep. He watches her now, breathing soft. They’d arrived at his room after supper, the purpose to talk--a long time coming that he now wishes had been longer.

“I know,” she said, “about that girl.”

He knew who she meant, but waits. She learned long ago that he often kept silent hoping she’d continue talking, and, unknowingly, reveal his exit. Not this time.

“Which?”

“The blonde.” Shakes his head. “Yes.”

“When?”

“Your voice changes.”

“Mmm.” He thinks: A different kind of jealousy. The selfish kind.

She’d seen her in a cafe, waiting tables. They’d gone for a quick lunch between rounds since they’d cleaned out the cupboards days ago. “I don’t think you know her. You probably don’t even know her name.”

“Then?”

“You want her.”

“And you don’t want anybody?”

“Just you.”

“Then I should...?”

“Have her. Now. Through me.”

“That’s not fair.”

“It’s better than the alternative.”

“I meant it’s not fair to her.” He shouldn’t have said it. He knew before saying it that he shouldn’t have said it.

He watches her face. Quiet rage overcome with uninvited understanding. Too long under his influence.

“I know you well enough to know that you would think that. Even say it. But I’m not like you enough to think of it on my own.”

“That’s what I like best about you.”

She remembers their first night together. “Not my breasts?”

“They’re good, too.”

She nods once, so not to cry.

“Why can’t--”

“We’ve been over this.”

An unsuccessful nod. He reaches forward, wipes her cheek with the tail of his sleeve. She takes his forearm before he can draw it away, but now that she has it she doesn’t know what to do with it. She looks to him for an answer, what action to take, but he has none and she lets go his arm, expecting it to flop lifeless to the mattress. It doesn’t, and he immediately draws his hand to the safety of his pocket.

“Is this the first time you’ve made me cry?”

“That I know of.” Another nod. “Something to eat?” No. “A drink?”

“Water.”

He leaves to fetch the jug, stand in the light of the open fridge. He wonders what to do next, but all that comes to him as he looks inside is, I didn’t think figs had to be kept in here. He takes the jug and a glass from the cupboard. When he returns to the room, she’s asleep. He pours some water into the glass and places it on the bedside table. He puts the jug down next to it.

He makes to leave the room--go to the couch and sit with the laptop. Struggle. She says it as he passes through the door. “You’re destroying me. You’re good for me.” At first the only thing he can make of it is that it’s not something she would think of, and then he remembers where it’s from. Duras. The same woman who once wrote, “My only allegiance was to love itself.”

He stands in the doorway, out of her sight. He waits there, certain that if he responds she’ll remember saying it in the morning. He doesn’t count the seconds, but there are several before her breathing crosses over and he hears the rustle of the duvet as her spent hands pull it closer to her body.

“Bastard.”

She doesn’t say it, but he hears it, and is certain it’s the last word he’ll remember her speaking.

***

Winter’s breathing down Fall’s neck. A party on Crawford. Red floorboards. Decrepit rooms. University grads, just.

He’s young, all-powerful. People like him. All he can do: no wrong. One of those people. He knows it, but can’t accept it. The modesty adds to his charm.

She’s there in a long skirt, the kind that makes girls take bird-steps and boys puff up their chests. He knows everyone else and wonders who invited her.

She’s listening to Drew. He doesn’t have to be in ear shot to know what he’s saying. Top o’ the world, ma! It never changes. On the surface, she’s into it, but her posture gives herself away. To him.

Drew empties his beer and from across the room he wills him to go for another.

He walks over, fills the cold space next to her. He hopes she’s relieved, but has no idea. She doesn’t know me yet, he thinks. Who invited her?

“You’ll never hear me talk about one day getting out.”

She slumps/sighs/laughs. “Thank god!” She is relieved. “You heard? I mean, I think this city’s too honest to leave. Do you know what I mean?” He nods, tells himself he’ll figure it out later.

“Howlin’.” She doesn’t realize he’s introducing himself until he offers to shake. People with odd first names are used to this. Punishment for being unique, his mother always said when he asked about it.

“Hannah.” She takes his hand. Holds it for eight months.

***

“Someone once said that life rests on a pivot: the necessity of forgetting in order to live, and the fear of forgetfulness.”

“Do you believe that?”

He does. “I do.”

“So… what? You’re all fangs? All poison?”

“No.”

She takes her cake in her hand and finds a tiny bite, tries to figure him out. They’re in her room, listening to Luna on random. The CD changes tracks.

“Ooh. I like this one,” she says, and skips from the bed. He watches her panty’d bottom cross the room. She boosts the volume and turns to face him, cake in hand, crumbs on chin. Chocolate. It begins: California (All The Way).

She moves like a poem. Something he could never do: be in his element while dancing. She steps side, straight, shakes and grooves her ass, guides her flat, perfect, naked chest. Frosting drips. Her face grows a wicked V-shaped grin as she looks inside him, knows that at this moment he’s doing something he’s never done before: wished he was someone else: her, with grace and poise and an uncontrolled selflessness. His admiration grows; a smile bruises his face. It’s too much, throws her. She stops, convincingly, like she meant it. She stuffs too much cake in her tiny mouth and laughs. It tumbles down her front as she chews.

“You’re beautiful.”

“Fucking right I am.”

***

Her friend is angry. She invited Hannah to the party. She invited him to the party. She didn’t invite them for each other.

“So lets just keep it quiet.”

“Fine.”

“It doesn’t make you mad?”

“Whatever you want.”

“It makes me mad.”

“I can see that.”

“I mean, what right?”

“None.”

“Then why should we?”

“Whatever you want.”

“It really doesn’t matter to you either way?”

“No.”

“Aren’t you proud of me? Aren’t you dying to be seen with me, for people to know I’m yours.”

“I guess I just don’t think that way.”

“I want people to know you’re mine.”

“Well, I just don’t think that way.”

“I think that might make me madder than having to keep it a secret.”

“Then don’t. Lets flaunt it.”

“Flaunt our--”

“If you want.”

“You’d do that for me?”

“And you wouldn’t even owe me anything.”

“That’s good enough, then. Lets keep it a secret and I’ll fantasize about all the ways you’ll flaunt it, just for me.”

“Okay.”

“How would you flaunt it?”

“How?”

“No! ... Where?”

“On subway cars. In elevators, restaurants, ice rinks, waiting in line when we’re too rushed to make reservations, the market, soup kitchens...” She’s giddy now, taking this all in. Her high eggs him on. “On trampolines--holding hands or solo--in tattoo parlors and billiard halls. The bowling alley. Around a campfire, on fishing trips, at the bank… I can’t think of anyplace I wouldn’t want to flaunt it.”

“Your parent’s place?”

No way. “Sure.”

“Really?”

“If we weren’t keeping it a secret.” The sentence that changes everything.

“Do I embarrass you?”

“Of course not.”

“How come you don’t introduce me to your friends.”

“I don’t really like my friends.”

“What makes them your friends, then?”

A shrug. “They like me well enough.”

“That’s no way to be.”

“No?”

“No.”

“I like you.”

“I should hope so, but I guess I’ll never know for sure, will I?” He watches her, hopes his face is a better liar than his voice.

“I’m sorry,” she says, and it takes him a second to feel that that’s good enough for him.