Art nods and says, “There’s one.” The cross street passes as his eyes follow the blank street in an unknown suburb completely devoid of light. “There’s too many houses,” Marie says, shaking her head and leaving her foot on the gas. “I don’t want to park in front of a house.” They both snicker in anticipation.
“It’s not like anyone is awake right now,” Art rubs his eyes. “Look, you see that?” He brings his hand to the glass of the windshield and points a finger in every direction. “All their lights are off.” He says “Everyone is asleep.” He turns his head toward her and says “In bed. Under the covers. Tucked in.” He cranes his neck and looks out his window. “It’s not like they’re suddenly going to just wake up and come running out into their front yards.”
“Well,” Marie says, “I’d like to find a place where I’m comfortable too.” She says “Like that place we saw back when we were coming through the mountains.”
“Oh yeah, sure,” Art says. “A random pull-over surrounded by deep dark forest on a Tuesday night.” He looks at her driving and says, “Just what I’d need: getting mauled by a wild animal in the bed of the truck while we’re doing it.”
Marie breaks apart in laughter. “God, that’s funny” she says.
“What’s funny?” Art asks.
“Just saying it,” Marie laughs, “The words, ‘doing it.’” She chuckles some more. “It just always makes me laugh.” She shrugs, “It’s just fun to say it.”
“More fun to do it,” Art boasts, and they both laugh together.
Art points his finger into the glass. “There’s another.”
Marie’s eyes widen and her jaw drops. “Not here,” she says bashfully. “There’s still all these houses.”
They approach another cross street. Marie turns the wheel counter-clockwise and from outside you can see the headlights to the truck follow a street that goes up a hill and to the left. “Let’s see where this goes,” she says.
They drive up a long windy road past the trees and the front yards until the houses teeter off. Open lots flooded with weeds are to their right and to their left. Deserted fields that ascend into the sky. “This looks like a good spot,” she says. Art nods approvingly.
The truck slows to a stop near the peak of the hill where they see these bright glowing lamps resting on large brick pillars set on each side of the road. Under the right light a large prominent sign reads “Private property. No public access beyond this point.”
The truck U-turns and the glowing lamps are at Art and Marie’s backs. All around them is deafening silence. A subtle wind passes like it’s trying not to be heard. “Well,” Marie suggests, “I could pull-over over here.”
“You like this spot?” Art stretches in his seat.
“Yeah,” Marie turns the wheel so the truck lines up with the curb. “I like the view, too.” She motions with her chin toward the window and turns down the radio.
The truck comes to a stop and the headlights go out. The engine follows. They both can hear its settling hum. The couple watches the view of the city below them. The fog from the coast has made its way between the buildings. Cars are linked by their little red snaking brake lights but from where Art and Marie sit they look like a cluster of Morse code dots. A collage of words they cannot see or understand. Art looks in his rearview and the glowing lamp from the brick pillar is watching him suspiciously. He looks away.
“So?”
An intentional pause.
“What?” Marie asks with a seductive glare.
A ridiculous kind of timid tension pulls at their seams. Their seatbelts unbuckle, slither and coil into place, rattling in their own wake. The couple inch toward each other.
“Well,” she says, “I’m just not, um . . . there yet.”
He looks at her questioningly, a playful grin splitting his face, he asks, “What do you mean?”
Marie sighs in a way that causes Art to feel the blood flowing south, engorging, filling him and making his jeans tighten. She says, “I’m not that turned on yet.”
She leans her seat back and begins running a finger along the curvature of her neck onto her collarbone. Art’s breathing is pushing in and out, hard and on its own, and he reaches a hand out and begins massaging Marie’s leg near the knee, leading his hand closer and closer into the meat of her inner thigh. Her eyes flutter then go closed. She tilts her head back and she moans.
Art feels her moisture through her panties. He flicks his fingers in gentle patterns and Marie responds by arching her back and squeezing the flesh of her neck with both hands, moving slightly down until she’s massaging her breasts. Art feels her clitoris stiffening and presses into it with his index finger. She moans louder and leans forward, reaching with both hands behind her back until they disappear beneath her sweater. Art hears the elastic of her bra strap coming undone and in a snap Marie’s arms retreat. She reaches into the sleeve of her left arm and pulls out her bra, drops it somewhere, neither of them notice where it lands.
She tugs at Art’s sweatshirt and groans “I think this has to go.” His hand retracts from between her legs, he pauses, then he ducks his head in pulling it over his face. The sweatshirt slips off his arms and falls down somewhere, joining the bra. Marie leans over the median separating the seats and her arms are reaching out. Both of her hands are rubbing Art’s bare chest. Marie moves one hand down until Art’s belt buckle is in her grip. She tugs at the leather around his waist until Art can feel his pants loosen. “And these too,” Marie says. Art kicks his shoes off while Marie pulls at his pants. His seat reclines and the windows have already fogged over.
Outside the cab of the truck, high above the two lovers and beyond the pillars baring the sign, Henry steps out of his house through the sliding glass door onto his balcony. He’s shivering, relentless, lost in his own oblivion. Barefoot and open shirt. In the dark you can barely see the blood stains on his black jeans. In his hand he grips a six shooter with a chamber fully loaded; hammer cocked back.
Mary brings her head up and her eyes look into Art’s eyes. By the way he’s catching his breath she can tell he just had them tightly shut. She continues to work him with one hand while she slips off her panties.
Henry’s feet land one slow step at a time, leading him all the way to the edge of the railing. He stops a yard short and tips his head back. His breathing shakes as he chokes back the tears. “There’s no one here,” he says to himself. “No one will ever see you . . .” His thumb makes little circles around the tip of the hammer; his body gently sways on the balls of his feet. “. . . They will never see this.”
Below Henry a distant sound is building. The shocks of the truck squeak in a steady rhythm. Art has his hands on either of Marie’s hips and she’s bouncing up and down in the tight cab space. Heavy breathing coming from mouths kissing, licking, feeling. Hair hanging in both faces. The windows are sweating. Marie raises up and slinks down; each time Art thrusts upward, meeting Marie midway. The thudding sound of flesh pounding into flesh. Marie braces herself using the overhead grip. Her moaning has turned into a patterned howl that matches the shocks.
“Wait,” she says, “Let me turn around.” She pushes herself to her feet, spinning so she faces the windshield. Art guides her down and lets out a pleased exhausted breath once they are into it again. His hands are going from her hips to her breasts. Both partners are dripping sweat all over each other.
Henry holds the gun in both hands and wipes his face on his shirt sleeve. He looks out at the city and studies the fog. His chest moves up and down with each trembling breath he takes. Inside his home empty bottles of wine decorate the living room. One bottle is tipped on its side and gently rocks back and forth. Broken orange plastic near the fireplace is accompanied by scattered white pills. Some have been crushed underfoot and the dust swirls when the breeze passes through. Inside the bathroom the body of a young attractive woman lays curled in a broken shape in a thick, black-brown puddle. The skin around her face is drowned of any color and her eyes are fixed on the blood-soaked tile beneath her.
Two red footprints lead a trail from the puddle. They create a path down the hallway along the hardwood floors, and as they thin out they just barely reach the foot of the balcony. “You’re all alone,” Henry says. “There’s no one left.”
Art’s panting from his gut and his brow is soaked through with sweat. It’s running down his face and Art tells Marie, “Wait, slow down.” He tells her, “I don’t want to come just yet.” Marie slaps her left palm into the windshield and grinds down into his lap. Her hips make short circular motions. Her moans quiet down. She’s catching her breath and manages to say, “Let’s go outside.”
Henry sobs, says, “Alone.”
“Wait,” Art says between breaths, “What?”
“Let’s go outside,” Marie says. “It’s too hot in here.”
Art begins gently pumping his hips, thrusting and Marie tosses her hair around rubbing her face and neck. Art squeezes Marie’s hips and says, “Not just yet.” He grabs her hard, bucking into the weight of her grinding hips. She moans and repeats, “Let’s go outside.”
Henry reaches a shaky hand out and grabs the railing of his balcony. His eyes close and he drops his chin into his chest. He pushes the muzzle of the gun into the flesh of his temple. In the dark he says the word again: “Alone.”
The steam escapes in a shush, and the cool air rushes into Marie’s face, into Art’s face. “Make sure the door is unlocked,” Marie says. They both look down the road into the foggy city. Tail lights flick on when a parked car comes to life. The sound of distant voices. The couple both shiver when their bare feet set upon the concrete.
The tip of the muzzle digs hard into Henry’s skin. The hammer remains pulled back. Strong grip. Eyes blurring.
Art wraps his arm around Marie’s lower back and she lifts her leg. Art backs her against the truck.
The cold air blows Henry’s hair in his eyes. His trigger finger warms the steel it touches. He adjusts his grip.
Art picks up speed as he pushes his hips into Marie’s.
Marie belts out anticipatory grunting from her lungs to Art’s rhythm, growing louder and louder, and she squeezes her arms around Art’s neck.
Henry sniffles. Breathes out his mouth.
Art cries out, “I’m coming . . .”
Marie screams at Art’s hips hyper-jacking in their final effort.
Henry repeats his last word: “Alone.”
The tension breaks.
Art pulls away from Marie, grabs himself and in the dim light the ropes look like strands of pearlescent fabric. Marie watches it sail through the air, then soak the concrete, rubbing her chest—still moaning—rubbing her stomach, hips and thighs. They come together and kiss each other; their mouths sucking at one another’s face and neck. A long comforting embrace follows. After they catch their breath Marie says, “It’s actually really nice out tonight.” Art looks through the window, sees that the car keys are still in the ignition, and he reaches for the handle.
Author: Lawrence Goodwin
