As soon as I’m alone, I pick up the phone and dial 911. I’ve never been one to rat, but the conversation in the kitchen and the damage to the house have me scared. No answer. There is only a strange tone. Something loud and not unlike a busy signal. I try two more times before giving up. The thought occurs to grab my guitar case and walk out the gate, but I wouldn’t make it far. If I can’t even reach a dispatcher, the whole county might be burning.
I roll over onto my side, back still aching as I stare at my reflection in the mirrored wall. I’ve always found my face handsome. A strong jawline, good hair and a heavy brow that is a touch villainous. If only I could be as satisfied with the rest. I wonder if I’m the only man with an empty bed tonight. Women have shared themselves with me, but one who will stay seems out of the question. That’s why it hurts seeing Caroline lust after Victor. I’d deluded myself into thinking she could be content with just my body. Perhaps some woman could accept fidelity with a man shaped like me, but I’ve known since the early days that my life is not that kind of story. Intimacy is always going to be hard to come by. I used to accept that with some grace, but my time with Caroline has reminded me how much I missed women. If I’m being honest, how much I missed Angela.
Someone knocks on the door. I climb out of bed thinking Caroline has come to apologize, but find Rosita standing in the hall. She clutches her bag, eyes downcast as if already regretting this decision. It must be about Angela Carver. Russell has told her everything and she’s here to pry the details out of me. In some way, I’m relieved. After days of fear, it’s a mercy to be found out. Like a murderer finally secure inside a cell, maybe I’ll even sleep afterward.
“Come in,” I say.
My reflections surround her as we pass the mirrored walls. I stand in every corner, omnipresent, as I pull a chair away from the vanity. The furniture is not suited to my posture. When I sit, my body pitches forward and threatens to fold into itself like a shrimp broiling in a skillet. Rosita perches on the edge of the bed. I notice her watching one of my reflections. Her eyes measure the curve of my spine like an architect wondering how to mend a bridge’s flawed foundation. I let her look. The sooner she sees her fill, the easier this will be.
“What’s up?” I ask.
“I wanted a moment to talk with you.”
The tentative way she speaks frustrates me. I’m trapped under her thumb and she can’t muster the courage to just say it.
“Well, unless you’re offering a ride out of here, I’d like to get some sleep.”
“It’s too dangerous out there,” Rosita says. “You remember the grocery store.”
“Too dangerous out there? You really believe that after that scene in the kitchen?”
“That’s just drunk bullshit,” she says, but I hear her trying to convince herself. “We shouldn’t leave till morning.”
“We? I thought you agreed with Russell? I didn’t hear you protesting his plan.”
“I don’t bother arguing when I can’t win,” Rosita says.
I look at her legs and wonder about the shape of her calves under the tight denim. Her thighs are thick, rubbing together in a caress I admire when she walks around the room. I imagine her kissing me, pushing me down on the bed as I slide my hand between those naked thighs, feeling the muscles clamp tight on my wrist in excitement. I’m ashamed having such a fantasy in front of her, but something about our closeness in the shadows makes it hard to cast the thoughts aside. Lust always feels like a double-edged sword. I’m glad I haven’t given up that part of myself after Angela, but I can’t help knowing most women would be disgusted by my desire for them. When your body is different, the world wants to strip you of all those human impulses. To render the sick or malformed sterile. Sometimes life would be easier without those urges. I tried to tell Caroline that once. She took me to bed, pulled me between her bare breasts and stared into my eyes. “So, you’d rather not have this?” she’d asked, while I plunged inside. I loved her for that brief moment of reassurance.
“What are you doing here?” I ask. “With Russell, I mean?”
“I’m writing an article about imagery and persona in shock rock. You know, Alice Cooper guillotines and Kiss makeup? I found their website and flew to town.”
“For a shitty bar band?”
“Don’t let Russell hear you say that,” Rosita says. “He tells me you’re an influence. Is that true?”
“First I’ve heard,” I say. We’re moving into it now. One or two more bits of small talk, then she’ll be asking all about The Troubadours. Maybe even my ghostwriting.
“Why’d you quit playing?”
The question could have a thousand answers, so I choose a lie. “I wasn’t any good.”
“I don’t believe that. I had my ear to the door when you were in the studio.”
When I don’t reply, she smiles and leans close enough to whisper in my ear.
“I haven’t been entirely honest about things. I hope you’ll forgive me, but I didn’t want to talk about it in front of the others.”
I imagine her hand caressing the stubble sprouting from my jaw. I try to clear my head of these longings, but since Angela, no woman has spoken to me in the dark. No one looks at my eyes because they feel the need to gawk at the rest of me. All the hope I’ve spent years purging is beginning to grow.
“Russell told me about how you played with Angela Carver,” Rosita admits. “But that’s not why I’m here. I’m hoping you’ll participate in a project. I curate an art website that specializes in bodies.”
Here is the inevitable exploitation. A chance for cash or other promises if I will just be debased. It’s the dream offered to all the alienated. Desires fulfilled if you will only sell yourself. While the average man might incur only minor degradation, men like me are asked to endure open ridicule. What sort of pictures could she be dressing up with words like curate? Daguerreotypes of dwarves in their tiny vests fill my mind. Shadowed images of the Elephant Man struggling to hold his tumor-heavy head aloft. And I thought the mountains would guard me from these examples of carnival lust.
“What sort of bodies?” I ask. Anger edges into my voice, but Rosita looks ready for this. Her intentions have been questioned before.
“Bodies that are overlooked by society. Bodies that are misrepresented.”
“Bodies like mine.”
She takes a small laptop from the bag on her shoulder. “Can I show you some pictures?”
She turns the screen toward me and pulls up an image of a blond woman. The work is a rough draft. The red eye still present, the light filters need altering to fix the shadows climbing across the woman’s hips, but I can still see enough to understand.