Coda
"Hey, love."
"You still showing your face after what you did last night?"
"Come on, that was just—"
"Your drunkenness?"
"Nah, I wasn't even—I don't know, I was just pissed, I guess. About... about, Pappi said something."
"What?"
"And I mean, you heard her, she sounds like some old cow being milked up there, somebody else would've—"
"I'm not doing it again, you know."
"You did... Shit, Jean. I was hoping I was wrong. Shit. What the fuck were you thinking? I didn't need the gig that bad, I told you I was quitting this thing. God, Jean. I'm so sorry." He tried to cusp her face, but she batted his hand away and sighed. In the round glow of moonlight she looked tired, the bright glow of suburban future dimmed a little.
"Come on in, we don't have anyone over for a couple of nights." She took his cases and set them in the living room. In the flash of space before she turned her back, Llewyn saw the fucking cunt scrawled onto the wall and tried to wipe it off, but smeared it with blood instead. Close enough for now.
"Jim's got a contract to play at The Gate of Horn Saturday. And I need somebody to come with me to the appointment. So if that doctor of yours messes up, I'll have the pleasure of punching your face in," Jean smiled tautly.
"Oh thanks, you're a real sweetheart." Llewyn snorted lightly as he walked in, tripping over the doorstep and kneeling over.
"Damnit," he curled his hand over his chest, groaning.
"How many beers did you have?" Jean sounded faintly amused. "You haven't fallen on this step since the first time—"
"We slept together. Yeah, nice to bring back the old memories and all." He slowly lifted himself up, still hunching forward a little, eyes dazed.
"Here, lie down for a while. I'll heat the leftovers."
"Yeah, yeah, go ahead." Llewyn leaned back against the wall and sank down, cursing that oversensitive bastard. For a fifty-odd man he had a damn iron fist. His nose had stopped bleeding, but his ribs still felt cleaved by the impact, and he couldn't breathe without relieving that initial blow. He deserved it, true. He just couldn't fathom why the man would go to such lengths to revenge that ugly bitch of a woman who sounded like an expired goat.
After Jean turned off the lights and called a soft goodnight, he turned over and over, unable to find the sweet spot in the couch. Moans and bedpost creaks drifted over from Jean and Jim's room. He sneezed opportunistically, but the sounds only abated for a few seconds before continuing. He wondered if it was safe, for the baby. No, of course, it didn't matter, she was getting rid of it anyway. What if it had been his? He imagined his five-year-old self plaguing the happy household, complaining that he could hear at night and crying over his broken toy guitar strings and laughing at delight when he found a new bug to add to his glass box. No, it was for the best. Even as he slipped into the darkness, he was still haunted by the sensation of being plucked bare to the bone and drowning in his own blood. He felt cruel objects carving away at the body and ripping off fleshy innards, eating away everything soft and spilling, spouting, draining everywhere.
Waking up with a start, he immediately put his hands to his face and rubbed the skin of his arms, just to make sure that he was all there. Underneath the bristling goosebumps, his skin was warm and dry to the touch. He starting moving to put on his socks, but shied away from the limp orange piles that were still moist from a couple of days ago.
"Put on your coat."
"I—what? Jim's not in today?"
"Today is Saturday, you idiot. We have ten minutes to get there."
"Oh yeah, I remember. Where's my—" he scrambled to get his shoes on and reached over to the lump of his coat in a panic. "Fuck."
He crumpled back onto the couch, head hanging low and cursing through his teeth.
Jean kneeled down before him, lifting his chin up with one firm hand. "Hey, look at me. This is not a hangover. You get into a fight at the Gaslight?"
He laughed hoarsely. "Wasn't a damn fight. I couldn't get a single hit in, could I?"
"Oh fuck, you're hot."
"Why thank you, Jean. You never got so lovestruck post-coitus, why the generosity now, sweetheart?" His head dipped lower and his voice murmured out into a shallow whimper.
"Shut up," Jean snapped. "Do you have any more symptoms?"
"It's just a bloody cold, Jean. Don't look at me with so much concern."
"I need to know that Jim and I won't get sick because of housing tramps. So you don't you dare touch me."
"You're all his. I've seen my fill, don't forget."
"Asshole."