10
I winced and let my head rest against the back of the couch. I was too hot, too itchy, and my hands suddenly ached. The glassy taste of cheap beer festered on my tongue. I lifted the sleeves of my shirt with opposite hands, scratching at my arms. Itching. Hot. So much sweat. I just wanted to leave.
"That's quite a tat you have," a voice purred from my left.
I opened my eyes slowly. My fingers still scratched subconsciously over the skin of my left arm, lifting the jersey's sleeve as they went. It took me a moment, but I realized that that voice was referring to me. It had flowed from the corner, where a recliner sat in shadow.
A woman sat back in the easy chair, hands curled about the front of its armrests. She wore a loose, khaki cargo pants and a dull gray tank top. Dark, naturally tanned skin shone with a pall of sweat. Her arms were exquisitely muscled. Each bicep, tricep, and deltoid stood out as if they had been carved from oak. Bodybuilder's arms. I could see the outline of her nipples, ghosting through the thin cotton of her shirt and the sports bra she wore beneath. Her shining, tussled black hair was cut short – a page boy's hair, as if from a pin-up magazine from the sixties. On one wrist, she wore a silver bracelet etched with jagged art deco designs and inset with a single polished red stone.
The angle of the lamp's light cast a ribbon of darkness across her face. I could see little of it, except for the outline of wide cheekbones and a square jaw. Her eyes were little more than coal diamond glints. A long, sly smile broke through the shadow. Among her perfect alabaster teeth, I swore that her canines stood as sharp as knife points.
Despite the heat that had dogged me the entire day and night, I shivered.
"Excuse me?" I managed.
She laughed quietly. I could just barely see her eyes move, tracing up and down my body. "I said that I like your tattoo." She gestured with a single strong hand. Her voice was smooth and husky, rolling over a gravelly edge deep in the back of her throat.
"Oh . . . thanks." I couldn't help but stare. She didn't budge a millimeter. Still as a clay statue, sweating in the corner. That strange, unnerving smile never broke. "How long have you been sitting there?" I asked.
"Long enough," the woman responded. She let off a low, growling chuckle. "I got to see you make your move on Little Miss 'Likes Kids.' Very smooth."
My head dropped back against the couch cushions. "Whatever."
"Are you a fan?" she asked.
"What?"
"A fan. Of the game. Zelda."
I looked back to her and winced. This again. I was too drunk for this. Or not enough. "You mean the tattoo?" I barked a single, hateful laugh. "Yeah. Of course. Why the hell would I have it if I wasn't?"
"Whoa. Calm down there, Casanova." She clucked her tongue and smoothed a hand through her hair. "I'm a fan too, you could say. My brothers and I used to play the original, back in the day."
"Yeah," I sighed. "Back in the day."
Thump thump thump thump. Techno drums began to roll back up from the basement.
"Must be pretty devoted to get a tattoo."
"I suppose. Seemed like a good idea at the time." I stared at the ceiling, miserable.
Her sly, sibilant voice wove across me. "I like it. It's . . . bold, a tattoo like that. Says something about the person who gets it."
"That they're a fucking geek?" I suggested. I wiped sweat away from my forehead and smeared it across the sofa.
"Maybe. Or maybe it means that they're brave, wise, and powerful. That they've devoted themselves to a power and ideal handed down by the gods themselves."
"Tch!" I chuffed. "Lady, I'm pretty drunk, but that still sounds like crap. It's a stupid tattoo, inspired by a video game. A fucking toy. What have you been drinking?" I growled and stood from the couch.
"It was just a thought," she said. "Leaving?"
"I need another beer."
"Oh?"
"Yes. Nice, uh, talking with you."
I watched as the woman leaned forward and stood from the chair. My breath caught for a moment, releasing itself in a slow trickle through my nostrils. Her eyes were dark as onyx. It may have been a trick of the light, but it looked as though her irises glowed at the edges like hot embers. I was surprised to find that she was shorter than I was by a few inches, but must have outweighed me by dozens of pounds. Her entire body was just as toned, shaped, and twitching as her arms. "Yes. It's been fine meeting you, Linus."
"What did you say your name was?" I managed.
"I didn't," she said. Her coal-dark eyes glittered mischievously. As she turned to leave the room I saw that unnerving smile, and once again I trembled as if from cold. In an instant, the dreamlike encounter was over.
Weird.
I shook my head.
Triple-weird.
I scooped up my cup, slowly falling apart as it was, and headed back outside. The difference in temperature, slight as it was, brought a smile to my face. One more beer, I reasoned. One more drink for the road, and then I would try to get Stuart to hustle us a ride home.
Stuart himself stood amongst the dozen or so people chatting and drinking on the patio. He leaned against the wall with his elbow, speaking to a nodding pixie girl who had to be more than a foot shorter than he was. I couldn't help but laugh to myself. The tension of Marilyn's unceremonious rejection and the bizarre encounter with the woman in the recliner began to fade away in wisps. I heard my name and looked up, only to see Stuart still talking down to the same girl.
Through the quiet din of crisscrossing conversations, I caught, " . . . yeah, Olsen. I know Olsen. I'm rooming with him right now, actually. He went here. Nice guy, but wound way too tight if you ask me." Stuart nodded gravely as he spoke.
I scowled as I bent to fill my cup once more. Wound too tight. Little more than an ooze of pus-yellow foam projected from the tap. Fuck. Wound too tight. I set the empty cup on the snack table and turned back through the crowd.
Fuck you, wound too tight. I saw you when you got back from Afghanistan, Stew. You want to talk about "wound too tight?" How about unwinding completely? How about just fucking giving up? How about not holding a single job for two years? How about getting quietly shuffled over to the Reserves when they re-upped your fucking commission for Iraq, since you had gained so much weight, smoked so much pot, and injured your shins? Wound too tight, my ass.
I grimaced and shuffled over the patio, elbowing between talking couples and groups of happy drunken students. Some night this had turned into. Fuck!
As I hit the edge of the patio, unhappy at this blurry world that had set its sights on pissing on me, I heard a familiar voice out on the lawn. "Stop it – you always get this way when you drink."
It was followed by an unfamiliar one, deep but wavering: "Mary, fuck. Mary. Just tell me –"
Marilyn Reed stood with arms crossed next to the man from earlier – her boyfriend. His Raiders hat sat crumpled in the high grass next to a crushed plastic cup. "I'm going home, Bryan." She slung her purse over her shoulder and started across the lawn.
The big man, "Bryan," vaulted after her. He was like the woman who had complimented my tattoo – all muscle. Unlike her, his body was the inverted triangle shape of a man who had obsessively worked his upper torso while neglecting all other areas. His shirt strained against grotesquely magnified pectorals and biceps. He caught Marilyn by the shoulder and spun her around. "You slut!" he shouted. "Fucking whore!" He gripped her by the shoulders and shook her. Terror filled her eyes.
Behind me, I heard conversations begin to go quiet. Attentions turned and scanned out to the couple on the lawn.
"Bryan," Marilyn squeaked. "Bryan, you're scaring me. You're not rational."
He stopped shaking her, but continued yelling. "I won't . . . I won't hurt you, baby. I won't hurt you."
"Let me go."
My legs were moving.
"Just promise me . . . promise me you won't talk to . . ." Bryan slurred.
My legs were moving and the Other Me was shouting itself hoarse.
"We were just talking. Honey, please. Let me go. Come with me. Let's go." Tears in her eyes.
"I won't hurt you. Just tell me what you talked about."
"This is stupid, Bryan. You always get this way," Marilyn cried.
People were whispering behind me and my legs were moving and the Other Me sat numb, as I walked straight up to Marilyn Reed and her boyfriend, Bryan. Bryan, who had to weigh almost the same as two of me. "I think it's time you let her go," I hissed.
All but a faint, oblivious conversation went silent. The two in front of me shut up completely. They looked at me with wide, shocked eyes. I could see in Bryan's blue irises that he wasn't quite processing this new development. His big hands still rested on the shoulder hems of Marilyn's blouse.
Finally, he blurted, "What?"
"I said that you should let her go home," I said. The Surface Me seemed to finally catch up with the Other Me. I felt dread spill out into my guts like liquid nitrogen.
"Linus . . ." Marilyn whispered. Her horrified eyes darted to Bryan, then back to me. It finally dawned on me how utterly stupid this was.
"What?" Bryan repeated. Before I could answer, he spat, "What the fuck? What the . . . fuck! You're that fag she, she was talking to."
"Just let her go, man," I said. I noticed that my hands were shaking.
He did, sort of. His hands drifted from her shoulders and balled into loose fists. "Get the fuck out of my face, you queer."
I shook my head. "No. You need to sleep this off, buddy. We were just talking. She made it clear she's not interested in me."
Pleadingly, Marilyn said, "Linus. Please just go away."
"No." Despite those six beers (and that single shot), I shook from the soles of my feet to the tip of my chin. "He needs to calm down, first. He needs to let you go home."
"Or what?" Bryan scowled, then started forward suddenly. Somehow, I didn't move a muscle. "What? What are you gonna do about it?" His fists tightened.
I swallowed little but hot, dry air. I could tell that all the eyes on the patio were on me, now. "Whatever it takes," I croaked.
"Whafuck?" Bryan laughed.
"Whatever it takes," I repeated. And somehow, I meant it.