II. Sex
Rating: R (language, explicit sexual imagery)
Author's Notes: This chapter is considerably longer than the previous entry, and the mood is much, much more adult. Still, I feel that the two stories are related, they share common elements, themes, particularly as the chapters will all take place around the time the group attempts to flee. Up until the deaths of four people, no one in the mall seemed anxious to leave. It's not easy to change so drastically from the laissez-faire attitude, so I wanted to examine what would be said, would need to be said before they could leave their sanctuary behind and risk relying on each other.
***
The tedium of checklists had somehow fallen among her lot when duties were divided up. Lists. They weren't endless. There was nothing practical about an endless list--you might just as well not make it if it never ended--but these were coming pretty close. Food, clothes, first-aid, those were present and accounted for, the luxuries came next, the hypothetical, last. As the hypothetical included whatever weapons they could procure from Andy's shop, this one required the most attention.
Ana sighed and slumped forward, leaning her chin on her crossed arms, trying to remember what luxuries people had stopped by to add while she tried to sort her lists. Nicole requested a journal, Glenn asked for a Bible, Terry wanted some comic book--graphic novel, she corrected herself, Tucker asked for some pornographic magazines (at least he was honest), Kenneth insisted they throw in the volleyball equipment, and Steve demanded they be well-stocked with liquor. C.J. had told her to fuck a luxuries list because it'd only slow them down. Michael had said he'd think about it.
And here came Monica now, undoubtedly having heard that requests were being left with her at Hallowed Grounds. Which would it be? Cigarettes or lingerie?
"Hey."
"Hey, girl," Monica grinned, drawing over an ashtray while lighting the cigarette already dangling from her lips. Noting her moue of disapproval, Monica took a defiant drag but blew the smoke away. "Don't start with me, doc."
"I'm a nurse."
"I've had it up to here with you health professionals." She perched, chin on the palm of her cigarette hand. "Besides, not smoking didn't save anyone out there," she jerked her chin towards the doors.
"That's like saying it's okay to have arteriosclerosis so long as you get hit by a bus before you have a heart attack. And," she pointed an accusing finger, "you are still alive, so your argument doesn't apply. But, if it makes you feel better, I won't tell anyone outside to stop smoking if they start."
Her terse language drew a guffaw, muffled around the filter of a cigarette. Monica happily blew a stream of smoke upwards. "Damn. You're a cackle." This, like much of what Monica said, made little sense to her. Monica shook her head and clarified, "A cackle? A hoot, you know?"
"Right, but why a 'cackle'?"
"Because people don't actually hoot."
"Right," Ana nodded, waving off an invisible wisp of smoke she nonetheless could smell. "What do you want me to add?"
"Hm?"
"You want something. What?" Ana gestured towards her lists. Monica snatched the 'Luxuries' list, laughing at a couple entries.
"Figures."
"What?"
Monica shrugged, still chewing her lip in a strangely knowing manner. "I want cigarettes, but if you're going to be bad for my psychological health about it, I'll forgo them." She took another drag. "But you might as well add what people really want to that."
"Hey, they told me, not the other way around."
"Well, they didn't tell you the truth." Monica gave her a pitying, 'aren't you cute?' look. Ana bristled, which only made Monica laugh. "What? What did you expect? You're the den mother around here. No one tells it like is." She paused, rolling her eyes toward the ceiling, back and forth, back and forth, reconsidering. "Well, no, I take it back. Tucker told you the truth. Maybe Glenn, too."
"How...never mind," Ana shook her head, leaning forward a bit testily, "If you're so smart, why don't you tell me what I should add, so I don't have to worry about it last minute? Better yet, why don't you make the list and save me the trouble?"
Monica's grin widened. "Okay."
"Here," Ana shoved a blank page at her, and Monica took it and a marker. At the top of the page, reading upside down, Ana saw the name Monica gave the new list: Desires. Next, she wrote each of their names down, taking her time with the arrangement. Tucker went first, followed by Steve, then C.J., Terry and Nicole--they were one entry on their own, names written with a connecting bracket at the end. Then Glenn, Kenneth, Andy--Andy? How could she possibly know what Andy wanted from the stores? She didn't add her name, Ana's, or Michael's.
"You missed some."
"Shh," Monica admonished, concentrating on her list. After a few seconds, Monica's head snapped up, and she stared at Ana, eyes roving, critically, over her.
"What?"
"Shh," Monica repeated, irritated and sucking on her filter. Monica squinted, narrowed one eyebrow at her, then wrote 'Ana.' Leaning back, she crossed her arms over her breasts, eyes skyward as she worked something out. Finally, she listed Michael's name. "There."
"That's helpful." There were names but no items.
"Watch." With a quick flourish, she stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray and took up the marker again. She looked at the first name, Tucker, and jotted down: porn.
"That's what he said," Ana reminded her with a roll of the eyes.
"And I said he was being honest," Monica replied casually as she scribbled in the next entry for Steve. Ana read it upside down.
"Mirrors?"
"He needs them to get off."
"Okay, Monica, look, I really didn't need to know that," she didn't have to feign disgust.
"What do you think this list is for? Tsk," the blonde curls bounced as Monica tossed her head. "Steve's favorite position is doggy-style."
"Monica--"
"But," the other woman interrupted, cutting her off, "he's definitely a tit-man, so he needs the mirrors to see them swinging. He loves the angle from the rear, but he's crazy about breasts, especially aroused ones and how they move when he's thrusting. That's his favorite part. I'd put 'camera' on here, but he doesn't need to re-live sex that badly, so mirrors will do. And I seriously doubt we'll have space for the plasma screens for live playback." She recounted all this very officiously, as if she weren't in any way connected to this past time of Steve's.
"Uh-huh," Ana grunted, not sure whether commenting or staying silent was the key to ceasing all further discussions of Steve's sexual preferences. Monica nodded, and taking her silence as acceptance, wrote her next entry.
For C.J., she wrote blow-job.
Ana snorted. "I hope you've got someone else in mind to give him one." Not me, she meant.
Monica raised one perfectly tapered eye-brow, and with one more stroke of the pen, Ana had her answer: next to Glenn's name, she wrote C.J. "That works out pretty well, actually."
Ana felt her jaw drop. "What?"
"Glenn's definitely flexible on that score. He's just repressed because he happens to be a Jesus-freak. You should have heard him in that chapel," Monica rolled her eyes. "Plus, he likes playing the woman some times. Definitely a cross-dresser."
"I guess I missed that," Ana said, dumb-struck. "Where did you get this idea?"
"Simple," Monica flipped her hair behind her back, "I just happen to be psychic when it comes to sex."
Ana, to put it simply, had absolutely no answer for that. Monica might as well have dropped out of every-man's-fantasy land. She strolled around with the confident swagger of a woman who not only feels but knows she's sexy. Her willingness to perform never faded, she never chastised Steve for watching the tapes he made of them around others, and she made open invitations to all, regardless of age, even gender at times. Maybe the confidence act gave her some insight unfamiliar to comparatively reserved individuals, but did she believe that made her psychic?
"Sex psychic," Ana mimicked, dryly, "that what you do for a living?"
"Nope," Monica shrugged, "just a gift."
"So, how does your gift work?"
"I know what people's favorite positions are or what's their favorite way to get off. Whether they're aggressive or masochistic, that sort of thing." Like all people alternately blessed and cursed with unique talents, Monica sounded bored discussing it. Ana could not dismiss this so easily. It was ridiculous, and she needed a good laugh.
"So, C.J....?"
"He prefers a blow-job to a woman. He's straight, but he'd take it from a guy if it was good enough and he closed his eyes."
"Over a woman?"
"Yep." Monica lit another cigarette. "Isn't it obvious? He even acts like b-j man."
"How's that?" Ana was going to get lost before she even got to Monica-land.
"Power. He wants it, wants to be able to dismiss people, but he usually can't. He'll feel guilty, so he'll want the blow-job, but he'll make sure the girl has a good time and just hope she'll get around to it the next time. Really, though, he just wants to be sucked and to be done with it."
"And you would know because..." Ana fished for the words to say it politely, "from experience, maybe?"
Monica shook her head. "Nuh-uh. I'll do it, sure, but I want my cookies, too. C.J. needs a woman who loves him enough to make him feel good without him returning the favor all the time. I'm not the girl for that. I want tat for my tits."
"You really think that's what C.J. needs? Someone to blow him and all will be well in his world?"
"It's not about what I think. It's what he likes."
Not about to argue the point, not about Steve, not about C.J., she moved on. "But Glenn?"
"Is a Jesus-freak. He's gay, he wants cock, but he can't have it. So, instead of him getting sucked off, he does the sucking. That way, he's not 'spilling his seed' or whatever. God happy, Glenn happy, get it?"
"What about Tucker?"
"Victoria's Secret catalogue and some lotion, he's a happy man. I bet he doesn't even need the real stuff." Ana pictured Tucker, flannel, jeans, and cap. Yeah, that made more sense. He had a kind of loner side to him; he dressed the part of the backwoods hick, though, so it wasn't really fair to stereotype. "You can see that one, right?"
Ana nodded. "Go on. I'd love to hear your theories on the rest."
"What theories?" The two blondes, wrapped up in their dissection, failed to detect Nicole's approach until the teenager had plopped herself down next to Monica, upwind of her cigarette smoke. Seeing the lists spread out on the counter, Nicole brightened. "Oh, hey, can I add something?"
She reached for Monica's list before Ana could slap a hand down on it. At first, it didn't look like Nicole's brain could process what she was reading. The first entry was risque though harmless enough, but it was all downhill after Steve. Her cheeks flushed bright red by the time she reached the last entry, her mouth hung open, and her eyes flew accusingly between the two women. Ana couldn't decide between plausible denial or deflection of blame. Monica merely nodded.
"I was getting to you, too, don't worry, kid," Monica reached for the pen. Horrified, Nicole dropped the paper, which Monica snatched, all before Ana could react to any of it. Their resident sex-pot wasted no time at all, writing down one word next to Terry and Nicole without hesitation.
Condoms.
"Oh!" Nicole squeaked. Ana couldn't quite place her reaction. One part embarrassment, one part relief, perhaps. Nicole had probably expected worse.
"That doesn't really say much about favored position there, Monica," Ana grinned, winking at Nicole to let her in on the joke. The younger girl looked at her, astonished, and she attempted to make her face expressive enough--I'm just indulging her, don't pay attention to anything she says.
"She's probably still doing missionary," Monica snipped, offended, and Nicole's answering squawk was incriminating. "You're young," Monica patted her shoulder. "You'll learn." She did another sizing up, as she had done to Ana. "I think you'll probably find the 'legs-up' is the way to go."
"I--!" Was all Nicole could manage.
"Like this," Monica stubbed out her second cigarette, half-finished, and lifted her legs. She braced them against the counter-top, gripping the edge of her stool to keep from falling. "He comes in at this angle," she gestured with one hand, making Nicole go purple, "and it gives much better stimulation all around. Try it."
"So, favorites can change?" Ana inquired, suddenly interested now that Nicole was here to--sort of--prove the veracity of Monica's "gift."
"No, but when you're young, you don't know any better. Terry was a virgin, right?"
Nicole's jaw was perilously close to falling off.
"Nicole, you don't have to answer her. Tell her to knock it off if it bothers you." All three of them understood Nicole's reactions well enough so as to make verbal verification unnecessary.
"He was, I know, Ana knows, too, if she thinks about it hard enough. So, he's a missionary man, too. For now. You'll like what he comes up with, but remember the legs-up when he gets his turn." Monica punched Nicole's shoulder, lightly enough to show encouragement. "Educate the man, girl. You should know by now what works for you."
Despite her shock and rapidly darkening cheeks, Nicole nodded. To Ana's further surprise, she dared to respond. "Yeah."
"Yeah? Yeah? Legs-up, I'm right, aren't I?"
"Well, I haven't, I mean I haven't tried, but.."
"Sounds good though, doesn't it?"
"Yeah," Nicole said, sounding as if she really meant it. Monica looked over to Ana, kicking her legs in triumph and giggling before she righted herself on her stool.
"Impressive," Ana conceded. By no means convinced, she could nevertheless enjoy the game. Monica was pretty good for distraction; it was her real talent, whatever she might think of her psychic abilities. "Who's next?" She and Nicole checked over Monica's shoulder. Kenneth was after Glenn. Monica, ever a consummate show-woman, backed up, spreading her hands palms-up over the list, an invitation for them to guess before the magician performed her trick. Ana considered it--this wasn't about the list of what to take any more, not since 'C.J.' had been an answer for Glenn. What would Kenneth want in a partner?
"From behind?" Nicole offered, the fading color in her cheeks rising again as she struggled with this euphemism. Monica appeared to weigh this against her prognosis, then shook her head.
"Maybe him standing, woman on a counter?" Ana suggested. It wasn't too difficult to picture their resident stoic in that position, allowing him the driving force while standing, and a brace for the woman. Luis liked that, too. Thoughts of Luis were too deep, too serious for this stupid game; she missed Monica's reply as she banished the pain of losing him. "What?"
"I said you were getting warmer. In fact, you're very close. Well done," Monica congratulated her.
"So, how?" Now Nicole was hooked, too.
"Against the wall."
"No way," Nicole argued, "too much...work."
"You'll learn," Monica sing-songed. "Kenneth's a hard fuck, little girl."
"Monica, that's pushing it." Kenneth was a sweetheart no matter his gruff exterior. He had spared and saved her life when he came along to investigate the wreck of her car. Ana would hear nothing against him, certainly not some stereotyped cliche from a woman whose judgment with regards to sex--if Steve was any indication--was sorely lacking.
"He's a wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am guy, Ana. He can still be a nice guy about it. It's not like the first time he gets a woman he screws her with her feet off the ground." Monica could be awfully tetchy when challenged; Ana stopped herself short of calling her a bitch...when she could. "A lot of women like that kind of initiative. It's sexy and it's exciting. He's attentive, too. You'd be rocked out of this world before he banged you hard enough to break your tailbone."
Nicole giggled. "That still doesn't seem very comfortable."
"Trust me, with that kind of clit stimulation, you wouldn't care if your whole backside was black and blue. And he's a post-coitus cuddler, too, you better believe it."
"Oh, now I get it," Ana put her hands on her hips, tapping one finger. "He's pushy, but he still has a 'heart of gold'?"
"He's a good man," Monica reiterated, stubborn. "You're just being ignorant."
"What?"
"You think I mean he fucks women like that all the time. I didn't say that. I just said that's his favorite method. To the point, then comfort petting after. As opposed to missionary," she pointed at Nicole, who had no time to defend herself before she leveled the finger in Ana's direction, "or a talker."
"Excuse me?"
"You're a talker."
"My sex life is not open to discussion."
"Oh, but it's okay to talk about everyone else's? Mine? Nicole's?" Monica's self-righteous indignation she could shake off, but Nicole's hurt betrayal, clear in her wide eyes, dogged Ana into backing off, if only slightly.
"I'm not having sex. You two are talking about current things."
"That's no excuse. Kenneth isn't fucking around either, nor is Tucker, or Glenn, or C.J." Monica growled. "What? You're somehow exempt from the truth because your husband's dead? You get some sort of gossip get-out-of-jail pass 'cause your husband is a fucking ghoul?"
Ana fell back a step. Monica, she knew, liked innuendo; however, she also loved telling the shocking truth whenever she could. Tact, as far as the other woman cared, was useless, boring, and unnecessary. Still, Ana would have endured every accusation, every name, anything Monica wanted to dream up about her sex life, and hear it everyday until one of them died or they split up. That torment everyday would never, could never be half so hurtful as what had just escaped Monica's lips.
"Jesus," Monica sighed, dropped her forehead into one propped hand. "I'm sorry. That was...shitty." Even Monica recognized the line she'd violated. Nicole placed a hand over her mouth, shocked, apologetic. "I'm sorry," Monica said again.
"How...dare you..." Ana whispered, willing herself not to cry. No, she would not cry. Not in front of Monica, not in front of Nicole.
"I didn't mean...Jesus, I'm bad at this."
"Ana, she didn't mean it," Nicole reached out for Ana's hand, but she the girl's effort away.
She did mean it. It was the truth, as Monica saw it, and Monica never saw any problem with the truth. Worse, Ana knew it was the truth. Luis was dead. Luis' body was one of those things outside, like them, only somewhere else (she checked everyday to be sure). Her hand clutched at her necklace, the one he'd given her for their anniversary last year, gold, with the saint who was his namesake on it. Because she didn't go to church, he had lent her his guardian angel.
"Neck woman."
"What?" She narrowed her eyes. Anything from Monica that wasn't abject apology, she didn't want to hear.
"You're a neck woman. Licking, sucking, biting...well, probably not biting any more," Monica amended. "And wet."
"What?" Less hostile, though guarded, Ana smothered her amazement at this assessment.
"Pool, skinny-dipping sex, definitely shower and tubs, probably rain, too."
For the second time, Monica managed to stun her to silence. This time, it wasn't quite so painful. She thought of the last time she and Luis had made love, how she'd told him their water bill was going to be through the roof as they spent nearly two hours in the shower. The water had turned ice-cold before they separated; they'd made love until there were goose bumps all over. She'd asked him to turn it off, so he kicked at it, dragging her down on top of him, never disengaging, and she had complimented him for being so talented. He'd responded by sucking at the hollow of her throat; she called him a vampire. Monica was right: she liked the water and she was a talker.
Her silence was proof enough, and Monica veered off discussion of her sex life for the safer ground of persons not present. They'd skipped to her anyway; the next name on the list wasn't hers.
"Andy?" Nicole asked, incredulous. "Really? You can guess from here?"
"I'm not guessing," Monica pouted. "Have I been wrong so far?" She looked pointedly at Nicole but avoided Ana.
"N-no," Nicole stammered, coloring.
"No," Ana murmured, still lost in happier memories of Luis. He had always said she talked more than any of his other girlfriends. He liked it, liked how she teased him, how she still flirted after two years of marriage, three years together. Three years undone in three minutes, or less.
"Andy's a feeler. Premature ejaculator."
"What?" Nicole shrieked.
"Gun-nut," Monica reminded her, wagging her index finger, newly adorned with another cigarette between it and her middle finger. "Definitely compensating. He likes coping a feel, and it makes him 'safe.' Guys who grope and go away are 'safer' than guys who don't but want to fuck you because the first group go away."
"That's a bit..."
"It may seem like it, but it makes sense. He likes stroking the balls and the underside of the cock, especially."
"Wait, wait, you think Andy's gay, too?" Recovering from the distraction of her memory, Ana couldn't quite follow Monica-logic. "Because he likes guns?"
"No, because he's flirting with Kenneth."
"They're just..."
"Maybe Kenneth is just," Monica shrugged, giving the impression that her incredulity was expected but incorrect. "He likes the underside because it's more sensitive. The balls because he's not comfortable with his own dick."
"How do you know that?" Nicole gaped, fascinated and not a little bewildered.
"I just do. I've always known these things. It's just so obvious, isn't it?" She tossed her curls about her head a couple of times, pouting. "But no one else ever sees it."
"I think you're inventing this."
"Ask Andy."
"I don't think that's a good idea." It wasn't, but Monica's self-assured air almost goaded her into doing it. Sweet revenge for the gut-wrenching Monica had dealt her-going up to the roof and finding out Andy had a wife and kids and liked the Kama Sutra.
"Well, I'm right, and you two both know it."
"Lucky guess," Ana dismissed it. It could be. She often played with her necklace, touched her neck when she thought of Luis--though that might have to do more with her memories of how he had died than how he had made love to her--and Nicole was young and probably didn't know much more than the standard position. "And you know what Steve likes."
"So, ask..." Monica swivelled on her stool to scan the nearby area. Ana groaned inwardly. Which unfortunate member of their group would happen to be in the wrong place at the wrong time? Who would Monica insist fess up to the position or perversion or whatever that she imagined for them?
As it turned out, C.J. was the victim. He emerged from the garage, wiping his hands free of dirt and grease, sweaty and worn out from a long day spent reinforcing the buses, arranging some of the make-shift arsenal, and the like. Monica beckoned him over with a mock serious gesture, waving her arm urgently, quite a change from her typical coquettish crooked finger and batted eyelashes.
"What?" C.J. barked, irritably.
"Answer a question."
"What?" C.J. crossed his arms, looking askance at Monica, suspicious.
"Say I offered you a blow-job or a fuck, which would you take?"
C.J. raised one eyebrow. "You, personally, or is this a hypothetical?" For C.J., this wasn't at all in the realm of possibility that Monica might make such an offer--it was more of an inevitability. It was a fair question for just about anyone, Ana thought, rather unkindly.
"Surprise, asshole, it's a hypothetical. Answer the question," Monica gritted her teeth, her normally bland, unaffected ease straining to stay in place. Although unabashed by her own behavior, Monica had her limits with her reputation among the group; she might not have minded being considered easy, but C.J.'s tone implied something more derogatory, a word she probably heard often in her former life: slut. For the unashamed and sexually adventurous, it was probably a brand. Ana might even have defended her, if she were not still smarting at Monica for her comments about Luis.
"Blow-job, probably," C.J. answered, tucking his hands into the back pockets of his jeans. "Why?"
"So, you'd say you liked that better than sex."
"Depends. Why?"
"Not important."
"Nuh-uh," C.J. protested. "I need a reason."
"Monica is psychic. She said you'd say that," Nicole jumped in. Monica flashed Nicole a conspiratorial grin, resuming a impassively innocent look when she looked back at C.J.
"Psychic, huh? Makes sense. Doesn't require much brains and you're too small to be a stripper," C.J. quipped, casting a snarky leer at her breasts, retreating before any of them could respond. Although C.J.'s reaction was wounded pride talking, Ana saw Monica visibly deflate.
"Don't listen to him," Nicole consoled her.
"He doesn't bother me," Monica tossed her hair, frazzled. Ana said nothing, finally recognizing the gesture for what it was: whenever Monica felt helpless or depressed or despondent, she threw her hair about. Maybe it worked to distract people from her flaws, her weaknesses. No doubt it worked as a distraction all too well, all too often, thus reinforcing the behavior.
The three of them lapsed into the first embarrassed silence since they had begun the entente. Ana attributed this to Monica's personal humiliation and hurt; otherwise, at least one of them would have talked right through the blushes and denials. She took a deep breath, fishing for some snippet of conversation to reanimate them, to shy away from C.J. and his own version of rude truths. Her eyes fell on the list under Monica's tapping fingers. While she had stopped writing down people's "Desires" after Terry and Nicole, everyone on the list and in the mall, herself included had been covered. Except for Monica and Michael.
"What about you Monica?"
"What about me what?" Her tone was petulant, sore.
"What's your favorite position?" Ana attempted a smirk and a swaggering eyebrow.
"Oh me, how boring," Monica did not rise to the bait. "Isn't C.J. right? Aren't I just open to everything?"
"C.J.'s an ass," Nicole stated. "Us girls can be honest, though, right?" Her feigned solidarity was belied by her crimson face. Despite that, Monica warmed to her enthusiasm, sitting up straighter out of her slump. "Okay, so I'm still figuring it out, and Ana's..." she glanced at Ana, seeking permission and assistance.
"A talking fish, apparently," Ana shrugged, unable to clamp down on her smile. Monica's eyebrows lifted, respect and interest evident in her hopeful expression. "Your turn. You said it yourself. No exceptions."
"Well," Monica shook her shoulders, reinvigorating herself. "I am the most experienced here, for sure, I won't lie. I like sex, love it, in fact. I don't see what's wrong with that. If you like someone, find them attractive, and they like you back, I don't see why--so long as you're cautious--" she cast a significant look at Nicole--"I don't see what's wrong with giving each other pleasure. Never have. Maybe it's my hippy parents and their free-love speech, but I've always been sexual. It's empowering."
"It has its moments," Ana confessed. Like when Luis massaged her whole body after a full day of work, easing out the tension because he loved her and wanted her to be content and because he knew he would get laid if he did. She'd told him that, too. 'You only do this--oh,' as he found a knot and undid it, 'because you know I'll reward you.' He didn't answer her, just began to massage more sensitive areas, then mixed her exclamations of pleasure with his. Ana shuddered, delighted at the strength of it, how it could repress pain and waken pleasure. How there was good to be had even after chaos.
"Like hell," Monica agreed, shaking one fist. "And it's the only male weakness. Tell him he fails to satisfy, you might as well kill him, put him out of his misery." She nodded, a sage lecturing to her pupils. "That's what I like best. The power of it. I can walk away from anything, anyone, and tell them how I feel and not care if it hurts their feelings or not. If it's the truth, I let them have it." Ashes fell from her cigarette as she tapped it over the ashtray.
"That's it?" Nicole sounded disappointed; once more, she expected the risque and discovered the ordinary.
"Honey, it's all about having a good time. Men play at sex like it's a power trip, like they're gods on earth because they can rack up. Well, I just think it's better to level the playing field. In the long run, a vibrator is more satisfying than a man and more reliable. The sooner they know that, the sooner we see a lot fewer people like C.J."
"Don't you feel bad telling people off ?"
"Not if they deserve it. I told Steve off." Seeing their shocked looks, she grinned, stubbing out her third cigarette with some satisfaction. "He's a good lay and he took care of me where it counts, but he's an asshole. I don't care if he's Casanova--if he treats me like a slut, he's not getting any. End of story. In this shit-hole time, he can't afford his attitude. It's gonna cost him," she spat, venomous.
Ana felt almost proud of Monica. The woman might exaggerate her quest for sexual equality to downplay her promiscuity, but she had valid points. And, if she really did give Steve the cold shoulder, that meant at least she was taking a step in the right direction towards sanity. A nagging in her brain refused to let her dwell on this. They were missing something. What was it? What wasn't being discussed here?
"Hey," she said, wondrous, "what about Michael? You haven't read his mind."
Nicole, instead of blushing, blanched. Whatever she and Michael talked about a day or two ago, it obviously excluded the subject of his sex life. Nicole looked like she'd been told there was no stork to deliver babies. Like a child learning her parents kissed and worse. The realization of a teenager who enjoyed sexual freedom but shuddered to think of how she came to be because of what it meant. It meant mom and dad enjoyed the same liberties. Might still enjoy them.
"He's a hard read," Monica frowned. "A guy like that? Divorced that many times? I'd almost say wife-beater. No one's that unlucky unless they're royal, royally rich, or a royal pain-in-the-ass."
"Michael wouldn't do that!" Nicole shouted, defensive. "He wouldn't want to hurt anyone."
"Relax, kid," Monica rolled her eyes. "I just said it was a possibility. I don't think it's true."
"Maybe he's got a weird fetish," Ana suggested, eyes dancing with playful malevolence. She tried picturing Michael as an autoerotic, as a furry, anything. Each time she did, she laughed, unable to dress him up in the costumes in her mind. Judging from Nicole's and Monica's giggles, they were doing the same.
"I thought of that. That's not it. Not what I'm getting." She did play the psychic role rather well. "It's more of a fantasy vibes. Like role-playing. Maybe he's got a hero-complex?" Thinking aloud, Monica still disagreed with herself, puzzling out whatever her gift told her without their help. "That's not it. Maybe he's just lousy in bed. That would put off any long-term relationships."
"He has kids," Nicole put in, softly, fondly. Ana stared at her. Kids? As in more than one? More than what they knew. They knew he had at least one, but Nicole knew more and elaborated on her statement. "He has a daughter and a son that are two years apart. They're full siblings." Implying he'd been with one of his wives long enough to have two children.
"Hmm, that's helpful," Monica mused, tapping her chin with a lacquered fingernail. Ana ran her finger over her bottom lip, just thinking, absorbing the information. Michael with children. It made such lovely sense. It surprised them all, moved her to sorrow and sympathy for him; next to that, she imagined her loss must seem trivial. How did a husband and lover compare to children? Children were supposed to live forever, leaving their parents behind to wither and die, fading into memory. Losing a parent scarred a person, Nicole bore the signs of it all too vividly, but the loss of life that you created...how many mothers wept in the nursery ward when their babies never got to go home?
"Were they dead before this or because of it?"
"Because, I think. He said he couldn't get to them."
Monica stopped tapping her fingernail. Another line crossed, another secret, hideous and ugly, brought to light. Ana could see where she'd intended to go with the question. If he'd lost them before...before that dawn, then he was walking wounded, and his destroyed relationships had a simple explanation. For Monica's purposes, extant children were a complication to her psychic and somewhat scientific method. However, none of them could just ignore what Nicole had shared, pretend that there wasn't new admiration and pity for their friend who kept going despite it all.
"Hnn, well," Monica recovered, the respectful moment of silence ended. "Damned if I know. I can only get vague impressions. I think he's got submission issues."
"What's that?" Nicole furrowed her brow, attempting to understand on a purely academic level and not a personal one.
"Call it passive-aggressive pseudo-masochism if you want."
"What?" Even Ana couldn't follow that. Monica's talent for redirection was prodigious.
"It's a vibes I keep getting. He wants to be pushed around a bit. Not too much, but maybe an older woman, one with more authority than him. Yeahhh," she drawled, her dawning comprehension solidifying. "She's in control, but she can't do it without him. Needs to be needed, but likes to submit. Most women want men, on some level, to be take-chargers, go-getters. He wants her to take charge but to need him. Hot damn! I got it! He likes the woman on top!" She snapped her fingers and stamped her heels. "Michael's hot for teacher!"
"Monica!" Nicole cried. "Stop, that's not nice."
"Oh, grow up. And don't forget your condoms when we leave. Little you-and-Terry's running around? Ugh," she pulled a face.
"Hey," Nicole began, but that was the last Ana heard. Her mind dwelt on what Monica had said. Monica, despite her not-so-sure bravura and big mouth, still was sharp with her assessments. Maybe she did know sex better than the rest of them, commensurate with experience. More to the point, she could picture Michael as Monica laid him out for them, and her imagination was in perfect harmony with her sensibility. Michael in a corner, backed into a chair, pinned but pushing back...
No. No, not cornered. Allowing himself to appear cornered. That was more likely. Like memory of him convincing C.J. to paint the signs on the roof. It was all C.J.'s idea, his orders, his enforcement, but Michael had provoked him, set him to the task. It blossomed outward from there, manipulation to get what he wanted without ever letting the others know it. She could even see herself, climbing into his lap, desperate after so long, pushing him down, smothering him, finding out only after that he'd laid a trap, planted the idea in her mind, played the prey to lure the hunter out, then turned predator himself...
Flashes of red from polished fingernails on snapping fingers brought her sharply out of the guilty reverie. Monica leaned back, impressed. "Where are you, and what are they serving there?" Ana felt her cheeks; they were warm, undoubtedly as flushed as Nicole's had been.
"Sorry, I was thinking about my husband," she fumbled, a stab of shame causing her to falter. Luis was who she should have been thinking about. As if to justify her lie, she tried to call up similar scenarios, times when her and Luis' play had fallen along the lines drawn up by her imagination. Michael vanished, the heat in her face fell away.
"Mm, sure I would have loved to have met him," Monica sniffed, waggling eyebrows lecherously.
"Monica," she warned, stiffer, guiltily severe.
"Right, right, off-limits," she made a chopping motion with one hand. "Nicole, on the other hand, is fair game." Rounding on the younger girl, Monica leaned back, malicious intent written all over her posture.
"Hey now," Nicole blurted, nervous, "hey, just wait..."
"Nicole!"
Terry was waving to her from the stairs. Monica turned to regard him cooly over her shoulder.
"Saved by the cherry."
Face aflame, Nicole slid from her stool, uttered a perfunctory goodbye, mostly directed towards Ana, and scuffled her shoes as she escaped.
"Hey!" Monica called after her. Reaching into the small handbag she'd appropriated from Gaylen Ross, Monica tossed a box after Nicole. It was of a nondescript size and shape, the bland monotone color with a slightly different shade for a word bubble. Each of them knew what it was. Terry's eyes might have fallen from his sockets, his face might have rivaled Nicole's for shade, but Nicole yanked him upstairs--after catching the box and concealing it, poorly, in the hand not wrapped around Terry's arm. Satisfied, Monica returned her attention to Ana. "At least that will keep them out of trouble for a while."
"You're a kind of...all right, Monica," Ana stiltedly, confusedly conceded. "But did you have to do that?"
"Damn straight," she replied, lighting a fourth cigarette. She tapped her list. "This is what people really need."
"You're not on this, you know."
"Yeah, I know. What I need isn't really here."
"And what do you need? Really?"
"Damned if I know," Monica shrugged. She, rather purposefully, did not politely exhale her smoke away from Ana. A 'go away' brush-off. Resigned, Ana backed off. Okay, no more lists, not of this type. Too complicated. If people wanted a little something for themselves, they could pack it in after they got the supplies loaded.
"I'm going to see if they need help with anything in the garage. I need to get away from paperwork."
"Michael said something about padding for the insides. Maybe you can help him with that." She cast a superficial look over at her. "You do hospital corners, right? Nurse?"
"Ha, ha," Ana grunted. "I'm not a maid. I'm a care-taker."
"So, go, care-take that boy. Give him a physical, play nurse. Tell him what to do. Trust me, he'll enjoy it. Scram!"
Ana ignored this, though she did head towards the garage access. Thus excused, she left Monica behind to smoke, congratulate herself, or sulk, just as she chose. Later, when she returned and found the Monica's list missing, she didn't give it another thought. Later still, as she collapsed on her display mattress in Metropolis, an odd crinkle replaced the soft whoosh of air escaping her pillow. Reaching underneath, she found the paper titled Desires. The list, names and needs was now complete. At the top, before Steve, Monica scrunched in her own name. Her need?
Love, it said, with commentary, how pathetic, huh?
Anna scanned it, covertly stealing glances over the room to be sure no one saw her. Terry and Nicole were star-gazing tonight, or so they said--Monica's suspicions on that score were probably correct. Glenn, Tucker and C.J. were involved in some heated discussion a few stores down. Kenneth slept in a lay-z-boy in the corner, his shotgun barrel-down and resting against the arm. Monica on a four-poster, Steve, she noted with a smirk, figuratively and literally on the couch nearby. In the doghouse for sure. Michael, passed out on the queen size bed that had been Andre and Luda's the first night, the only bed large enough to accommodate his height.
A smile tickled her lips, watching him breathe in slowly, calmly, his mouth open a fraction, fly-catching, like her brother did when they were kids. Seeing him sleep warmed her, and, happily, she rolled over onto her back, the list above her face in one hand. Tucker, porn. Steve, mirrors. C.J., blow-job. Glenn, C.J. Terry and Nicole, condoms ('lots' was another addition). Kenneth, padding. She stifled a chuckle at that. Andy, Kenneth, but alas, is not to be. Monica's sense of humor came off better when the woman herself was not immediately present.
Her name. Ana, an inflatable kiddie pool. A pool for the talking fish. Well, she'd have the lake at the very least. Maybe if the islands were no better off than the cities, she would indulge herself. With whom was an unknown variable; she pretended there wasn't a front-runner for the position. Speaking of front-runners...she came at last to Michael's name.
Michael, Ana.