He kisses her and this time she finds that the taste doesn't bother her so much. She doesn't know if she should hate herself for it (or should shecongratulate herself?). There's so much irony in the thought that the taste is ruined for the briefest moment, blurred with copper bitterness.
She isn't there when he kisses her, and he knows it. What angers her so deeply, what keeps her awake at nights is that he doesn't care, and he isn't afraid to show it.
The clock behind his back ticks in years. She watches it, her eyes glazed with the monotonous motion; the black hands reflected in her pupils. His tongue moves like cold sludge in her mouth, and she moves accordingly. She feels his snake tongue in her throat and wants to choke on it; wishes she could vomit it out into his face. Her hands are wrapped around his neck, but they are cold hands and they do not move, only tremble occasionally.
She wonders how much longer he's going to kiss her. (But then again, she shouldn't call it a kiss, should she?) Her shift at the hospital is in thirteen and a half minutes, and if she's late again—
She wiggles weakly against his body.
He pushes his tongue in deeper and she screws her eyes shut in the sick, forced pleasure of it all. And suddenly, the tongue is gone and he has turned away. The sliminess clogging her throat is gone now, but for some reason her mouth feels shocked and incomplete without the nausea in it. She opens her eyes to his gray back and his numbed hands.
What do they feel, she wonders. Why am I unfulfilled?
He rustles a bit, methodically donning his shirt, never once looking at her. She watches him, a silent doll propped up against the wall. She folds her hands in her lap and pretends to be a lady, just to see what it feels like.
He stands up and walks to the door. He opens it and walks out.
Bye, she mouths after him. Don't come home too late, darling.
-
Mr. Speckers greets her, cheerily, she imagines. He is not one to dwell on things of the past, she convinces herself. She is changed, he is changed, and they are new persons. What enmity that lay between them before has dissolved like a throat lozenge, beautifully. She takes a moment to look at him, almost in awe. Mr. Speckers is an awesome creature, she tells herself.
She busies herself with useless things. Dusting the window sills where there is no dust. Sweeping the clean linoleum floor. Opening and closing the cabinets noisily and shifting capsules from one side to the other. She imagines that Mr. Speckers is watching her, with a smile on his handsome face.
She decides that Mr. Speckers was a handsome man at one time.
A whistle finds its way to her lips and she tests it, hesitantly. It floats on the air well, chilling her lips pleasantly. She whistles a familiar tune, one she can't quite remember the name of. She can't remember where she's heard it, but the notes are automatic…
Mr. Speckers applauds for her, anyways. She bows graciously to his deafening applause.
She begins to blow him a kiss, but when her fingers touch her cold, salty lips she finds herself shocked back to reality. The touch against dead nerves makes her stomach churn dizzily. She touches her lips again and again and again, tries to familiarize herself with the sensation; is amazed that they are her own.
Wonderful, she thinks. Fantastic.
The change is a thrill. She wants to share the thrill.
So she sits down in the chair beside Mr. Speckers's bed.
"Mr. Speckers," she says, "I will tell you, because I know you will listen."
She settles herself and begins her tale.
-
Strange, I must agree.