Fishbowl (18 page)

Faye catches the stairwell railing with both hands again, righting herself. In her distraction, she missed another step and almost fell onto the landing under the sign that reads “Floor 16.” Faye’s heart races from the adrenaline spike of her stumble. She smirks at her clumsiness but can’t scold her sex-addled mind to pay more attention. She’s too distracted by the lingering feel of him all over her skin, and she can’t escape the smell of the nightshirt she wears, still damp in spots from their last session and steeped in their secret scents.

Faye’s mind wanders to Connor’s girlfriend. She’s anonymous to Faye. A woman without face or form but with a strong enough presence in both of their lives to make her take the stairs and Connor bustle around like a maniac, trying to keep his apartment from tattling on him.

What did that mean? Faye wonders if Connor would afford her the same subterfuge, and after a moment she thinks it unlikely. Faye knows of the girlfriend and the other woman. It’s obvious the girlfriend doesn’t know about them.

Connor talked about both of them to her. He had asked her to do the same things that the one named Deb let him do, and while Faye thinks of herself as sexually liberated, she couldn’t allow it. She was afraid she would look at herself differently for the rest of her life. She knows there are some things a person does that they have to live with every day.

What was that saying? she thinks. Once you’re fucked, you can never be unfucked. Or something like that.

And what had Connor said about Katie? He told her about what they talked about. He told her the funny things Katie said, how she was going to introduce him to her family even though they had only been together a short while. He actually seemed excited by the prospect. There was that fish that lived on the balcony—she had given it to him and given it its stupid name. Connor talked about the things that they did together but never about what they did between the covers.

He loves her, Faye realizes. He just doesn’t know it yet because his cock gets in the way. Once he recognizes it, he’s going to be crushed under the weight of Deb and me. With hindsight, he’ll track back to when he fell for her, add up all the times he cheated her of his feelings, and he’ll collapse with the knowledge of how badly he’s fucked up. Then he’ll have to hide or fess up, and either way, Deb and I will be a forcibly forgotten past.

Faye feels a twinge of pity for him because, while Connor is a low-down cheater, he’s more a good-hearted but unthinking victim of his cock, the one that he gives away so generously and freely. Regardless, there will be consequences. Not even that thing Deb lets him do can help him avoid the train wreck he’s in for.

Faye wonders how many times Connor has scrambled to avoid a meeting between the three of them. Has Deb ever taken the stairs while she rode up in the elevator? Has she ever seen one of them entering the building while she was leaving? Then, she wonders if there are only three. She knows of Deb and the girlfriend, but could there be more? Oh yeah. There could be, she decides.

Faye had always attributed the feminine debris in the apartment to be from one of the other two. The coral lipstick she had thought was the girlfriend’s because, really, who wears coral anymore? The nineties are long gone. The scarlet panties draped over the toaster, those would be Deb’s. Faye could tell just from the way they were torn. Connor had never torn her panties off.

Faye thinks, just to add to Connor’s impending emotional train wreck, that she will propose the three of them get together. Connor’s mind would explode at the idea. Faye could picture his eager nod, and she has been intrigued by the stories of Deb’s perverse proclivities for a while now. Who even thinks of that stuff?

Then there’s this pink nightshirt she wears. She thinks about it for an entire flight of stairs but can’t decide whose it is. The pink nightshirt—they had writhed all over it during their heated coupling. It had been in bed with them when they started. Connor laid it down on the floor so the carpet wouldn’t leave friction burns on her knees. He placed it on the bathroom counter so her ass wouldn’t get cold. He had taken her in there because he wanted to watch their struggle reflected in the mirror. He had placed her on it in the kitchen and somehow it stuck to her back as she took him up against the apartment door, grunting and sweating together in the hottest, sweatiest, and most epic fu—

What are you staring at, bitch? Faye wonders when she sees a woman standing half a flight down, her face a contorted mix of emotion.

Faye glares back in a primal, alpha-female sort of way, but doesn’t notice that this woman is actually staring at the pink nightshirt. Faye thinks this woman is about to say something, but then she just bolts past, spins on the landing, and runs up the next flight, disappearing from sight. The noise of her footfalls slaps against the walls as she ascends.

31

In Which Jimenez Gets All Slicked Up and Smellin’ Good

The button for the third floor doesn’t illuminate with the first press. Jimenez pokes it again before the lobby slides out of view, shrinking with the crack between the elevator doors. He wipes a soot smear from the third-floor button with the heel of his hand. Jimenez examines the panel; only the top corner is visibly charred. In hindsight, the fire was only a small one. The perceived size of it swelled in the dark with the panic of the moment.

A three-floor test drive, Jimenez thinks. Just to make sure everything is working properly. What’s the worst that could happen?

Jimenez stands, eyes locked on the floor number displaying above the door. It doesn’t move from “L.” The elevator doesn’t move, so he stabs the button again. The compartment shudders, and the lights flicker a little. A grinding metal wail echoes from outside the compartment, but the extra weight on the soles of Jimenez’s feet tells him it’s moving.

“It is,” he says and smiles to himself. “It’s working like a charm.”

He watches the number above the door tick by the “2” and settle on the “3.” The doors slide open and Jimenez frowns. The elevator has stopped a foot above the third-floor hallway. Jimenez presses the door-closed button and jabs at the third floor one again. The elevator free-falls a foot and halts with a bouncing jolt. Jimenez steadies himself with an arm against the wall. When the doors open again, the elevator is level with the third-floor hallway.

“Like a charm,” Jimenez mumbles to himself.

The elevator still smells of smoke, so Jimenez unhooks his key loop and picks an odd-looking, peg-shaped key from among the others. He inserts it into the maintenance lock and turns it until the button lines up with the small, embossed letters that spell “Open” so the doors will remain open, the elevator locked in place.

“That will give you the time to air out your stink a bit,” Jimenez tells the elevator as he steps off. He hoists up his tool belt because it has slipped from his hips. It jangles all the way up the hall to his apartment. He spins a few more keys around his key loop before finding the one for his door. He opens it, steps in, and flips on a light.

Little natural light comes into the apartment from outside because it faces the alley side of the building. There’s a view of an office building’s parking garage across the lane, a tall, close structure that blocks out any hope of the sky. At best, the light coming through the window warms from a cold blue to a cool blue by midday. It doesn’t bother Jimenez though; the rent for the place is cheap, and he only really comes to the apartment to sleep. The rest of his life is spent in the building working or out of it wandering around the city, going to an old movie theater or dancing. He considers the world to be his apartment and this apartment to be his bedroom.

Jimenez slips his shoes off at the door and empties his pockets. About fifty cents in change clatters against the kitchen counter. There’s also a business card for a silk plant place, a crinkly cellophane wrapper from a hard candy, and the last service request—that leak under the kitchen sink. He looks around his small galley kitchen. There’s a two-burner stove with its tiny oven, the fridge that holds his microwave dinners, and a microwave oven in the corner. The laminate counter is scratched near the sink from a previous occupant’s careless butchery, and the veneer is chipped along the edge from some past trauma.

Jimenez strips his shirt off and examines the burned fabric on the sleeve. He pokes a finger through the hole, and it comes out the other side, coated in black ash. He realizes he’s lucky he bought cotton instead of that cheaper plastic stuff that would have just melted and fused to his arm. He drops his shirt to the counter and then examines his arm. A bald patch emits the distinctive smell of burned hair and the skin is a little pink, but other than that, he seems unscathed.

He shakes his head and looks at the shirt crumpled on the counter. It was a good shirt.

Can’t be fixed, he thinks, shrugs, and then throws it in the trash bin under the sink. He gathers the corners of the garbage bag and ties them together. The shirt, three microwave dinner boxes, a couple bags from instant oatmeal, and an empty carton of milk attest to the past three days. Jimenez crosses the living room, slides the balcony door open, and leans over the railing to drop the bag into the Dumpster below.

Back inside, Jimenez pulls off his undershirt and wanders into the bathroom, where he throws it into his hamper. He unbuckles his tool belt and puts it on the vanity counter and then lets his pants fall to the floor. He looks at his reflection in the mirror. He’s a solid man with a furry, firm, round belly and thick arms. His briefs hang baggy under his tummy, the elastic on them long since worn out. The fabric is threadbare, and the dark patch of his pubes shows through.

Jimenez slaps his belly twice, strips off his underwear, and drops it into the hamper. He has a long, hot shower to wash the plastic smell from his skin and his hair. He uses a leave-in conditioner because he likes how glossy and thick it makes his coif look when he combs it back at the sides and leaves a swooping hill of hair on the top. Despite the shower, there’s still a faint plasticky scent on his skin so he spritzes on a little cologne to mask it. He brushes his teeth and swishes some mouthwash around before getting dressed.

Clean undies, clean pants, clean undershirt, and clean shirt with a patch embroidered on the chest that reads “Jimenez.” His reflection smiles and slings the tool belt back around his waist.

He feels good. He dances a quick bop, sliding and hopping back toward the kitchen.

Jimenez sweeps the change and paper from the kitchen counter into his palm and deposits them into his pocket. He glances in the mirror on the back of his apartment door.

I look good, he thinks. Maybe, instead of moping around the apartment, I’ll treat myself to a movie tonight. His favorite actress has a new one out, and he can think of nothing better than popcorn and two hours with her. Maybe a cocktail before the movie. Maybe dancing afterward. Yes, tonight is definitely a night for dancing.

And besides, it would be a waste to look this good and not go out to show it off.

The elevator is still waiting up the hall with gaping doors when Jimenez leaves his apartment. He calls Marty on his cell phone as he makes his way back down the hall.

“Marty, the elevator’s fixed up,” he says.

“Great news.” It sounds like Marty is eating soup. “I hope it wasn’t too much a pain in the ass.”

“No,” Jimenez replies. “Wasn’t too bad. Just a tripped fuse. Only had to throw a breaker.”

“Can you take a look at the other one again?” Marty asks. “Maybe the same thing will get it running?”

“I’ll take another look in the morning,” Jimenez says.

“Great work, Jimmy. I don’t know how much money that saved me.” Marty slurps. “Take yourself out … Expense a meal, on me.”

Jimenez uses the maintenance key to turn the elevator lock back to “Active” and sniffs the air as the doors slide closed. It’s still a bit funky, but that will fade with time. He pulls the slip of paper from his pocket and hits the button for the twenty-fifth floor. Nothing happens, so he pokes at the button a few more times before the elevator shudders to life.

“Just need to stretch your legs before I take you dancing, hey?” Jimenez asks the elevator.

The lights flicker, and he is off, heading upward.

32

In Which Garth Gets Scared, Gets Brave, and Then Gets Full-On Pretty

The package is wrapped in a tidy, symmetrical fourfold. Garth pinches the first two corners of the paper with opposite hands and lifts them, carefully unfolding the wrapping. Then he closes his eyes, reaches in, and scoops out the contents. He inhales the tactile experience, breathing deeply from the soft lace and cotton billowing gently between his fingers. Inside that bundle of fabric, he feels straps of smooth, glossy patent leather. The shoes—he feels their outline, slick leather through the fabric.

He exhales slowly, opens his eyes, and emits an involuntary, grateful squeak.

Carmine, he thinks. This is the best day ever. It was worth the wait, worth the long climb up the building. It’s perfect, better than he could have pictured.

They made him the red dress. And it isn’t some trampy crimson or a gaudy fuchsia … This is carmine. This is a beautiful, buttery, purple-tinted rust melting in his hands. On the phone they said they might be out of that color. Even if they had it available, Garth knew, it was so hard to tell the right color on the computer screen. He had learned that from the Palatinate blue dress he ordered a few months ago. The swatch on the screen had looked great, but the color had been too strong for his skin tone in real life.

But that’s the past. This is now.

Garth holds pure joy in his hands, the perfect shade of red, folded and bound with a cross of beautiful burgundy ribbon. The seamstress is all about these extra touches. Harry, the guy at the store, had recommended her when he saw Garth’s displeasure with the items on the racks. He told him about Floria, the seamstress the store used for custom orders. With a nod from Garth, Harry wrapped a measuring tape around Garth’s various parts and took notes on his findings. Then, together, they placed a call to Floria.