This Is How I Disappear

Once it’s uncovered, red-head forces it open.

“You didn’t leave me,” I announce, beaming.

He gave me a weird look. “No, I just framed you for a triple homicide and threatened to kill you, but I’m here for you now and that’s what counts.”

Right, I remind myself. Perspective.

“So, tomato-head,” I try to say insultingly. “What now?”

He narrows his eyes and one side of his mouth dips into a frown, but I can tell he’s trying not to smile. Instead of answering, he starts to shut the window again, but I stop him.

“Hey, hey!” I protest. “Wait! Where are you going?”

He turns back with a glare and shoves the window all the way open again. “Get in the fucking window,” he orders flatly.

I judge the small opening doubtfully. “Isn’t there a door?”

“Not for you,” he replies impatiently. “In or out?”

I brush the dirt off my hands. “I don’t think I’ll fit.”

The man shrugged unsympathetically. “Try or die.”

Well, that’s dramatic, my brain cuts it. Shut up, I respond automatically. I lean my head through to see the floor as red-head steps back to give me space. I wish he wouldn’t, I can’t help thinking. Shut up, my brain retorts. I narrow my eyes.

“Hurry up,” red-head snaps, watching my slow progress.

I grunt in response and sort of start to slither in, hands first. I grab the sill and squeeze myself through. The window catches me at my waist, and I suddenly realize what a bad idea this is. I’m dangling five feet over a cement floor by my legs. This is going to end with a cracked skull.

To my surprise, red-head comes over and grabs me around the chest. Bet you like that, my brain snidely remarks, and I shush it immediately. He tugs at me until my jeans rip on the window ledge and I’m using him to lift my legs through. He lets me go after far too short a time, and I stumble away from his warmth to close the window, so that he doesn’t see my blush.

“Guess you want new pants?” red-head asks, staring at the ripped and fraying denim around my hips.

“Yeah,” I say, looking down at the damage. “That would be great, thanks.”

“Too bad,” he snaps, turning on his heel, and leaving the room.

“What?” I ask incredulously, following him into the adjacent room.

“If it ain’t in tatters, it doesn’t matter,” he declared, dismissing the subject. He then gestures vaguely to the room. “Kitchen/living room.” He points his thumb at the room we were just in. “Bedroom.” He points to a door off the kitchen. “Bathroom.”

“Is this a basement?” I ask hesitantly.

“Yes,” he replies simply.

“Okay…” I mumble. “Where do I sleep?”

He jerks his thumb over his shoulder again as he walks to the fridge. “Bedroom.”

I’m surprised he’s giving up his bed. “Where do you sleep?”

His thumb hangs in the air still.

My eyebrows raise; my heart rate doubles. “What…?” I say in a strange voice.

He grabs two beers out of the fridge and throws one at me, which I fumble with but manage not to drop. He opens his, then tosses the bottle opener at me. This, I drop. He gives me a look that says ‘Really, you couldn’t catch that?’

I blush as I pick it up. There is a small, bulky TV in the corner of the kitchen/living room, and he flicks it on as he sinks into the ratty couch. I open my beer and go over to join him, before I realize how cozy the couch is. And by cozy, I mean small. The floor has disturbingly large, brown stains all over it that look sticky. Both of us still wear our shoes.

He sees me hesitate by the couch, and scoots to one side, giving me room. When I sit, our legs touch. His thigh is warm against mine. I just want to rest my hand on it. But I don’t. I would never. The last time I did that, the boy beat me up, and suddenly everyone in school knew about it. I lost my friends and became the number one bully target in a day. Feeling up a murderer might have a little more dire consequences.

I don’t know what we’re watching—I can’t concentrate on that. My sole focus is for that stretch of skin where our thighs rest against each other.

“…fast, huh?” red-head is saying.

“Sorry, what?” I ask, meeting his eyes.

He cocks his head like he's trying to figure out a puzzle. “You really downed that beer fast, huh?” he repeats.

I look at the bottle in my hand. It is indeed empty. When did I drink it?

The TV flicks off suddenly, as do all the lights. “Damn it!” a voice roars beside me, and I jump in alarm. Red-head’s hand is suddenly pressing down on my knee, and I stifle a gasp. He lets go a second later, and as my eyes adjust, I realize he’s standing. I get up as well. “What’s going on?” I wonder as he storms into the bedroom. I follow in confusion, tripping over something as I go.

Red-head is looking out through the window, and then he sighs. “Good. It’s a blackout.”

“Good?” I ask in bewilderment.

He turns to look at me with a grin. “I can’t remember whether or not I paid my bills this month. So far, so good.”

“Ah,” I settle with, as he strides back into the kitchen.

“Are you hungry?” he asks, and my stomach answers for me. “Good,” he says, “because I have some perishables in the fridge. Do you like”—he surveys the contents in the dark—”eggs? Or, an egg? One left,” he proffers.

“Sure,” I say, gratefully.

“Ooh, I make a mean omelet!” he exclaims, grabbing a tomato and a small bag of diced onions.

Hmm, I muse, I think he’s crazy.

You just now thought of that? my brain asks.