Page 13 of Never Say Yes To A Stranger

Earlier, she left the hall light on anyway, and it’s spilling through the open door. The house is so old that it creaks and croaks like an ancient person. I can hear the wind singing outside, but it’s not gusting. The farmyard is surrounded by trees, and the rustle of leaves is clear out there. I think this house must be cold in the winter. It seems like it’s made up of only thick boards and single-pane windows.

Maybe the country is justthatloud.

“I gave you cookies! I gave cookies to a diabetic! Oh my lord. Oh, sweet Jesus! Are you okay? Are you going to die?”

Yeah, I probably should have eased up on the cookies, no matter if I wanted to be polite or not. I usually have a very rigid diet. I tap the pump on the back of my arm, showing it to her for the first time. “One blip in my diet won’t be catastrophic. It won’t kill me.”

“But—but I’m such an idiot.”

“You didn’t tie me up and force-feed me, did you?”

“Still. I should never have suggested it.” She frowns, looking distraught.

“You also didn’t ask yourself to bake them. I believe it was me.”

“Ugh. I should have refused you under moral grounds.”

“Relax.” I get back to bed and resume the sleep position, letting my head hit the pillow, but I can’t follow my own advice. I’m unusually tense.

The bed moves and rustles as she folds herself in. She’s on her side, and she’s under the quilt while I’m on top. We each have our own blanket. Without looking, I can tell she’s watching me. I don’t find it unnerving. Not one bit. I close my eyes and—

I’m still awake half an hour later.

“This is your first time doing this,” Ignacia says. She clearly knows I’m not sleeping, even though I haven’t opened my eyes. “It’s normal to be nervous.”

“I’m not nervous,” I reply.

“Are you an insomniac?” she asks.

“No.”

“Goddamn it, it’s the sugar.”

“It’s not.”

“Well, here’s an existential question for you. Do you think having money makes all people not so nice?”

“Mmm.” Oh good. We get to talk about money changing people. Maybe there’s a confession forthcoming, and I can be done with this job much sooner than expected. “Is that your experience? That money makes people jerks?”

“No. Is it yours?”

“I don’t think you have to have money to be a…” The right word won’t come. But she supplies it for me.

“A poop hole.”

I have to get that one down, so I immediately start talking to my phone, which I left on the nightstand. Phones are smart. They can do stuff like find the list of hilarious off-hand swear word terms that are filthy but also perfectly clean at the same time. “Add poop hole,” I tell the phone.

It does. And then it shuts itself off, and the bedroom becomes dark again.

“I didn’t say you could steal my term and use it again,” Ignacia huffs, but I know she’s joking. “Does the pump hurt?”

“It doesn’t hurt me. Everyone is different.” I run my finger over where I’ve attached part of the pump so it doesn’t tangle when I sleep. Not that I move much, but I never want to take chances with it, and this way, it’s easier.

“Okay,” she mutters.

Then, she goes quiet, and I have this wild urge to ask her why I suddenly sense something wrong in the silence. Like she’s thinking about someone or something that hurt her. I don’t like the way the pressure seems to change in the bedroom. I know this whole thing was quite a bizarre thing to do and totally out of character for me—not that most people wouldn’t call me a strange bastard, but it’s exceptionally out of character for me to want to reach across the bed and touch her.

She’s the bad guy here. Iknowthat.

---