Page 61 of Alone With You in the Ether

She opened his door, he hurried to say, Not now, not tonight but definitely someday if you want me, she laughed in his face, Why would I ever choose you over him, over all of this, over anything?, still she fucked him with vengeful glee, with spiteful relish, she dug her fingers into his throat while she came, she tasted like cocktail bitters, You’re an idiot, Aldo, it’s over.

She opened his door, everything went wrong, he died in his sleep, it’s over.

She opened his door, everything went right, he died in her arms, it’s over.

She opened his door,

She opened his door,

She opened his door,

“Aldo,” she said, and he snapped out of his reverie, glancing at her. Her eyes were still closed.

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for driving.”

This, he realized with defeat, it’s the getaway car. It’s already done.

“You’re welcome.”

“I’m sorry I—” She stopped, eyes opening for a moment, and then she curled into a tighter ball around herself, closing them again. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” he said, and then, hoping she wouldn’t ask him to explain, “I’m sorry, too.”

She said nothing.

“Am I,” he began, and trailed off. “Are we—?”

“I don’t think we should see each other for a while,” she confirmed.

His chest cracked open, spliced in half, and sealed shut.

He exhaled.

“A while?”

“Yeah, a while.”

She opened his door and it was already over before she even walked in. He’d run it enough times to know. That moment would never have changed anything.

He presented his findings internally, and something heedless and desperate rejected them.

“Are you asking me to leave,” he said, “or to wait?”

Her eyes opened. She stared blankly at the road.

“I don’t know,” she said.

She didn’t close her eyes. He didn’t reply.

Neither of them spoke again.

It didn’t feel the way she thoughtit would. Not like it had in the past. This time it was more like live wire, electricity in her bones, catching fire. You and me together, you-and-me-together, you and me. It was a thought that woke her from slumber, like inspiration or a stomachache. It was a notion that could not be doused, couldn’t be extinguished, except by the motion of her brush. She was painting to quiet her thoughts, the way they scribbled themselves in her mind, leaping and darting like insects, alighting on different planes.

Something is wrong, she thought, something is right. Something is definitely wrong but the something right is bigger, somehow, closer to truth. Wrong the way truth is when it’s right.

“Have you been taking your pills?”

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