Page 11 of Nights Without Night
“So? Which one’s the lie?”
“Number one,” he says. I nod, taking my shot. He doesn’t take his eyes off me. When the glass is back on the table, I wait for him to speak but still, nothing.
“It’s your turn you creepy staring weirdo.”
“Who was it?”
“Amazingly enough, you don’t know them.”
“Did you like it?” he asks.None of your fucking business, my head says. My drunk mouth, however,
“Yeah. I liked it.” My voice comes out soft, and the silence around us is suddenly apparent. He’s piercing me with his look. I can’t move. My chest is tight, taking half-breaths.
I’ve seen that look before, an age ago.
“Are you going to take your turn, or what?” I say, trying to break the spell, but he doesn’t look away.
“One, I caught a whale shark once.”
“That is such bullshit. You are so bad at this game.”
“Two, I don’t actually like your lasagne,” he says. I gasp.
“Three, I saw you fucking, once. Or, more precisely, being fucked.” His voice is quiet and low, radiating heat across my skin until it burns.
“What?”
“Which one’s the lie?”
“The whale shark one. Iraq and Afghanistan are landlocked and it’s not like you’ve been taking fishing holidays,” I say distractedly.
“Actually, Iraq is-”
“Shut up, it’spracticallylandlocked. What did you mean, you’ve seen me get…seen me fucking?” I ask. Isadoro shrugs. “When?”
“When I was still in training. I came home early and went to yours. Your parents weren’t there, and you were…” His eyes don’t waver.
I’d felt guilty about fooling around with that guy when Isadoro had been in training. Isadoro and I hadn’t fooled around in a year, he was leaving for Afghanistan soon, we weren’t and never had been in a relationship and, still. I’d felt guilty.
I don’t know what to do with the piece of information he’s just given me. It’s in my head now, inerasable, but it has no place. Do I banish it to embarrassment? Anger? Confusion? Disregard?
“What did you do?” my mouth decides for me. Masochistic curiosity it is.
“Nothing,” he shrugs, watching me carefully. I’m suddenly reminded of the time I caughthimfucking someone. Had that been payback? But that doesn’t make sense, either with the situation or Isadoro’s personality. Then, what?
I shake my head. I’m way too drunk for this line of questioning.
“Okay, then. Drink up,” I say, pouring him the drink and pushing it toward him. He knocks it back. “Maybe we’ve had enough,” I suggest, feeling out of sorts.
“One more each,” he counters. I watch him for a moment.
“Okay.” I think. “One…I still have dreams about you sometimes.” The words just fucking come out of my mouth. In the context of the situation, the types of dreams I’m referring to is obvious.
As he watches me, Isadoro’s eyes are darker than the darkness around us.
“Two,” I scramble, “I love drawing hands and, uh, three, I’ve never dialled a wrong number.” What the fuck am I even saying?
“Three,” Isadoro says.
