Page 36 of There Are No Saints

My pleasure evaporates as he reaches under the table to fondle her pussy.

In its place: a sharp spike of fury.

I want to rip that hand off his arm, leaving a ragged stump with a bare glint of bone.

Even in my most extreme moments, when I’ve slit the throat of someone I hated and watched their blood run down my arm, my heart rate barely rises.

The feeling of that lump of muscle pounding in my chest is something new to me—something that makes me sit back in my chair, breathing hard, hands clenched into fists on my lap.

What the fuck is happening.

I almost feel . . . jealous.

I’ve never been jealous before. Why would I? No one on this planet has anything I envy.

Yet I’ve already decided, with absolute certainty, that no one should be touching that sweet little cunt except me.

I’ve smelled her scent on my fingers.

I want it fresh from the source.

As if obeying my command, Mara jumps up from the table, shoving back her chair. I hear her hasty apologies as she throws cash by her plate. Then she leaves, abandoning her disgruntled date before they’ve even ordered their entrées.

Lucky for him—I was already planning how I’d cut off his balls with a box cutter.

He’s saved by the expedient of following Mara instead. I leave my own folded bills tucked under my unused fork.

The sky is fully dark now, thick with clouds. The wind is colder than before.

I walk back to Frederick Street, feeling a curious elation at the prospect of watching Mara alone in her room.

I like her best in her private space. It’s a look inside her mind—her comforts and preferences.

Settling myself behind the telescope once more, I see her pacing her room. Mara is a skittish horse. When she’s calm, she moves with grace. But when she’s frustrated or uncomfortable—and she was certainly both in the company of her incompetent date—she becomes stiff and withdrawn, hypersensitive to irritants.

She hauls her mattress out on the small deck attached to her room.

This is all the better for me. I can see her as clearly as a figure in a diorama.

She lays down on the futon, a pair of headphones over her ears. It takes a long time for her breathing to slow, for her to settle deeply into the mattress. Her lips move in time with the lyrics of the song.

Though she’s not actually singing, I can make out a few scattered words:

Don’t know if I’m feeling happy . . .

I’m kinda confused, I’m not in the mood to try and fix me . . .

I google the lyrics, pulling up the song on my phone, one I haven’t heard before. I play it aloud in the dark library, listening to what Mara is hearing over on the balcony.

Yes & No —XYLØ

Spotify → geni.us/no-saints-spotify

Apple Music → geni.us/no-saints-apple

She’s so still now that I wonder if she fell asleep. Her chest rises and falls with metronome regularity.

The breeze whispers through the hedges in the garden between us. It slides across Mara’s skin, making her shiver. Her nipples are hard, visible even through the black dress.

---