2

tommy and jess fought as they walked to the café. she had no idea. he was done.

            “i don’t know why you gave that woman your shirt,” jess said.

            “she was cold,” tommy said.

            “but i bought you that shirt.”

            “you buy me all my shirts.”

            “you’re too generous with your time and money,” she said. “let her get her own shirt.”

            “drop it, jess. it’s a fucking shirt.”

            “no surprise a slob like you doesn’t care,” she said.

            “well i don’t live in front of the mirror,” he said.

            “no, you’re too busy becoming a drunk.”

            “a highly functioning drunk.”

            “you’re so neurotic,” she said.

            “your heart is the size of a pea and made of coal,” he said.

            “is that poetry or schizophrenia?”

            “good one,” he said. more of an unfortunate realization and late admission.

            he held the door open and they went in. the café was owned by vegan lesbians who here and there allowed diners meat.

            people looked up from tables.

            jess and tommy: the model and the hitchhiker.

            a round table with a white candle burning in the center. they had brought a valpolicella. the waitress came with two small mason jars and pulled the cork, poured the wine.

            they drank.

            “you should move out,” he said.

            “okay. i will tomorrow.”

            the waitress came back and they ordered. the meal was enjoyable. they had had a problem. now, they had no problems. tommy was surprised he had said it then. she had taken it well. but then, anything he could throw, she could catch and fire back. she probably didn’t believe him.

the next day, a saturday, jess packed. she didn’t get far. she stayed the night.

            “are you moving out or what?” tommy said.

            she said nothing.

            late sunday she took a bag to her mother’s house up north and stayed there.

            tommy slept alone. the bed was big.

           

she was gone.

            she was the one he had waited 22 years for and he knew it the moment he saw her. it would be a long time before he allowed that behind the beautiful face was a spiritual cripple. he reminded himself of that. he would not let time and distance trick him into calling her.

when the first of the month came around, he paid the rent for the place he had never trusted, but she had to have. three fireplaces. gigantic factory windows. office for him. basketball court for a living room. the bedroom was bigger than their first apartment in san francisco. the bathroom, where the sun shined brightest, had always been her domain: the mirror. their glue dissolved as he jerked off in the bath to fantasies of a girl at work while jess sat in the living room watching soap operas. he didn’t want to fuck her. she didn’t want to fuck him. except one time when he had been out to dinner with a woman painter and returned at 2 a.m. jess was up waiting. she jumped on his cock as if she had been reset. her jealousy proved they could still have great sex. he did almost fuck the painter, but nice that he hadn’t . . .