Phobia

Abe tossed his backpack aside and dropped his trousers.
“Christ, I’m red raw,” he said, gingerly peeling his boxer briefs away from his thigh and stooping to peer inside. “It’s like bloody beetroot.”
“I’m going to take a shower,” said Sarah, “there’s Neosporin in a ziplock in my case.”
“It’s ridiculous, I mean, two sodding miles and it must be ninety degrees. What was she thinking? It’s weeping. It’s probably infected. Christ. I can’t do it tonight. We’re going to have to cancel.”
He could hear the water hissing behind the closed door. Trouser-manacled, he shuffled across.
“We’ll have to cancel,” he shouted.
“In the ziplock.”
He cracked the door. “We’ll have to …”
“Hey, shut the door!”
“Sare, we’ll …”
“Abe shut the damn door, you’re letting all the air out!”
He shut the door. Perched on the corner of the bed, he wafted the leg of his underpants clear of the wound and winced. He unzipped her suitcase. Odd that a woman so curated would keep her cosmetics in a plastic bag. The Instagram toothbrush, the Tom’s of Maine. Midol. Odd. But sweet. A hint of the lie, maybe. The germ of childishness which, if he lingered on it, could bring everything rushing back. He squeezed the tube of Neosporin more gently with this thought lurking, eased open the wing of his groin and dabbed flecks of the ointment along the skin at the edge of his scrotum.
“Any chance you could do that somewhere else?”
She was mummied in a bath-towel, carefully tucked, turbaned and backed with steam. A moment’s glance registered the shallow slope from the top of her sternum into the towel, barely a hint of contour, flat and bound like a geisha. He shuddered lightly.
“Sorry, you were in the bathroom.”
“It’s all yours.”
He rose carefully, holding the fabric away from his thigh.
“It’s so bloody sore. I think we’re going to have to cancel.”
“Oh, and by the way, what’s the deal with opening the door when I’m in the shower?”
“You didn’t seem to be able to hear.”
“So wait. Or shout louder. I was in the shower. You can’t just walk in.”
“I only cracked it …”
“Yeah, well don’t do it again. Or anything else actually.”
He resumed his gerontic shuffle.
“I didn’t see. I wasn’t looking.”
“Not the point, Abe. Why don’t you take your trousers off?”
“I’ll do it in the bathroom.”
“Suit yourself. Be nice if you put them back on before you come out.”
She waited for him to close the door before reaching for the ziplock. With some relief she confirmed that she hadn’t put lube in with her toiletries. What was she thinking, offering him unrestricted access to her suitcase? She needed to be more careful; exasperation at him had caused her to ease down her guard. She hardly needed that skinny bulb of hope to be inadvertently nourished. She pulled a blouse from the suitcase and held it up against herself. Tossing it aside, she retrieved a patterned sun-dress, a gash of colour in an otherwise seamless sea of black. A startling choice, she thought, wholly out of keeping with the determined air of circumspection she had been at pains to establish. And it would slip easily over her head. She moved around the bed, positioned herself directly in front of the bathroom door and placed the dress carefully upon the vanity, within reach.
“You okay in there?” she said flatly.
“Yes. A cold washcloth seems to help.”
She moved to within a foot of the door. With one hand she reached across her chest and unclasped the bath-towel, letting it fall to the floor. She felt the chill of exposure waft across her. Staring at the door, she began counting silently to herself, an even drumbeat. At five she heard movement from inside, a kind of gathering up of stuff. She counted on, eight, nine, ten, an elongated eleven, let the moment hang, thicken, before reaching for the dress, lifting it over her head and pulling it down in a single motion, over her shoulders, chest, hips. She moved away from the door and eased the curtains apart as he emerged from the bathroom.
“I think we should cancel, Sare.”
He had put his trousers back on but was barefoot and shirtless, moving across the room at a slight crouch, cradling shoes, socks and a towel. She registered his skinniness, the knuckles on his shoulders, and that his hair was wet; and yet she hadn’t heard the shower. He dumped his stuff on the bed and, toweling off his hair, straightened up to find her looking at him. Intently? Blankly? Certainly directly, but with a palpable absence of engagement. He half-smiled and focused on the bedspread. Jesus. That dress. He sensed the gauge of the cloth, the faintest barrier interrupting her from the air and the room and him. Jesus. The drop of the fabric from that neat, small shelf. The pocket of space that would lie beneath the small swell, the faint curve and crease, shaded and dappled through the flower pattern. He toweled more vigorously and almost began to whistle. In the periphery of his vision he could see her still vaguely watching him, neutrally, without meaning.
“I really think we should cancel, y’know,” he said, still toweling.
“Great.”
“It would be a pity to be below par on our first outing.”
“Suits me.”
She moved away from the window and began leafing through the staggered folders on the desk. Guest Information. Room Service. Local Attractions. It seemed as if she had something else to say.
“So, that’s okay then? We’ll let it go and see how things play out tomorrow?”
“Sure, there’s plenty of other stuff to do.”
She tossed a brochure onto the bed – Cave of the Leprechauns. She smiled and flared her eyes in mock mysteriousness. His stomach fluttered and the moment was gone. She briskly uncoiled the towel from around her head.
“I’m going downstairs, get a drink.” She shook her hair loose and took a key card from the vanity before crossing to the bed, making a cursory search of her suitcase and pulling out a pair of panties. She moved towards the door and in the shadow of the hallway, her back to him, slipped the panties on under her dress with practiced efficiency. His breath stopped and his ears rang with tinnitus.
“Don’t catch cold,” he said.
“Huh?” She looked at him but the lights were out.
“Your hair.”
“Oh. Right. See you down there.”
And she was gone. He gazed at the fire-drill notice on the back of the door and registered an inkling to masturbate which he knew he wouldn’t act on. Distractedly, he lifted his foot to scratch an itch on the opposing calf. His toe moved across a tiny protuberance and he felt a jab of pain. He looked down. A dunnish-brown tick, the size and shape of a lentil, sat fatly on the meat of his leg where the hairs thinned at the long-sock line.
“Fuck. Fuck. I don’t believe it. Fuck.”
He sat on the bed, crooked his leg and inspected the tumid little bulb from the middle-distance, lest it leap from its perch and go for his face. He could faintly make out indentations across its back, cilia, perhaps even the upper portion of a head ducking into the flesh of his calf. He stared at it, his face curling into a tragedy mask of digust. He imagined he saw it moving, shifting slightly, the better to suck. He crept along the edge of the bed keeping his leg raised; downward pressure on his foot would surely thicken the pulse of blood up his leg, further engorging his hideous passenger. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a book of matches. Trattoria Firenze. He tore off a match and advanced it towards the turgid monster, pausing a few millimeters short before tremblingly slipping the tip under the swollen butt of its body, easing it upwards. It seemed to have weight. He sensed it tighten its grip, hunker down, and he was suddenly aware of cold perspiration on his forehead, a brightening of his vision as it narrowed into vignette. He groaned and pulled his hand away, leaning back on an elbow, gazing through the blank television. His mouth was hollow and pasty, his tongue a fat mouse. Addicted to the horror, he peered sidelong at the awful grey dewdrop far away at the other end of his body, feasting. He reached over and picked up the phone.
“Hi, I’d like to reach a customer at the bar please …”

Done. He’s off.” She held up the match-head. “Want to see him?”
He peered along his chest at the tiny blackened currant, his face still slung in a protracted grimace.
“Did you get the head out?”
“Probably. You’ll be fine anyway.”
She eased herself to her feet, officially bringing all ministrations to a close, leaving him supine and glum on the bed.
“They carry Lyme Dusease,” he said through a double-chin.
“Most don’t.”
“Which means some do.”
“Not the big ones.” She arched her back into a stretch. “Think I’m ready for bed.”
“We haven’t had dinner.”
“I had some trail-mix stuff at the bar. I’m fine. Tired.”
She yawned and leaned over him, pulling her suitcase to the floor. It was as casually familiar as she had been, the neat front of the sun-dress falling slightly towards his face, a few inches away. The lingering atmosphere of ersatz family clinic and his gutted status as hurt child neutralized the proximity, rendering it harmless.
“Off,” she said, persisting in sisterly cheerfulness.
“Huh?”
“Off. I want to go to bed.”
She pulled back the bedspread and tossed a pillow onto the floor.
“What am I supposed to do?”
“I dunno, go down to the bar, get something to eat.”
He was silent. She looked at him evenly.
“Sit in a chair, read a book. You can keep a lamp on. C’mon Abe, get up.”
She moved away towards the bathroom, kicking off her sandals. He sat up slowly, pausing to survey his wherabouts before rising to his feet. He was right. He had nowhere to go. The room smelled faintly of sulfur and burnt hair. He could hear her brushing her teeth.
“Guess I’ll go to bed too,” he said to nobody in particular.
She emerged from the bathroom and knelt for a moment by her suitcase, pulling out a heavy cotton nightgown.
“Think I’m going to turn in too,” he said. “Long day.”
“Suit yourself. You might want to put it over there.”
“What?”
“Your sleeping bag. There’s more room in front of the closet.”
His eyes followed her pointed finger and alighted on a blank patch of carpet by the door. He snorted and looked at his feet.
“What?” she said.
“Sarah.”
“What?”
He was quiet.
“No, what, Abe? Huh? You’re suggesting you sleep in my bed?”
“Not your bed. The bed. The one huge king-size bed in the room. We’re both grown ups.”
“No Abe. You sleep in your sleeping bag. That’s why you brought it. For situations like this.”
“Okay listen. We both need to sleep or we’re going to be useless in the morning. It’s a bloody big bed, you’ll hardly know …”
“No. No. Abe. Really.”
“Sarah, if Mum and Dad had …”
“Abe stop. It’s the floor or nothing. Stop, okay?”
She gathered up her nightgown and went into the bathroom. He looked at the space where she’d stood. There was a picture above the headboard, over the bed. The Lady of Chaillot in the bow of a rowing boat being bonkers. He moved towards the bathroom, squatting beside the half-open door as he unclipped the straps of his backpack. He heard the rustle of clothing and a cough from inside, close by. After a moment he felt her immediate presence at the door and he half-stood, anticipating her being there. But she wasn’t. From where he was crouched he could see a corner of the toilet bowl, her underwear discarded on the floor in front. He caught his breath as her feet, ankles and the long hem of her nightgown moved into his frame of vision, then turned and paused by the bowl. He saw the hem rise, the lengthening blur of a leg as she sat down, her upper body obscured by the shower stall. He listened to the clear, bright tinkle of her urine chime across the silence, saw the profile of a calf, a thigh and hands knotted lightly in her lap. The sound abated, gently. He heard the shuffle of the toilet roll, saw her edge forward and upward on the seat. He felt the seeds of panic burst as, in a single extrapolated motion the dislocated legs straightened at the knee, shifting out of profile, easing out from behind the barrier of the shower stall, turning towards him, the hem of the gown drawn unnaturally high up, clear, above the waist, very still. He froze. Time and fear and distant comprehension collided, fragmented, and he broke away clumsily towards the desk, the folders and brochures, tripping heavily on his backpack and causing it to slump forward with a thud. She emerged from the bathroom, smoothing the long cotton nightgown at her hips.
“So?” she said.
“What?” He looked up from the folders with the smile of the Madwoman.
“What are you going to do?”
“Oh. Go to bed. On the floor over there.” She looked at the backpack marooned on its belly, its guts visible.
“Okay. You can have a couple of pillows off the bed.”
“Thanks. That’d be great.”
She took two pillows, fluffing them unconsciously, and put them on the floor before slipping under the covers and clicking off the light, leaving him pooled at the desk.
“Night,” she said, muffled.
A feverish silence hung over the room.
“Sare?”
Quietly, “Uh-huh?”
He paused for a second.
“Can I turn the AC down?”
She lifted her head a fraction. “What?”
“I think I forgot my bag. My sleeping bag. But I can sleep under a coat. Only with the AC it might be a bit cold.”
“Sure, turn it down. Turn it off if you like.”
“Thanks. G’night.”
“Night.”

She thought she hadn’t slept, but she was disoriented and faintly aware of lightning. She squinted at a point of red light in the darkness. What was it? She could hear him breathing, Seth, half snoring, but at a strange distance, off and below her, in the murk where her body ended, on a flat rock maybe. Car headlights smeared across thick curtains, a rush of fear as memory pulsed out a metamorphosis. Not Seth. Abraham. The yellow light on porcelain, a sense of herself in the mirror from the side, her heart racing. Then the slow deliberate opening up, her elbows crooked, the cotton dry and bunched in her fists; now pendant in the electric air, motionless; and the bold, broad stripe of darkness just a few feet away, so wide now, much wider than she had thought before she bared herself. And the pin-bright rustle of his activity just beyond. And it stopping. And the knowing. The raw, high-frequency silence of collusion. Without breath, suspended over a tear in the silk of time, holding it, she held it, as the light browned and granulated and parched air crackled in her throat.
She jolted, spasmed, a dry gargle in her open mouth, its echo hanging in the blackness like an intruder. Then his clotted breathing agin, out there, and the tiny red point of light. She wrestled the panic, fighting herself back down, down, blood humming in her ears. She lay still, eyes set on the opaque smudge of the ceiling, a vivid pulse in her neck. She focused everything on his breathing; thick and long, snagging slightly on the air. But authentic. She was sure.
She pushed back the covers, edging them off the end of the bed, then wriggled easily out of her nightgown, placing it by her side, and laid back down. She gazed up, still, open on the wide plain of the sheet, sensing the coolish air breaking lightly across her, pooling heavier along her neck and the skein of her pubic hair. Minutes passed, punctuated by the distant tide of his breathing. She sat up and eased her legs over the edge of the bed. Her eyes adjusted to his form across the room, an indistinct lump, clumsy, littered with scraps of clothing. His breathing rolled on in waves, untroubled. She lifted her hand and lightly touched the skin beneath her collarbone, her fingertips poised over the shallow swell below. Gooseflesh rippled down her side and she tasted metal. She stood up, sawllowed lightly and walked to him, slowing past the foetal curve of his legs and body, stopping beside his head. His breathing snagged momentarily, then resumed, blank and even. She edged her feet slightly apart, either side of his head, and looked down at him along the flat plane of her body, burnished monochrome in the darkness. If he began to wake now she might still make it to the bathroom without him comprehending. She held her breath, then lowered into a squat, her knees parting evenly, the pliant curve beneath her belly inches from his face. She could feel his steady breath there. His glasses were folded and carefully set above his head. She gently picked them up, unfolded them and drew her fingers back steadily on one of the wire arms until it snapped. And then the other. She leaned both hands over him and put back the pieces.

He was instantly aware of a presence. Instinct funneled him up from deep sleep into febrile awareness with barely a catch in his breathing, the circumference of information sluicing his mind to attention, leaving his body untouched. Right beside him and above, quite still. He focused hard on the silent hum of the air. Then feet gently parting, definitely, either side, inches away, the tiny hiss of the carpet. His pulse thudded in his temples. He heard the supple strain of joints and suddenly she was near, very near, sultry air pocketed on his face, fecund, unmistakable, refracting his breath. A leaning motion, the salt tang of sweat, close, and the plastic click of his glasses. He could hear her blood. A small tension above his check, finally giving, thin wire snapping. Once. Twice. The leaning disturbance of air again and an organic stillness.

“Sarah.” he said.

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