Kings of Infinite Space

SEVENTEEN

“ARE YOU AWAKE?”

No answer.

“Paul? Are you awake, honey?”

A sigh. “Yeah.”

“You okay?”

“Sure.”

“You feel tense.”

“I guess.”

“Anything I can do to help?”

Another sigh.

“Do you like it when I do this?”

“Sure.” Pause. “Not right now.”

“Well, that’s a first.” Pause. “What’d you do here all day?”

“Slept. I slept all day.”

“I reckon that’s why you can’t sleep now.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s alright. Means you were real happy to see me when I got home.”

“Sorry about that.”

“Don’t apologize. I was a little surprised when I walked in the door, but Lord. Better’n having a cat rub up against you as you walk in the door.”

“A cat?”

“Yeah, you know how a cat that’s been left alone all day’ll rub up against you when you come home? Wind between your legs and such? Well, you were like a big, horny cat—”

“A cat?”

“ ’Cause you were certainly winding between my legs there for a while—”

“What made you think of a cat?”

“And I made you purr, too, didn’t I—”

“Why do you say ‘a cat’?”

“I know all your favorite places, don’t I. You’re just a big ol’ tomcat.”

“Don’t.”

“Come on, one pussy to another. Who’s a good boy?”

“Stop it!”

Silence. An angry sigh. “What the hell’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit.” Pause. “You don’t have to stay here, pal. You can just find the goddamn door.”

“I’m sorry.”

“ ’Cause I don’t need the goddamn aggravation. If I want some sulky, tongue-tied cowboy, I can go down to Sixth Street right now and get me one.”

“I said I’m sorry.”

“ ’Cause I’ve fucked a lot of cowboys, Paul. I know what I’m talking about, and I’m sick to death of that shit.”

“I mean it, I’m sorry.”

“Shut up. I ain’t done with you.” A sigh. “You’re my first college professor. I thought you’d be different. But you’re just like all the rest. Got plenty to say when you want to get my panties off, but afterwards, it’s like lying here with a length of two-by-four. ‘Uh huh.’ ‘Sure.’ ‘You bet.’ ” Furious pause. “Well, Fuck. That. Shit.”

A long pause.

“Callie—”

“Yeah, go on. Say something smart, Professor.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Don’t call you what?”

“ ‘Professor.’ I hate that.”

“Why not? You mean you’re not a professor?”

Sigh. “Not anymore I’m not, and I never will be again. I’m a typist, and a temp typist at that. You tell me: Is that a step up or down from a cowboy?”

“Paul—”

“Okay, a tech writer. I guess that’s better than a typist. By about four dollars an hour. That’s what? Another thirty-two dollars a day. Another, let’s see, hundred and sixty dollars a week.”

“Ooh baby, keep talking. Self-pity gets me hot.”

A long pause. “He died, Callie! That fucking bitch Olivia worked him to death! That poor bastard died in a cubicle!”

“Paul. .”

“He died working overtime! And he wasn’t even getting paid for it!”

“Paul, listen to me. He had cancer. He was dead anyway. He just hadn’t laid down yet.”

“Well, I know just how he feels.”

“Jesus Christ on a stick, what planet are you from? You think you’re the only person who works a shitty job? ’Cause on the planet I’m from, which is planet Earth, you son of a bitch, you got it pretty sweet. You get to sit all day in the air-conditioning, and you don’t have to deal with the public or take their sass or pick up their trash or scrape the food off their plates or wipe their ass. . ”

Silence.

“Fuck.” A sigh. “First I’m an asshole because I won’t tell you what I think. Then when I do, I’m a self-pitying asshole. What do you want from me, Callie? Make up your goddamn mind.”

A long silence. “Well.” A touch in the dark. “I guess that ain’t hardly fair, is it?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Paul. .”

“Really, it doesn’t matter. It’s okay. Forget it.”

A long silence. Then, in the dark, singing, in a hoarsely sexy voice, an Oklahoma Janis. “ ‘You haul sixteen tons, what do you get?’ ” A nudge in the dark. “C’mon, cowboy, you know this.”

“You want me to sing?”

“ ‘Sixteen tons, what do you get. .?’”

“You’re not serious.”

Closer, deeper, more sensually. “ ‘You haul sixteen tons, what do you get. .?’”

A laugh, a sigh, then a quavering tenor, a little out of tune. “ ‘Another day older and deeper in debt. .’ ”

Her breath hot on his ear. “ ‘Saint Peter don’t you call me, ’cause I can’t go. .’ ”

Together, not quite in harmony: “ ‘I owe my soul to the company store!’ ” Then, wordlessly, “Do, do, do, do, do do do do.”

Laughter. “That’s not from the Norton Anthology.”

“Not yet.”

A pair of sighs. Sheets rustling.

“Okay if I touch you there?”

“Mmm.”

“Whoa. Dead man couldn’t do that.”

“Like you said, I’m dead, but I won’t lie down.”

“Oh.” A gasp. “Oh.”

“How’s that?”

“That’s it.”

“Is that good?”

“Oh, that’s it” Then, tenderly, “Honey?”

“Yeah.”

“Fuck me sweet.”

“Like this?”

“Please, yes.”

“Right here?”

“Oh, you got it. Yes.”

Murmurs. A moan.

Then, louder. “Oh Jesus, I’m close.”

Breathlessly. “It’s okay, honey, don’t wait for me.”

“Oh, God, Callie, I don’t want to die in Texas!”

Hard breathing. A sniffle.

“There, there, baby, there, there.” A kiss. “Me neither.”