Memorial(71)

You know what I’m saying.

Mike waves his hands at the apartment. I watch them glow, taking everything in.

I think we ride it out, he says.

Yeah?

Yeah.

And then Mike and I don’t say anything else.

The air from the heater is aggressively warm. We’re sweating, both of us, on his bed, and our bodies aren’t touching. Then I reach for Mike’s hand, again, and it takes him a minute to squeeze. But eventually he does. We don’t wrap our fingers around each other’s. We just fucking hold on.



* * *





And then.

And then.

And then slowly, suddenly, I’m asleep and when I wake up, it’s six in the morning.

Mike is snoring. The sound mingles with his mother’s murmurs, wafting in from the living room. She’s speaking on the phone in Japanese, warmly, decisively. She pauses every now and again, and I can practically hear her nodding. If you really squeeze your ears, the two noises suction in harmony, with Mitsuko and her son rising and falling in tandem, conducting their own tiny orchestra.





2.



I can count the times we’ve said we love each other on two hands. I wouldn’t even have to use all my fingers.

The second time, we were out driving. The traffic around us mellowed. We were lodged between SUVs, and I don’t remember where we were going, just that we weren’t headed anywhere in particular. Then the car started blowing hot air, and then hotter air, and then no air at all.

When I started to roll down the window, the button wouldn’t budge.

Mike tried from his end, and that button was stuck, too.

Is this just how it’s gonna be now, I said.

Guess so, said Mike.

Hope it’s not a sign or anything.

Hopefully, said Mike.

And then he said it.

We rode on in silence. Soaked in sweat. The traffic getting worse and worse.

That thing happened where you hear the words leave someone’s mouth, and they rebound through your ears, again and again, coming and going.

The truck in front of us wouldn’t move. Mike’s windows wouldn’t open. He put the car in park, reclined his seat, and closed his eyes.



* * *





The next time was over a nothing dinner in the middle of the night. I’d gotten hungry, and Mike was snoring in bed, and I stumbled over his thigh to make something in the kitchen. Our fridge was always loaded, but that means nothing when you don’t know what to do with what’s in there. I slapped a pan on the stove, cracked an egg on the counter, and it wasn’t five minutes before the fire alarm popped off.

I didn’t notice Mike until he’d started fanning the smoke behind me. Then he wordlessly, silently, set a wok on the stove. He fried me two eggs, and another pair for himself and we ate them on the counter, swinging our legs against the wood.

It came out under his breath, between chews, under the alarm.

It was entirely too loud, but he enunciated everything.



* * *





The fourth time, he was fucking me. Said it right before he came.





3.



A few hours later, it’s the knocking that wakes me up. Or I’m up, and Mike isn’t beside me. Doesn’t answer when I call out.

Suddenly, totally, I get this fucking chill.

There’s a text on my phone from Omar. It’s only a smiley face.

There’s another text from Mike: he and Mitsuko have gone for a walk. They’ll be back soon.

And then there’s a phone call from my sister, and then another phone call, and then a third.

The text message below that says: Heads up, otw.



* * *





Right after Lydia moved out of the house, and I was still living with my father, I spent the night at her place on Sul Ross. We walked to the Shell for beer and got fucked up in the parking lot, stumbling back toward her apartment. We passed some teens kicking a soccer ball by the park, calling after one another in Spanish, so we sat in the grass to watch them, and, at some point, the most confident one skipped over to Lydia.

He asked for her number, just like that.

She asked to join their game.

I told my sister that wasn’t wise. Lydia told me it wasn’t a problem. And the boys were hands-off with her, at first, but after she’d scored two goals, they made a point to rough her up. The one who’d been hitting on my sister kicked at her ankles. When she made him fall on his hands, he spat in the dirt. And then she scored again.

Afterward Lydia still gave him her number. He held it up like a trophy, jigging between his friends. And at the end of that match, my sister’s shorts were filthy with mud, and her sneakers, too, and she was still a little groggy, and she couldn’t have smiled any wider.



* * *





I guess what I’m saying is: She really does try her best.



* * *





And then they’re at the door.

My sister, my father, my mother.

My family.

Lydia scrunches her nose, and my mother purses her lips. She asks if my guests are around.

It doesn’t matter, says my father. It’s too fucking humid, let us in.