Apathy and Other Small Victories by Paul Neilan Read Free Book Online

was so great that it was comical, or it was very afraid.
    Without changing her expression she turned, crossed the room, and went through another door.
    After standing in the doorway for a while, I went in. My mind worked feverishly. She was in a bathrobe, but her hair was dry. Maybe I was just there to fix the shower. But I didn’t have any tools. Why didn’t I bring tools?
    There was still a good chance I would die. I crossed the room trying to think of more last words, better ones, but I couldn’t think of any. They had shabby furniture but a nice TV. A big one. I wanted to see what was on, see if they had HBO. I went through the other door.
    It was the bedroom. She was on the bed and her robe was on the floor. A ceiling fan was spinning overhead. The lights were already off and I shut the door behind me.
    And then there was some sex. Technically, at least. Mechanically speaking, it was sex. Really we were just naked and smacking into each other. We were like two dead fish being slapped together by an off duty clown, swinging us by our tails, both of us slippery and cold, our eyes open and glassy, looking away. That’s about how passionate it was. Not that I’m much interested in passion. I always think of sex as somehow being orchestrated by an off duty clown, one who’s taken off the wig but not the makeup, and he’s in a T-shirt and sweat pants but he’s still got on the big fucking shoes for some reason. Whenever I have sex or remember it afterwards, even when I fantasize about it, he is there. But this was disinterested even by my standards. The only thing saving us from travesty was that we were too sloppy and uncoordinated to be formulaic.
    And then it was done. We were both on our backs, and still the only words between us were “Hello, my phone is broken.” I wanted to ask her what was going on, why her husband had paid me $200 to have off duty clown sex with her, and if either of them planned on killing me for it. But she hadn’t said a word yet, and I wasn’t about to start talking.
    This was a game, one I’d played hundreds of times before. Or eleven times actually, not counting her. It was like chess, but much more complicated because both of us were nude. Eventually she had to say something, had to spill everything, and then I would win. All I had to do was wait.
    Then she broke.
    “You should go,” she said.
    A brilliant tactical maneuver.
    I tried to mask my utter confusion and feign some dignity as I got dressed, but it didn’t work. It was dark though, and I don’t think she was even looking at me. I was doing it more for myself anyway.
    I tried to keep my voice low and coarse when I said goodbye, like I was a lifelong smoker. And I did. I counted this as a victory. She didn’t say anything, so I just left. It was that night, out alone in a hotel bar, that I stole the first saltshaker. And then I stole three more.
     
    It hadn’t happened in years. Not that I could remember anyway. And yet there I was, sitting before some asshole detective under that bright police spotlight, my face blowing up red because of an offhand comment that could have meant anything. And that was the problem.
    “Are you blushing?” Sikes asked, smiling caustically. “You have a crush on me or something sweetheart?”
    “Yes,” I said, and looked at him warmly.
    He didn’t blink, and his smile only changed slightly. If he hated fags, or if he found me at all becoming, he did a good job of hiding it.
    “I think I know why you were blushing,” he said.
    “I’m not blushing, it’s just hot in here.”
    “I think it’s a little chilly actually.”
    “You’re not sitting under a spotlight.”
    “You think that’s a spotlight? I’ll show you a spotlight!”
    I did not know what to say.
    He leaned back in his chair like he’d just bested me in a contest I did not know we were having.
    “Now what did I say that made you get all flushed and rosy pink?” he said. “Do you remember?”
    “I still think