This Is Between Us by Kevin Sampsell Read Free Book Online Page B

kiss it right on the head. He put his own hand on it then and it grew bigger. His fingers around the finger , I thought, and that kept scrolling through my mind. Fingers around the finger . . . a six-fingered hand . . . Krystal watched it and looked worried. He would stop and nod and she bent down and kissed it but I could tell that he wasn’t satisfied. He pushed her awkwardly to one knee. Then she looked around and got on both knees. I decided I wanted Susan to save her then, to come bursting through the door. I could have thrown something through the window but I didn’t want to get caught. He put one of his fingers in her mouth and then another, and then he grabbed her hand and put her fingers in his own mouth, like he was showing her. Like he was sharing something.”
    I was relieved that it wasn’t you that this happened to, but I still tasted a sick kind of sour rise into my throat. My mind made this story into a movie and you were the director. That window was the camera that you hid behind. But your memory is the film still looped inside you.
    …
    One night while drinking, we pretended that we had forgotten how to kiss. We pushed and slid our slack, unpuckered lips on each other’s faces, our mouths like half-dead people in a vast desert. In a way, it was exciting and new. In a way, it was almost innocent. It was almost funny. We almost started laughing.
    …
    Our friend James has some kind of muscular dystrophy and has to use a wheelchair when it’s really bad. It started to affect him when he was in his twenties. He was always shy around girls even though he’s a decent-looking guy. When he first met you, he had a hard time talking to you too. But recently, it seems like he has a new girlfriend every other month, and they’re each more beautiful than the last. We wonder how he does it but we don’t say anything to him because we can’t figure out how to phrase the question.
    I’m trying to figure out how much of it is sympathy and how much of it is something else.
    “It’s a nursing fantasy,” you told me once. “Some women like to take care of someone who needs help. It gives them a sense of purpose.”
    “Do you have a nursing fantasy?” I asked you. It felt weird to say nursing , like I was talking about breast-feeding.
    “Not yet,” you said. “We’ll see how your health stands up though.”
    “Would you like it if I were a male nurse?” I asked you.
    You laughed but didn’t say anything. I imagined you in a wheelchair and me in some male nurse-type clothes. A light-blue V-neck shirt and paper-thin pants.
    I wanted to tell you about a cute girl in a wheelchair I’d seen at the grocery store the other day. She was being pushed around by a guy and I was sort of envious of him. Her hands looked pretty and still in her lap. I decided not to mention this girl.
    We saw James a few days after this conversation and he was with a high-heeled Puerto Rican who looked like Miss Universe. We were at a restaurant, and when he had to use the bathroom, she went with him and I became almost outraged with jealousy. I realized that he must have figured something out about women, maybe tapped into some psychological perspective that helped his confidence.
    After dinner, we all left the restaurant and I asked James and his new woman if they wanted to catch a cab with us, but they said they were only going a few blocks and it was downhill. She started to push his wheelchair but he stopped her and said, “Let me give you a ride.” She smiled and then sat sweetly in his lap. He pushed his wheels forward and they began gliding like magic.
    I looked at you and said the same words: “Let me give you a ride.” You jumped on my back and off we went.
    …
    We had two lists of dreams written out. We hung them in the bathroom for laughs. There were age-appropriate dreams and infinite dreams.
    On the age-appropriate list were things like: start a band together and call it Year of Slacks, go to the Rock and Roll Hall