Heartbreaker by Maryse Meijer Page B

sink. The trash is crammed with boxes from microwave dinners and fast food. The whole place smells like sour milk. Above the mattress she’s taped the picture she took of me in my prison uniform; the only part of my head that’s showing is my chin, but you can tell that I’m smiling.
    I take a shower while she watches me from the toilet, her knees pressed together and her feet arched up. The shower curtain is open and water bounces off my body and onto the floor.
    Did they ever use anything other than their cocks? she wants to know.
    The janitor used a broomstick, I say. And once Mikey used the handle of a razor.
    Mikey? she says. Who’s Mikey?
    Mikey’s the, uh, the new guy.
    She slips her underwear down to her ankles and touches herself. I want to watch her but she says no, she wants me to put my hands on the tile and tell her how it was. I can hear how wet she is. Leaning my head against the tile I close my eyes. I tell her that Mikey is fucking me with the handle of the razor and I want to scream but he threatens to beat my head in if I so much as blink. He gets it all the way in and the blood running down my thighs is hotter than the hot water from the showerhead. The guards watch, the other guys watch, one of them is going to have a turn next, they talk about it, what they’re going to do to my ass, and I’m so scared I piss myself, and that gets them all even more excited.
    You wanted it and they knew it, Bea says.
    Yes.
    It was me doing it to you the whole time, she says. I want it to be me doing it to you.
    Yes, I whisper, and she does that thing with her breathing, like she’s crying, but it means she’s coming.
    Oh fuck, I love you, Jonathan, she says.
    I love you too, I say.
    *   *   *
    Bea cleans houses some days but other days she seems to have nothing to do. I know there are bills she hasn’t paid, that her mother is sending her money, and twice we wake up with no lights. She says that we’re fine, and she’s the one with the bank account so I don’t say much about it. We watch TV, drink beer on the porch, sleep in the afternoon when it’s hot so we can be awake at night when it’s cool and the mosquitoes are gone.
    Do you miss it? she asks.
    No , I think. Yes, I say, putting my hand in hers.
    I’m glad I’m home, though, I say. She touches my hair.
    That’s sweet, she says. But I know it can never really be home again.
    I don’t ask her what she means.
    She says I can fuck her if I want, from behind. She leans over the kitchen sink, she tells me to pull her hair and I do it, she wants me to say I’m going to hurt her and I do that, too. She laughs when I come, a crazy laugh like she’s drunk or high, and even though I want to be nice to her what I want more is to make her happy. So I put my arm around her neck and squeeze. She says Don’t stop.
    *   *   *
    But it doesn’t last. We go out, and it’s a bad night. Our tacos don’t taste right and the margaritas are watery and no matter what I say she doesn’t look up from her food. I ask her if she wants to dance and she goes to the dance floor but she barely moves, and when I put my hands on her waist I can feel how tense her muscles are, like her whole body is a fist. She twists away, adjusting her tube top, and we drive home without saying anything.
    On the porch when we’re having a cigarette I ask her what’s wrong, to please tell me, because I thought things were going so good. At first she shrugs, making a face like she doesn’t want to talk, but I can tell that all along she’s been wanting to say what she finally says.
    It’s nothing, she starts, sighing and scratching her cheek. It’s just … it’s not working.
    What’s not?
    This, she says, gesturing between us. With you out. On the outside.
    Sure it is, I say, reaching for her thigh.
    No, she insists, inhaling sharply on her