David Schuman
The dress belongs to the girl's oldest sister, something she wore when she was younger. Now that the girl's turn has arrived, her oldest sister has been good enough to let her borrow it. But she has made it very clear she wants it back. The gold sandals belong to the girl's middle sister, who does not care what becomes of them. They were always too small for her thick feet. The dress is damp in patches but has mostly dried since the girl came inside this place. The straps irritate her shoulders and the material binds her breasts, but as she turns in the mirror she can see she looks pretty, the dress flatters every aspect of her form. She is made new. A smile plays at the corners of the girl's mouth. She is comforted by the aqueous muttering of a broken toilet in one of the stalls. The girl would linger here, sashaying from side to side and admiring, but the door whooshes open and some women come in, talking loudly and laughing. They too want to look at themselves, and the girl is in the way. Back at the bar, the girl orders another drink by pointing again at the bottle she likes. When it arrives in its tiny precious glass the girl lays down another of the clammy bills her sisters provided, smoothing it with the palm of her hand on the wooden surface. The man behind the bar winks as he did before, takes the money and puts a few bills back in its place with some coins. The girl leaves these, as her sisters instructed. She has had alcohol before, sipped with her sisters from stolen bottles, but this is different. Here, she is part of an adult performance, a sort of ritual. Part of that is waiting, so she waits, sipping. The man who finally comes to sit beside her introduces himself as Zeke. Her sisters promised if she waited long enough, a man would come, and here he is. The girl repeats his name back to him, drawing out the tingle of the Z on the tip of her tongue, and he smiles. I like your accent. And what's your name? He wouldn't be able to pronounce it, so she says the simple name her sisters told her to use. Pretty. The name of this month. After that it goes the way her sisters said it would. The girl had been anxious she would make a mess of it, and almost refused to make this trip. But her mother had held her close, very close, and said it was for opportunity that she had traveled with the girl and her sisters to this part of the world, and that the girl would have to create these opportunities now, as the youngest and most able. It's refreshing to be with a nice person…been a long night. The man has relaxed in the short time he's been seated next to the girl, leaned closer and allowed his weight to fully settle into the stool. Here it is, as simple as her sisters said it would be—just listening, accepting the drinks he offers, nodding here and there, frowning when he appears to be serious, or meeting his guffaws with her own light laughter at his jokes. Away from the usual evening patterns of home, time passes strangely, seeming to stop along with any silence between them, lurching suddenly forward as a burst of raucous laughter rises from the billiards table in the back. One by one or in small clusters, patrons rise and leave the bar, taking their strange business elsewhere. When the bar man flicks the music off, Zeke stiffens as a bird might, anxious about a sudden change in the weather. He drags a finger through a puddle near his glass, draws a streaky heart into the mahogany. Guess we're closing this place. Partners in crime. The only ones left now are the girl and Zeke and the bar man, who regards her with a flicker of disapproval, as if she has not conformed to something he expected, or perhaps it's that she has. Now, now, the girl must lean in close and whisper the words her sisters taught into the fleshy curls of Zeke's ear. Softly, so as to barely stir the tiny hairs inside his ear canal, she whispers, aware enough of the meaning that she feels heat in her cheeks, a new sensation. Before this, the girl has had little reason for shame. Zeke draws back, a ragged smile spread across his face. She has surprised him. Again the girl feels the pride of looking in the mirror, because she knows the sight of her is pleasurable to him. Speak the words, and the man will follow you, her middle sister said. Or you'll fail and he won't, her oldest sister had added. But the girl can see in his eyes that he will follow. She places her hand on his arm and leads him out and into the street. She can hear the bar man say something as the door closes but she doesn't understand it. He's just jealous. On the train, Zeke says he has never been this far out into the boroughs. And I thought I knew this town. She leans closely toward him. The heat that comes off his body is tinged with the smell of food, sweat, alcohol. The astringency of harsh soap. His profile is not unpleasant, though his tongue flicks to wet his lips continuously, like a reptile. He has loosened his tie. Blood flecks the flesh of his neck where his razor scraped. Just under his eye is a swollen lump the girl hadn't noticed in the dimness of the bar, as if he'd been struck there. She touches it lightly. In response, he slips a hand from his lap to her bare leg, traces shapes into the hard protuberance of her kneecap with a finger. Can you read what I wrote? The naughty smirk of a little boy. She smiles and nods again, laces her fingers into his. The few weary passengers sharing the car depart the train as it trundles toward its final stop. This is where the two of them exit, fingers still entwined. It's easy to forget how close this city is to the ocean. Can't forget here, though. Smells fishy. The pre-dawn blocks are still. In the middle of the street, three gulls argue loudly over a food wrapper. They encounter no one. The buildings regard their passage with the broad, stern countenances of the era in which they were constructed. As they approach the boardwalk, a clatter startles her, a shopkeeper cranking up the metal gates of his establishment. Don't be frightened. I'm your knight. He puts his arm around the girl's shoulder. Gosh, you're cold. The beach is deserted, but still she leads him to climb a dune to come down the other side where they won't be seen from the apartment buildings that face the ocean. He stumbles going down, falling to his knees. One too many. The waver in his voice gives her confidence. She helps him to his feet and brushes sand from his trousers. His kneecaps are fragile beneath the fabric, scallop shells. She leans into his chest and whispers again into his ear. The desire that flickers into his eyes at the girl's words is indiscernible from panic. Here, the water foams around their feet and she slips out of her sandals, hooks a thumb around each strap and releases the dress. It slides into the shallow surf and is tugged away, shimmying like an eel. Her oldest sister will be displeased. This is like a movie. He unzips, stamps out of his pants. His fingers stutter over a button on his shirt. He pulls her to his nakedness as if for protection. Over his shoulder, she scans the waves, searching for a stream in the current that will deliver them. When she finds it, she urges him backwards, up to his knees, then hips. The water is cold. He goes soft with the shock of it. She slips beneath the surface and uses her mouth, her tongue, to encourage him. A proven trick, her sisters said. She emerges and kisses him deeply. His tongue enters the girl's mouth and pulses like a mollusk. Unh. With her hands she guides him inside the silky hole between her legs. His eyes roll back and he whines. Though she has never felt a man inside her like this, it is familiar, somehow—like swallowing, like welcoming water into her lungs. He murmurs softly, his throat throbs against her shoulder, his lips in her hair. He does not notice when the ocean lifts them both and carries them swiftly seaward, does not recognize that she is the one keeping him from going under. He has never been held so safely aloft in arms like these, nor ever experienced a touch, a body such as the girl's. The shoreline recedes. The boardwalk, the apartment buildings, the skeletal arch of the roller coaster in the amusement park, all grow small, silhouetted against the lightening gray sky. From this distance, the city is nothing but a futile story mankind is telling itself. His thighs slip against hers and a jagged toenail scrabbles against her shin. It's as if he's trying to climb inside her. Then he shudders and cries out, grasping desperately at the wet flesh of her back. Thank you. Thank you. He relaxes into her embrace, letting his arms trail behind her shoulders, unaware that he is now further than he's ever been from home. The girl whispers his name, grateful, too, perhaps even in love. She will never forget him. Her sisters swirl around them now, greedily, their slick heads breaking the surface of the waves, there and there. He does not see them, or if he does, imagines his eyes are playing tricks. Even as the girl's mother rears from the sea, magnificent and glorious in her hunger, he cannot comprehend what he sees. Here is their weakness, which has enabled her kind to coexist for millennia in a world men believe belongs only to them, this capacity to convince themselves they are merely dreaming.