Cold Waxed Paper

This is an updated version of a story from my other blog (originally owning the uninspired title "Expectation"). Let me know how it is.



I have my hands around Halle’s waist and she kisses me, hard. My thoughts are muddled as we stand in her apartment room. I haven’t been drinking—I haven’t been drunk since Jacob’s party a while ago when he spent most of the night passed out half-naked on his floor.

Halle bites my lip, my heart jumps, my hands clench on her back. Her hair is thick, and I want to lose myself in its familiar scent of mornings spent undressed and clothed in sheets. My leg presses against the bed we fall onto it.

Dim streetlight bleeds in through the window. Her hands slip underneath my shirt and ease it off my body, nails scraping my skin. I pull her shirt up and off and kiss her neck and run my hands across her chest to the straps of her bra, gently tugging the material off her shoulders. Her eyes meet mine for an instant before she kisses me again with an energy that leaves my mind blank except for the recurring thought of how on earth I am here with her.

I reach my arms behind her and wrestle with the clasp of her bra, but she pushes me onto my back and straddles my waist. She pulls her hair from her face and reaches to unclasp her bra, meeting my eyes with a stare that makes the blood rush from my head to my crotch. The bra falls to the floor as she tiptoes her fingers down my chest to my waist, undoing my belt. I close my eyes, she kisses me, and her hands unzip my pants, sliding into my clothes.

***

Jacob hosted parties like it was his job.

“What do you think?” Jacob asked me. “More than last time?” He leaned against his fridge, outwardly calm but failing to hide his excitement from me. He always got excited about parties, and, of course, the bigger the better. His small kitchen was crowded, and a girl danced on a table behind him, her shirt magicked away by the real-world alchemy of 80-proof vodka and masculine attention.

I nodded, sipped my beer. “I’d say so. Another one out of the park.” I patted him on the back and started to walk toward the couches.

“Wait.” He grabbed my sleeve. “You’re not going to toast me on this one? C’mon!”

I rolled my eyes, lifted my bottle, and then grabbed another out of the cooler. “Now, Jacob, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go have a talk with the pretty young lady who, for some reason, is by herself on the couch.”

Jacob followed my gaze and slapped me on the back. “Get that, man! I don’t know her name; she’s friends of a friend, or something.” He glanced back at the girl dancing on the table. She seemed to have no intention of stopping. “I should make the rounds. Duty calls, you know.” He grinned and turned back to the kitchen.

I squirmed through the crowd, nodding to those I knew, forcing a way to Jacob’s ugly green couches. They were great for these parties: no worries of puke stains being visible.
Why isn’t this girl with someone, I thought as I got closer. Her shirt was cut low and left little to the imagination.

“Hey,” I said, sitting down next to her. She turned, gave me a once-over. “Want a beer? This is my best friend’s house, his party and all. Thought I’d say hello. I don’t think we’ve met, my name’s Trey.” I made to stick out my hand, realized I still clutched the beer that I was offering her, and set it next to her.

“Thanks,” she said, snagging the bottle and twisting off the cap. “Hell of a party.” Her eyes were blue, lips red.

I nodded. Her hair might have been dyed; I couldn’t tell. “Here with friends?” I asked.
“Yeah, from class. My friend Claire knows Jacob. She left with some guy—” she waved her hand dismissively “—and my other friends are somewhere out there.” She paused as the staccato beats of some rap song erupted and the living room cheered in approval. Her flowered skirt was short and left most of her long legs bare. I don’t think she noticed or cared.

I’ll have this in a few minutes, I thought.

I opened my mouth to say something, but she beat me to it. “Thanks for the beer. I hate this music, no offense to your friend.”

“Yeah, it never did much for me, either,” I said. “But it’s what the people want.” I raised my drink in mock salute.

“We can not listen to it somewhere else, you know.” She very barely licked her lips. “Wanna get out of here?”

Or now. “Absolutely.” I stood, drained my bottle, and she followed as I navigated the crowd. I looked for Jacob as we approached the door. He was standing on the table with the dancing girl, two cups clutched in his hands. He saw me, said something unintelligible, chugged one of the cups, and pointed. The group of people standing around him cheered and handed him a refill. I waved and slipped out the door.

Within moments she and I were in my car and I was driving too fast, trying to shake off my buzz, maintain conversation during the brief ride to my apartment. Then we were in my room and on my bed, her clothes on the floor and my clothes in a trail leading out the door. I asked her name because I hadn’t caught it earlier, and she panted, “Morgan, it’s Morgan.”

I met Halle the next day.

***

Halle is sleeping. A small lock of hair lies delicately across her face, and I want to tuck it behind her ear. Her breath comes steady, easy; she is the most peaceful sleeper I’ve ever been with. I shake my head and climb out of bed, careful not to wake her. I don’t have time for a shower; sunlight is already reaching through the windows and I have places to be. I reach for my jeans, piled next to a stack of the New York Times. It had surprised me when Halle told me she read it, before revealing in the same discussion her love for modern journalism and mentioning something about The Matrix and its parallels to modern psychological theory. Hook, line, and sinker.

I pull my shirt on, a Beck t-shirt Halle had bought me a few weeks ago at a concert, and when my head pops out she is awake and looking at me.

“Leaving so soon?” she asks, propping her head up with an arm. Her hair frames her face, embraces it gently. She cocks her head. “I like the no-shirt look on you. Get a tan to go with those abs and you’re set.” She winks or something, and I look down, flexing unconsciously even though I’m wearing a shirt.

“Not like you haven’t seen it all before,” I say. “I’ve got some errands to run and a doctor’s appointment; remember, the follow up visit? I needed to stop by the bank, too, at some point. And it’s 12:15 already.” I shrug, raising my hands in helpless acquiescence to the machinations of the world. “I’ll try to fit a tanning bed in there somewhere, if I can manage to remember.”

“Okay,” she says, sitting up. “C’mere, give me a kiss before you go.”

I crawl onto the bed and kiss her, a whispered exchange of breath. I linger for a moment, breathe her in. Her hand cups my cheek and her lips are soft. I pull away and meet her gaze, and her crooked grin catches me. Her eyes take on another life when she smiles. I give her a questioning look.

“You need a haircut,” she says, and I roll my eyes before mussing her hair.

I stand, slip on my shoes. “I’ll call you,” I tell her, and she nods and sinks into the bed and then I leave.

***

I dropped Morgan off at her apartment around one in the afternoon. She handed me a slip of paper with her number, saying, “If you’re ever bored and want to have some fun, give me a call.” She waved and blew me a kiss, closed the door. I drove off, crumbling the paper and tossing it in the back. I wasn’t going to call and she knew it, expected it. That’s the way these things went.

I glanced in the rearview mirror as I waited at a red light, saw the dark circles under my eyes, and blew out a contented sigh. Jesus, what a night. My short brown hair was sticking out, but I—rather, we—had showered that morning, and I supposed I smelled okay. I decided to stop by Jacob’s place to see how he was.

After parking my car on his street, I meandered up to the house, kicking aside beer cans and red and blue cups. Someone’s shirt—man or woman, I couldn’t tell—was thrown over the puff of bushes by Jacob’s front door, and trash littered the small porch. The door was unlocked and I walked inside.

Jacob lay on the floor of his kitchen, very much asleep, surrounded by a night’s worth of drunken revelry. I was vaguely surprised that his house was still in one piece, let alone that he himself was. Bottles and cups were strewn about, most of them empty. Some kid was collapsed over Jacob’s couch. I wondered who else was in the house.

I toed Jacob in the side. “Hey. Jacob. Get up, man.” He snorted and turned over, crumpling cups and soaking his clothes. “Jacob! Get up, it’s—” I peered at my watch “—1:30. Let’s go.” I filled a cup with water and trickled it over his face. He sputtered, coughed, sat up.

Looking around wildly for a moment—I’m sure the eye-level view of chair legs had him confused—he finally saw me and blinked. “Hey. Trey. What—” he coughed. “What time is it?”

“1:30. Party’s been over for a while.” I helped him to his feet, and he wavered as he stood.

He rubbed the heels of his hands into his eyes as if trying to force them through the back of his skull. “Goddamn. That was insane. Things got crazy after you—oh shit! You left! The girl, uh, I don’t know her name, how was that?”

“You can do the math; c’mon, how long have you known me? I’ll fill you in later.” Reporting sexual conquests was best done when neither party had a headache and when each could think clearly. I’d spill over beers and Madden later, as it had been since high school.

“Yeah, alright, keep it to yourself. I’ve got an imagination.” Jacob looked around, shook his head. “Shit, man, I gotta clean.”

“Yeah, already on it.” I grabbed some bottles off the ground. Jacob nodded at me gratefully.

We cleaned for a solid two hours—I usually helped him with this crap when he threw a party; that’s what I got for knowing him for eight years. There were four people still in his house, two of whom were alive enough to take their cars and leave. Neither of the other two had driven, and before Jacob could ask, I said I’d take them home. “But the rest of the cleaning is yours.”

Couch Boy, as I thought of him, sat in the front seat as Laundry Room zoned out in the back. The ride to Laundry’s house was quiet except for a few slurred directions and one sudden sputter: “My parents are going to kill me!” I dropped him off and laughed as a middle-aged woman clutching very sharp garden shears berated him in the front yard. Couch Boy pointed me to his house; he still lived with his parents, too. Freshman at State, as he told me. Cheaper to live at home than pay for a dorm.

I dropped him off and was halfway down the street when I saw that he had left his shoes in the floor of my car. “Son of a bitch,” I muttered.

After parking haphazardly in the driveway, I grabbed his shoes and paced up to the door, considered leaving them on the step, and rang the doorbell. What the hell.

Couch Boy didn’t open the door and neither did his parents, which a part me of had been hoping would, if just for the sake of general awkwardness. Instead there was a girl wearing a blue tank top and shorts, probably my age, all dark, red-tinged hair and darker eyes. I blinked. Did I park at the wrong house? She stared at me, eyebrows raised, her finger tapping on the door jam.

“Ah, your brother left his shoes—I think that’s your brother—well, these are his shoes, he left them in my car—brother, right?” I rarely tripped over my words, but this girl had me floored and reorganizing my now-disordered thoughts.

She sighed, turned her head inside. “Eric!” she called. “Come get your shoes! And you better wake up, you’re taking me back to my place.” Eric/Couch Boy leaned into the room, unsure of his footing, and took the shoes from my hands.

“Thanks,” he mumbled. “Halle, I can’t take you, I’m—I’m—” he dropped the shoes to the ground, covered his mouth, and stumbled out of view.

“Fuck,” she muttered, then to me: “Thank you for bringing him home.”

She moved to close the door, but I said, quickly and without really thinking, “Hey, I can take you to your place. I’ve been running people around all morning, it’s not a problem.” Good God, what am I doing.

She paused, frowned, her brown eyes flicked toward the sound of retching coming from a bathroom, and she said, “Hang on a sec,” before walking into the house. I heard muted discussion interspersed with rounds of sputtering and coughing. There was a family picture on a table by the door. Her dad was big.

The coughing stopped and a toilet flushed. She came back into the foyer, grabbed a backpack off a chair, and nodded at me. “Ready when you are. Had to check with Eric, make sure he didn’t get rapist vibes from you.” I couldn’t tell if she was serious.

“Um, no, not me. I’m Trey, by the way,” I said, extending my hand.

“Halle. Eric said you’re nice enough. I almost feel bad—I won’t be able to vouch for him when our parents get back.” Her hand was slim and warm; mine was cold, as it always was. Shaking someone’s cold hand was awkward, and I knew that. Strike one.

In the car I asked her questions, made small talk, tried to pry information from her. Halle humored me and answered. While she was talking I snuck glances at her, noticed that her shoulders were spotted with freckles, that her ears weren’t pierced.

She was a senior at State—“I graduated from there last year!”

She danced and occasionally acted—“I swam and wrote for the newspaper.”

She was completing a psychology thesis—“I was Journalism, minored in Film Studies.”

She lived with her best friend (“We’re almost at the apartment, thanks again”)—“I lived with my friend Jacob during school, but I’ve got my own place now.”

She laughed a lot and asked me things in return. I liked hearing her talk—she had a soft voice, almost sultry, the kind meant for late-night jazz radio. She looked through my iPod and I was astounded at her taste in music. She mentioned that she played guitar and had just learned “Yesterday” by The Beatles, and I imagined her singing it while strumming away and I knew then that I had to somehow stop the car and talk with her more.

“D’you mind if I stop at a Starbucks before your place? I had a long night and all.” Smooth, Trey, she’ll never pick up on that.

“Yeah, go ahead.” There was a moment of storybook awkwardness before she continued, twisting a finger through her hair and focusing on something out the window. “That’s actually a good idea. I could go for some coffee.”

***

I’ve been to the bank and I’ve bought groceries, and I’ve dropped them off at my house and now I’m sitting on a giant sheet of waxy paper in the room of a doctor’s office. I hate these offices because I hate being cold. The sterile atmosphere doesn’t help much, but in the end it’s the fucking cold. I’ve been sitting here for a while—the nurse has already taken my blood pressure, and I feel like I’m thirteen again, getting a sports’ physical or check-up, and all that is left is for me to turn my head and cough.

A few days ago they pricked me with needles and hopefully by today they have run their comprehensive drug/sickness/well-being tests. If they haven’t, I’ll have to be patient, but patience is difficult to sustain whilst trying not to shiver. It’s all for an end, of course: job interviews require more and more these days, so what the hell, I’ll be ahead of the curve and have all this information handy. Can’t hurt, at least.

I’ve counted thirty-six blue items in the room and am looking for lucky number thity-seven when the door opens and my doctor enters, a manila folder in his hands.

I notice immediately that he’s no longer chipper. His fingers tap on the outside of the folder, and his wide brow is furrowed. He sits in his chair and removes his glasses, runs a hand through his thinning, graying hair. He looks tired, and I wonder how I ever could have seen him as energetic and happy. I lick my lips and my foot shakes.

“Mr. Madison,” he begins, before pausing and placing his glasses back on his nose. “Trey. Ah, I’m afraid I have some hard news. You asked us to screen the full range of tests, and…son, I’m so sorry to have to tell you this, but you’ve tested positive for HIV. The ELISA test picked it up first, and it was confirmed by the Western blot. These are highly accurate tests, and—” he stops and looks at me, doesn’t seem to know what else to say. “I’m so sorry, son.”

I try to register his words, try to imagine him sticking out his tongue and honking his nose, “Just kidding, Trey, it’s a joke!” My breath comes fast and shallow and all I can see in my head is Halle, curled up in her bed, her face pale and lovely, enclosed by twin spills of auburn. I see her and I don’t know what to think or how to act or respond because this must be a joke, some sick and unfunny comedy; it’s not funny and I am not laughing and oh, Halle, please God, no.

“What?” I croak.

The doctor, whose name suddenly comes to me,

(Thompson, it’s Thompson)

sets the folder on the small counter and puts his glasses next to them, apparently trying to be more human without them, because at this point that will really make a difference. He stands and moves closer, not so close as to intrude but close enough as if to tell me, “Hey, I’m here for you,” because at this point that will really make a difference. My hands are sweaty and no longer cold.

“Trey, we have counseling for this, and I know it’s a lot to take in, a lot to swallow. Have you been sexually active lately, have you—”

I burst out laughing and I’m sure I sound hysterical because of course I’ve had sex recently, I pride myself on my ability to have sex, I’ve fucked so many people in the last year that oh, Jesus Christ, Halle, how many times have I had sex with Halle, and suddenly I can’t remember how long we’ve been together, and then all the other names come pouring back into my brain, names I had purposefully forgotten: Morgan, Katie, Anna, Stephanie, more, too many names. Is this really even such a surprise? I’ve been stupid, God I’m stupid, I could have done this to any of them, any of them could have done this to me, and how do I know? Whose fault is this? This is all a mistake—but no, the doctor is serious and for God’s sake, he took off his glasses, they only do that when they’re reporting someone’s death or telling someone they’re crippled or telling stupid kids that they’re going to have AIDS—

Dr. Thompson puts a hand on my shoulder that I don’t feel because my body is numb, and I rest my head in my hands while sitting on the cold waxed paper in the sterile office, unable to get Halle’s face out of my mind, and she’s looking at me and she’s beautiful and I can’t figure out what I could possibly say to her because there is nothing I can say, there is nothing at all.

***

Halle and I sat in the Starbucks, sipping coffee as jazz music played over our heads. She was still drinking hers; mine was gone an hour ago, but I was okay with that. We’d been there for most of two hours, conversation running from journalism to movies to psychology to music and back around again.

“I still can’t believe you play guitar,” I said. “I tried to learn in high school and gave up.”

“It’s not too bad,” she said. “‘Practice makes perfect’ and all that.” Her eyes were focused on mine, and I noticed for the first time the little shards of hazel in her irises. Brown eyes flecked with gems.

I shook my head. “For some of us, maybe.” I grinned at her. “I do play a mean kazoo, however.” She rolled her eyes. I occupied my hands with my empty coffee cup, hoping that my turning of it was less conspicuous than the tirade of butterflies in my stomach. I hadn’t felt those in a while.

“What about you?” she asked. “You get around a lot? Go out for coffee with the sisters of drunk freshmen often?” She smirked, her eyes never leaving mine.

“Not too much,” I said. “I mean, well, you know. Not the drunk part, nothing serious.” I felt my neck flush. Embarrassment? This girl has me tied into knots four different ways.

“Well,” she said. “I’ll just have to watch myself with you then, won’t I? Provided, of course, that you take me out again sometime.”

Neither a question nor a statement; she said it easily, perfectly aware of my response before I had time to consider it. She was running two steps ahead of me and I was stumbling behind, probably missing a foot, trying my best to keep up.

Before I could say anything, she stood and walked to the door, and I scrambled to my feet. “Hey, you’re not even going to let me respond?” I called, following her out.

She turned around and walked backward toward my car, the late sun suspended in the trees above her like a ripe orange.

“You don’t need to,” she said.

And I suppose I didn’t. Halle got in the car and I stood outside it for a moment, my door halfway open, and I realized that I didn’t even know her last name. I wondered what that meant, because with the other girls I had never really cared.

I climbed in and she smiled, and I asked her which way to go.