Douse (Book One: At the Edge of a Hurricane) (3 page)

"Are
you hoping to here?"

Bishop
squeezes once more. “Possibly.”

I
squeeze him back. “Community is a hard find. Feeling like you belong
really, really well."

“That's
something we can work on together then," he says. "If you don't think
that's too clingy sounding."

"Not
at all. Just human to human connection sounding. It sounds great."

I
snuggle under him, breathing his minty cologne, tasting the possibilities. I'm
flush with excitement.

Every
person you meet is a possibility. Better or worse?

Bishop,
I think, is for the better.

                                               
#

I
can't remember the last time I didn't have to listen to the Star Spangled
Banner upon rising. Not even my Dad would play that in our house, and he loves America. Piranha blasts that song every morning without fail at six A.M.

Instead
though, I look up, and he's there. His name is Bishop, clean cut, muscular,
good ol' boy. He wrangles animals like in the Westerns and has been on actual
farms. He hides the twang, but if you concentrate on the vowels, you can hear
his accent: earthy and lonely. Envision the countryside now. A big burly guy
and his gal overlooking their harvest.

The
image captivates. It's killer to me. Living in cities and high rises all my
life, you'd never see that life unless you're rich and can afford countryside
visits. The closest to the country I've been are those tourist farms where you
can pick berries and squash and take pictures of cows like they’re exotic
animals.

"Mm?"
he says. "Awake?"

"I
am."

"You
fell asleep.”

"I
did. You're really comfy."

"It's
the chair."

I
pat his chest and pinch his muscles. "I think it's your body."

“You're
going to need a ride back, won't you?"

"If
you could."

A
loud rapping on the door grabs our attention. We jolt out of the couch. Bishop
swings to answer, while I trail behind, nosy girl that I am.

They
talk at the front in hushed tones. Parsing their sentences becomes an exercise
in masochism: you have to stretch your ear and crank your neck around this
tight tiny hallway to even skim the basics.

Bishop
covers the entryway. I can't see who he speaks with.

I
duck out of the hallway. This is something Piranha would do: stick her nose
someplace it's not wanted at all.

Their
conversation finishes amicably—laughter roars from the front door to the
living room couches. I cast Bishop a perplexed expression as he struts back in.

"Sorry
about that," he says. "Just had an old friend come check up on me. We
have plans later, or well, soon."

"Ah!
Am I intruding? I shouldn't have overstayed."

Bishop
grabs my shoulders and puts his forehead to mine. "You can overstay your
welcome anytime you want."

"Good,"
I say, patting his cheek. "I like guys who let their girls whip
them."

"Morning
sass?"

"You
should see me in the afternoon."

I
pull away from Bishop, but he reels me in, and we spin around for one last
kiss. The heat in his throat commingles with my own, and despite our slumber,
neither of us has bad breath. Or at least not much.

"You're
up for meeting again sometime soon?"

I
pinch his nose. "Sure. I'll text you though."

"You
sound emasculating." Caddy hands me a dossier on one of our students. He
types furiously on his laptop as I read out the payment info and general stats.
"If I was straight—"

"But
you like penis so you're not."

"I
wouldn't enjoy that. If I was straight, I'd tell your ass, girl, get to the
damn curb.'"

“What?
Because I'm a girl I can't be a little assertive."

Caddy
bobs his head back and drains the last of his cappuccino. "You sound like
a man," he says.

"Someone
has to wear the pants. Piranha's definitely not and you only do it part
time."

"Is
that because I'm gay?"

"Type,
damn it.”. To think that we once considered hiring more staff to help us
in our daily routine. Who would take our clowning seriously?

We
had to stow ourselves once again in the back of Starbucks. Piranha did play the
Star Spangled Banner, and from what Caddy told me, it was the orchestra version
today.

"She
could at least pick ones with decent singers. Did you know next week she's
thinking about switching to live performances? Are you ready for
aaaaaaaaa-nnnddddd theeeeeeeeee rrrrrrrrockkkkkkeeetttrsssss reeeeedddddddddd
glar-uuhuhhhHHHHHHH." The teenager couple adjacent to us glares.
"Sorry," Caddy says to them. "But fuck do singers like to play
off their vocal gymnastics at live shows."

Besides
bitching about Piranha, Caddy takes the time to list out the phone numbers of
students I'm supposed to call. There are twenty of them.

"This
is why sometimes Piranha should be on board more," I say. Caddy scoffs.
"She's crazy but helpful. Sometimes."

"Okay,
Miss Man. Combined with you nobody will want anything to do with us."

In
grade school other kids would make fun of my so-called mannish tendencies. I
did go through a super feminist phase, once, before my freshman year in
college. Now I'd like to think I'm balanced out and not a total champion of
women's rights but simply a human being pursuing interests. Aggressively.

"You
don't think he'll be turned off, do you?"

"Guys
like girls who are feminine. That's why being a macho lady is a niche
fetish."

"I'm
always joking though. It's not like I'm serious about dominating him...unless
that's what he likes."

Caddy
rifles through a pile of papers and hands another off to me. “If
you’re so forward, why don’t you ask?”

 “Maybe
that’ll happen. Next time I see him, I’ll ask.”

“And
when’s that?”

“I
told him I’d text him.”

“
What?
That’s totally outside normal protocol. Now he probably thinks you
don’t even like him. He’ll be blasting some other pussy out.”

“Not
so.” I grab my phone. “I’ll shoot him a text right now.
Better yet, I’ll call.”

“You
have balls, girl. Iron balls. Not even the guys I meet have those kinds of
balls.”

I
ditch Caddy, dialing the number. The patio outside gives space to talk without
his interference.

“Hey,”
Bishop says.

“You.
Me. Something. This week. Yes?”

“I
don’t speak cave woman, miss.”

“Suggest
a place and I’ll be there then.”

“You’re
still interested?”

“I
didn’t call to say I’m not.”

Bishop
exhales deeply, and I inhale his voice, the pretty, petty sound of him heaving
and hawing.

“Our
second date,” he says, “if we can call it that, could be the
arcade. Do you like arcade games?”

“Too
many to list. I do.”

And
it’s creepy of me, but when I hear the words ‘I do’ I hear
wedding bells.

I
know. Absolutely ridiculous. He doesn’t know me and neither do I him. But
how can you not fantasize about these kinds of encounters? Someone like him
doesn’t date girls like me often. I know these guys. They like the
puritan types.

“I’ll
call you,” he says. “Is that okay?”

“Taking
the lead now?”

“A
little bit of dominance on my part, yeah. You like?”

“I
do. Call me soon, then.”

“I
will.”

A
twenty one year-old shouldn’t be so…sophomoric. I don’t
understand. In high school, I’d never fallen for guys left or right.
Studies came first, then cheerleading, then maybe a guy for the night to keep
me company when my parents were abusive.

In
college, I’d never fallen for any of those guys I slept with. Never.
They’d served me. They worked for me. They pleasured me and I gained
immensely.

Now
Mr. Muscles Bishop runs in and I’m no better than a brainless belle.

“You
seem shocked,” Caddy says. “Something bad happen?”

“He
asked me out this time.” I grab Caddy’s monitor to still my
quivering hands. He watches them vibrate relentlessly, smirking at my sudden
inability to control myself.

“You
seem star struck.”

“I’m
not,” I lie. “He’s just something’s funky. I sense it.
You remember in college, you could sense the bad guys right out from a crowd.
I’m in that mode. He’s too perfect. Something’s lurking and
about to get me. T he Universe.”

“Or
you’re paranoid and should just relax.”

“I’m
not paranoid.”

“You’re
definitely on edge.”

“I’m
not. I’m flustered is all.”

“It’s
the same thing.” Caddy smirks and rips my hand away. “You’re
finally getting out there though. That’s fucking good for you. Maybe now
your productivity will actually increase for once.”

“I
had lots of productivity getting the majority of our answers back in junior
year.”

“If
you can call sex work.”

“Sex
work is a thing.” I swing a chair next to Caddy and review his data
tables. The Chinese kids need their papers within two weeks. Apparently their
syllabus lists the exact date they’re supposed to turn in their
assignments. And the Angolan girls will need help this coming week.

Most
of our operations nowadays are run online. But with the internationals we like
to meet them in person. An international trusts you more if you bridge the
cultural gap in person. Plus, Caddy thinks I need the exposure to other
cultures.

“Don’t
do any stupid shit when you meet them,” Caddy says. “Especially
with the Chinese guys. They’re old money.”

“And
who’re you going to be meeting while I’m doing them?”

“Hah.
Doing.”

“Seriously.”

“I’ll
be working with some Saudi Arabian kids. Mixed bunch. They contacted me
yesterday night.” Caddy eyes my still shaking hand. “You must
really like him.”

“I
do, Caddy. I do.”

I
dream of wedding bells.

Yes,
I’m going into full-blown infatuation mode. Peak height of desire.

The
specifics loom in a dreamy foreground. Who are the brides maids? Who’s
family is that at the front row? I don’t know. They’re all blurry
faces, centerpieces to compliment my lust and romantic want. The candles change
colors every second, red, blue, orange, green, white. Drapes shift and spin and
become aquarelle brush strokes, swirling zags decorating the background.

Most
clear in the dream is us. Standing together, we entwine our hands, and cut the
cake. The ceremony hasn’t even begun yet, but we’re cutting the
cake anyway. This is how we run our wedding regardless of opinions.

The
sole other family I have—Caddy, and yes, Piranha—wave at us from
the front row. Both of them cry into each other’s shoulders, even though
this might be the most unrealistic ceremonies ever.

The
cake floats away above our heads. I face Bishop, my veil already lifted. His
own desire is palpable, hazy in the air. He takes my hands.

“I
love you,” he says.

An
organ chimes and boasts its croaky music across the wedding hall.

“I
love you,” I say.

And
the organ chimes higher, creaking to the highest note.

There
is nothing better than knowing someone loves you. Nothing.

The
dream breaks apart, seam by seam, splitting Bishop’s face in face first,
then mine.

I
wake on a mound of sweaty bed sheets.

It’s
true that what you cannot have you wish for even more. There are no sour grapes
in my garden, only acknowledgement of my troubles.

I
wish to be loved.

I
want Bishop.

My
head resting against his body released an enumerable amount of endorphins. A
crazy high assaults me every time I think of him.

Date
two. We’re going on date two tomorrow.

The
Star Spangled Banner plays. Another orchestra version, but this time with an
operatic twist: two woman joining their voices in screechy unison. I clasp my
ears and roll over.

One
benefit to Piranha’s kookiness is her cooking. Scents of rosemary waft
through the halls. Fresh cookies sit in the oven. You don’t even have to
ask her to do anything of these things, she just does them.

“America, America,” Piranha sings, “America…”

Sometimes
I wonder if she even really knows the lyrics or just likes the beat.

“You’re
pretty today,” she says. “Not that you’re not on all the
other days of the year. But today, you’re exquisite.”

“Thank
you. Can you pass me—”

Piranha
sets a plate of omelets and ketchup and chocolate chip cookies. She pours three
glasses of orange juice and makes two more plates of the same stuff.

Caddy
lumbers out from the hallway. He jams food into his mouth and sings along to
the tune of God Bless America, Piranha’s other favorite song.

“Looking
like a hooch,” he says.

“Oh,
shut up.”

“I’m
kidding. You’re beautiful, darling.”

“You’re
patronizing. Anyway, I know I look good.”

“Cocky
are we?”

“You
need to be if you want to get some.”

Caddy
shakes his head. “And I thought you liked this guy for more than a
lay.”

“I
do. But he’s hot too. Besides, there isn’t much to go off a person
the first couple times you spend with them. There’s just basic info and
how he dresses.”

“And
my dossiers.”

“You
couldn’t have that much about him.”

“Eh.”
Caddy swishes orange juice between his cheeks. “I might. You want to
see?”

“I’d
feel like that’s cheating.”

Piranha
looses a wicked laugh from the kitchen. “That’s funny of you to
say!”

“She’s
got a point. You’re not exactly the prime example of not cheating.”