All speaking characters belong to Aaron Sorkin. Standard disclaimers apply. Please send feedback. Seven Stories About Dan Rydell, Four Of Which Are True Cinnamon & Violet
I.
Dan walked into the dingy apartment, pushing the door shut behind him with one shoulder. His keys clanked against the quiet, tumbling from his hand into the green glass bowl by the door. He shrugged off his winter coat, slinging it over the back of the dilapidated sofa. It was below freezing out, and his eyelids and nostrils were chapped almost crimson. Snow crystals had latched onto his hair. He ran his fingers over his head, but could not shake them off.
He circled the couch and dropped onto it, yanking the tattered throw blanket up to his chin. The moisture from his hair soaked into the plaid cushion. He stared at the blank ceiling until his eyes went out of focus. The darkness rumbled faintly, and he tried to figure out
where the sound came from. It was the neighbors' music, meaningless pop metal dripping down through the ceiling. He could feel his heart thudding faintly in his throat and skull.
It had been dark a long time, and sometimes in the dark there was a voice Dan could hear. It sounded like his father, or his older brother--they sounded so much alike--and impossibly like Red Barber on the radio. The voice called his life like a baseball game; told him
everything as it unfolded before his eyes: Now you are coming through the door. Now you are lying down. Now you are alone in this place.
His roommates weren't home. He tried to remember where Carl was, where Lucy was, but all that seemed important was that they were somewhere else. Somewhere else, Dan imagined, where he wouldn't find them. His teeth were chattering, but he wasn't cold. There were too many layers wrapped around him, blankets of twilight and weariness and snow. Textbooks were stacked under the coffee table, crumpled notepaper crammed between the pages. A dark, circular stain marked the cover of his Geography book. Finals were two weeks away. He wondered if he had homework to do, wondered if he wanted coffee. Both thoughts made his
stomach cringe.
The room twisted as Dan dragged himself up from the couch. He pulled off his damp jeans and his black cable sweater, left them heaped on the hall carpet, stepped onto the bathroom tile in his undershirt and shorts. He still wasn't cold. Cigarette ashes speckled the sink. He
squinted and wondered if he could tell them apart, his Camels, Lucy's Reds and Carl's Lights, but they were all the same uniform gray. When Dan looked up at the mirror his face was that color, too.
He could see the unearthly, water-blue September sky, perfect green grass and the brown-black of the suit he'd borrowed from David. He didn't remember the color of the stone. Everyone had been saying it was surprisingly cool, but he didn't remember being chilly. He remembered his mother's hair falling loose from the knot behind her
neck, as she bowed her head. Hannah Rydell's cries sounded like a cat with its tail on fire. Dan hated himself for wanting her to be slapped, silenced, shut up. But he hated himself more because his brother was dead, and he knew why it had happened.
Fifteen months later, Sam was still dead. But after three semesters of literature and logic and analysis. Dan didn't know why anymore. And it was worse.
Once she'd stopped crying, his mother had gone quiet for the better part of the year. She'd only recently started to make more than small talk. His father had never been verbose. And he hardly talked to his old friends anymore. The summer had been long and mute. The fall had been short and soulless. Dan stood before the unlit mirror and listened without making a sound. Part of his mind was screaming and part of it was praying, and much of it was doing nothing at all. And a voice said: You know what you have to do.
And he did. He knew what he had to do.
Lucy paid for the powder they kept under the bathroom sink, and Carl sprinkled pinches of it into the cracks in the baseboard and the drains, twice a month. The roaches had been there before they'd moved in, compliments of the upstairs neighbors who left greasy paper plates
and sticky cans in heaps on the floor. They could not get rid of the bugs, but they could keep them under control. Dan extracted the can from the cabinet gingerly, holding it between his thumb and forefinger. He wrinkled his nose as he carried it into the kitchen.
He threw the plastic lid away and used the can opener to remove the
metal top. There was a spoon in the dish drainer, which looked as if
it had been rinsed, but was still slightly spotted. He ran it under a
stream of hot water for good measure, and dried it on his T-shirt.
Then he took everything back to the living room. Dan sat down on the
couch, arranging the faded blanket over his bare knees, and turned on
the television, and took his first bite. It burned his tongue, but
there was no taste. He propped his feet up on the coffee table,
watching the dusty TV screen that reflected absolutely nothing back to
him. He found that the burning diminished as time went on.
Later, he would not know how long it took until one of his roommates
came home. He would not even remember which one it was that wrenched
his hands open and hauled him, barely dressed, into a blast of brutally
frigid air that felt like it was stripping off his skin. He would
mostly remember how it hurt when they pumped his stomach, how the white
lights seared his retinas. The machines whirred and the doctors
muttered, and his head buzzed in and out of sleep.
The doctor said thirteen times that they should call his parents, and
thirteen times Dan said no. He didn't think the doctor would listen to
him, but his parents never showed up so he shrugged it aside. The
second afternoon, a nurse gave him a therapist's business card and a
form to sign, and then told him he was free. Someone had left clothes
for him, crisp jeans and a flannel shirt. Dan pulled them on and
walked out through the lobby and out the glass doors. The cold lashed
into him and he wrapped his arms tightly around his chest. He listened
to the wind, to distant motors and his frosted breath. There were no
voices, and the sun was on his face. He dropped the business card into
a snowdrift and waited for Carl and Lucy to pull up with his coat.
II.
The paint was peeling on the bathroom stall, shades of gunmetal peeking
out around strips the color of bone, and Dan traced them with his
fingertips. He placed his left foot on the toilet seat, for balance,
for strength, and closed his eyes.
He knew God once, wore the tallis and said the haftarah. He knew what
it meant to be a man then, how to stand up and be scared and do it
right despite any of that. There were tears after that, and Dan leaned
his head forward until his chin hit his chest, and there were tears
again.
She wore a nametag when he met her, five letters mashed together in
uncomfortable script and purple ink. There was fingerpaint in her hair
and she smelled of applesauce, and she maneuvered around three fat men
and one woman with a hat to take the last empty seat at the reading,
next to Dan.
"What'd I miss?"
He tried not to look at her chest. "Uh, the thing started late."
She leaned across Dan and plucked the program out of his hand. "Fuck,
I love Ferlinghetti."
"The voice of the people," he said, admiring the skin of her throat.
"The people who listen to Tom Waits and don't fear the open road."
Dan let his gaze travel down, over the white of her shirt and the pink
of her apron, to her nametag. "I'm a serious sailor."
Amber smiled at him, laughing a little. "And he is the voice of your
people, too."
Afterwards, they met the author, and Dan spent his beer money for the
next two weeks on slim volumes and thick texts and dinner at La
Meridiana. They sat at a small table by the kitchen. Before their
drinks arrived, she lit a cigarette and passed it to Dan, filter
smeared with auburn lipstick. He exhaled through his nose, and her
foot was in his lap before dessert.
The bathroom door swung open, slammed shut, and Dan tried to catch his
breath. He swiped at his eyes with his thumbs. Someone was whistling
"Happy Birthday To You" in a foreign key, and Dan's throat constricted.
He moved out of campus housing and into her apartment before the leaves
changed colors. Amber made breakfast every morning before she left for
work, for the day care, and Dan made dinner every night after class.
They went to the Laundromat once a week, playing cards and
Scattergories and fucking in abandoned corners while they waited for
their darks to dry.
Amber's parents were lovely people who lived very far away, but her
sister lived closer, and they spent Thanksgiving with her. Melanie had
two children and a dead husband and she made one hell of a turkey. Dan
cleaned his plate and two others and polished off half an apple pie
with Amber's nephew in his lap. After the football games were over and
the leftovers were put away, Amber gave Dan a tour of the whole of
Melanie's property. The air smelled of snow and her fingers tasted of
sweet potatoes when Dan laid his head in her lap and told her about
Sam.
The door of the stall was cool against his face. He heard water
running and remembered that he'd been thirsty before. Words fell off
his tongue again, in a language that he never meant to use. Dan
unlocked the door, stepped from the bathroom, and tried to navigate the
halls.
It was raining when Amber came home with her blonde hair frizzed around
her shoulders. Dan was in the bathtub, reading Sports Illustrated with
a cigarette clamped between his teeth.
"You're home early," he said.
"I'm pregnant."
She stripped slowly, climbed into the tub with Dan. She pressed her
back against his chest. He poured soapy water over her arms and legs,
kissed his favorite spot on her throat, noticed the purple-black
smudges beneath her eyes for the first time. Amber rubbed tropical-
scented shampoo deep into his scalp, then rinsed, then repeated. She
curled into his lap and the water kept them both warm until it stopped
raining.
The cafeteria was empty but open. Dan bought a carton of chocolate
milk and took it into the corridor. There was a wheelchair by the door
with white lettering on the back. He sipped the milk and sat down, and
watched the second hand sweep along the face of the clock on the wall.
He got the money from his brother David, hundreds of dollars in a
matter of days. Amber cleared her schedule and Dan cleared his, and
Tom Waits sang about whores as they drove two hours out of town for the
appointment.
She filled out forms and he paid with cash, and he rubbed the back of
her hand with his thumb until they called her name. Dan walked her to
the door. They kissed twice and after she disappeared, Dan went
looking for a bathroom.
III.
"You don't mind if I smoke, do you?"
Dan shook his head. "I don't mind."
The woman rummaged through her glossy handbag and pulled out a chrome
lighter in the shape of a heart. Dan watched her open it. The sweat
began in the pits of his knees, the hollow ache in his stomach, the
sourness in his mouth.
He wasn't entirely sure why it was happening, or whether he wanted to
know, but it was painfully obvious that something was wrong between
Casey and Lisa. Obvious as the faces of buildings, smooth silver and
crumbling brick. Obvious as the roar of taxi horns and subway engines.
Obvious and elaborate as the differences between Texas and New York.
New York seemed to make Lisa feel impotent and Casey feel tough. It
made Dan feel at home. He liked the new studio, even though they had
to share an office. Even though Dan hung the Raging Bull poster and
arranged the chairs, and Casey filled his space with stacks of books
and a stony, impassive anger. Dan liked Sports Night even though the
ratings were low and the tensions were high. But some mornings he woke
up wondering why it was all he had.
He tried to spend nights away from them. Tried not to always end up
drinking with Dana and Natalie, who were constantly dissecting Casey's
every motive and misstep and miserable expression. He decided not to
sleep with Kim once they'd flirted enough that he knew he could, and
decided to spend Saturdays drinking alone.
The different places always had too little space and too much heady,
dispiriting air. In some of them, the bartenders were young men with
shaved heads, tight shirts and magazine-quality smiles. Other places,
they were middle-aged men, or college girls, or aspiring musicians. It
startled Dan when people began recognizing him, when strangers would
nod and wink in his direction. The first time he was offered a round
on the house, he found himself stupidly grinning, toasting with the
Jaegermeister every third sip, wanting to write it down on a napkin and
show it to Casey and maybe make him smile.
An hour after that, the woman slid onto the stool beside his. Dan
looked her over with his head cocked sideways, already imagining how
he'd describe her to Casey in the morning. Her hair was choppy and as
black as the outline inked around her pale eyes. She was pale, but
luminous instead of pasty. Her clothes were perfectly fitted. She
looked expensive, Dan thought, and he smiled as soberly as he could
into her carefully composed face.
He expected small talk, pretexts, or else a quick mention of a serious
boyfriend. Instead she flicked a violet fingernail against his wrist
and said, "So, what do you write?"
"Write?" Dan swallowed behind his smile. "Are you like Sherlock
Holmes, or--"
The woman laughed. "Elementary. Actually, you've just got the look.
I know the look because I do it too." She spread her hands out on the
wood, refined between two dirty chartreuse coasters. "See, my fingers
are all lopsided from holding a pen."
Dan blinked. "You really can't tell."
"Nice of you to say so. So, what's your poison?"
"I, um. No. Let me buy you a drink." He flagged down the bartender.
"What are you having?"
"Water's fine," she said. "But I was asking what you write."
"Oh. Sports." It sounded rather empty and childish. Dan squared his
shoulders and tried again. "I write a sports show. And broadcast it."
"I don't really follow sports," she said. "Are you any good?"
Dan found his smile again. "I'm very good."
"I believe you." She smiled back at him, wide and white and warming.
"I write for TV too, a network thing."
"Are you any good?"
"Be better if it wasn't a network thing and I didn't have an army of
executives sniffing my ass at every turn." The woman chuckled. "I
used to be a playwright. At least back then the idiots I was dealing
with actually remembered my name."
It occurred to Dan then that he didn't know her name; she hadn't
offered it. He opened his mouth to ask, and found himself saying
instead, "The water here is lousy."
"The air is too," she agreed. "So, Mister Very-Good-Sports-Writer.
Let's not stay."
Dan was surprised when she gave the cab driver the address of the Plaza
Hotel. He decided he'd been right the first time; she was expensive,
and successful, and probably much better than he was. She kissed him
during the ride, tasting of cinnamon, and let him run his fingers
underneath the slippery, shimmery fabric of her blouse. They held
hands through the lobby, and she leaned into him in the elevator. She
was as tall as he was. He buried his grin in the back of her neck,
then followed her down the hall to her room.
She went into the bathroom and emerged in a robe, with a glass of water
in her hand. "You were right," she said. "The water here is lovely."
"Told you."
She walked across the room and sat down at the large desk. "This is
how I live now," she told him. She picked up her purse and pulled out
a glass pipe and a small plastic parcel of off-white powder. Dan
stared at her fingers deftly unfastening it, measuring out a precise
amount. "You mind if I smoke?"
Before he spoke, his eyes shifted to the place where her robe fell
open. He leaned against the closed door. "I don't mind."
The air in the room thickened and darkened. When she was finished she
sighed happily and began to shed her robe. She turned her eyes to his.
"You ready?"
He exhaled slowly, still staring at her. "Yeah. Just, first, do you
mind if I open a window?"
She laughed with her whole body, the sound rich and inviting. "Sure."
Dan crossed the room and turned the handle that opened the window,
pressing his palms hard into the screen, so that the mesh pattern
imprinted on his flesh. He thought about Sam, and Casey, and what he'd
say in the morning. Then he knew he would say nothing at all, and he
turned from the window and went to the bed.
IV.
Dan walked home wearing Casey's shoes, brown sandals with two straps
along the toes and one along the heel. He bought a pretzel from an old
man at the corner and then a cup of coffee two stands down. He spent
five dollars for a knock-off pair of Ray Bans and slipped them over his
bloodshot eyes. There was a throbbing in his temples and in his chest,
but the caffeine took care of most of that and five cigarettes took
care of the rest.
He tossed the remains of his pretzel to a limping dog in front of his
building and climbed the steps up to the door. He smiled at a red-
haired cop in the elevator, thought how she looked like Rebecca around
the mouth. The woman got off three floors before Dan's, but she smiled
back as the elevator doors closed.
Inside his apartment, lights burned. Thoughts of robbers with knives
and guns and powder on their noses flashed through his mind. The
closest available object was "War And Peace", and so he picked it up,
held it high above his head. Dan rounded the corner from his hallway
to his living room with gentle steps and sighed when he saw the figure
seated on his couch.
"I wanted my shoes back."
Dan's hands dropped to his sides. He tossed the book onto a worn easy
chair. "Fuck me."
"I wanted my shoes back, Danny." Casey's hands were folded between his
legs, fingers curled around fingers, wrists resting against knees.
Dan lit another cigarette. "I was going to bring them to work."
"But I wanted them now. I needed them."
"Is that right?"
"It is."
Dan pushed the book aside and sat in the chair. "Are you hungry?"
Casey didn't shrug, didn't blink, didn't move. "I was going to make
eggs, but you left."
"I wanted to come home."
"And I wanted my shoes back."
Dan slipped them off, slid them across the floor. The left one smacked
against the bottom of the couch, but the right one caught against the
rug and stopped a foot and a half short of Casey's feet.
"Thank you."
"Don't mention it." Dan blew smoke rings into the center of the room.
He watched as they floated toward Casey. "What else can I do you for?"
Casey stood and gathered the shoes in one hand. "I think that'll do
it."
Dan lifted his ankles to the table and studied his bare feet. "Glad I
could be of service."
"Yeah." Casey took a step forward, then stopped. "I used my key."
"What?"
"To get in. I didn't break in or anything. I used my key."
Dan flexed his toes. "I figured as much."
"I just didn't want you to think that I broke in."
He shook his head. "I didn't think you did, Casey."
"Okay. We're good, then."
"We're good."
Casey crossed the room in three steps and removed the cigarette from
Dan's lips. He placed it between his own and took a long drag, then
dropped it into a day-old water glass next to Dan's feet. His hand
wrapped around Dan's knee and then he was sitting in the chair, too.
"Jesus Christ, Danny, why did you leave?"
Dan wrapped his fingers around the hair at Casey's neck. "I wanted to
come home."
Casey hadn't brushed his teeth, Dan discovered, but Casey's hands were
warm beneath Dan's shirt, and Dan decided that it didn't matter. The
chair was old but soft, and he braced himself against the arms of it as
Casey pushed against him. They rocked together and Dan saw flashes of
color that became layered and took motion and finally disappeared.
Casey's mouth trailed down Dan's back, wet and cold, and he stood
again. He lit one of Dan's cigarettes and pulled on his clothes, and
they passed it back and forth until it was burned down to the filter.
"I'm sorry about what I said last night."
"It's fine."
"No, it's not."
Dan wished, desperately, that the cigarette wasn't gone. "Forget it,
Casey. I don't even remember what you said."
"I'm saying it again?"
He dressed, pants then shirt. "You don't have to say anything, Casey."
"I love you, Danny."
"That's what you said last night."
Casey rubbed his fingers along the arm of the chair, where Dan's hands
had been. "That's what I said."
"Okay."
"Dan--"
"Did you mean it?"
"Uh," Casey continued to rub the furniture. "Yeah. Yeah, I meant it."
"And that's why you said it?"
"That's why I said it. That would be why I said it twice."
Dan looked at Casey, noticed that his eyes had flecks in them, noticed
that his fingers were trembling, noticed that he needed a haircut.
"Thank you."
Casey swallowed. "And that's why you left."
"Yeah, Casey. Yeah, it was."
"Okay." Casey rubbed his forehead and turned to the door. "Okay."
"Hey."
He turned. "Yeah?"
Dan walked to the couch, picked up the sandals. "Don't forget your
shoes."
"Keep them."
"You came over for your shoes."
Casey pressed his lips together. "I don't want them."
Dan watched Casey walk down the hall, saw Casey reach into his pocket
and drop the spare key in the ashtray next to the door. He felt the
throbbing return to his chest. His feet squeaked against the hardwood
floor as he walked to the kitchen. He pulled a bowl out of the
cupboard, a fork out of the drawer, and two eggs out of the
refrigerator. He cracked the eggs against the side of the bowl and
whipped them until his arm was sore.
V.
After the cake, yellow with white frosting, and after the single candle
and the song, Dan stood on the back porch. He lit a cigarette and
watched the sky change from blue to gray. There was an oak tree in the
yard. When he squinted he could see the heights of three growing boys
etched into the bark. David stepped through the screen door and stood
behind him, not speaking. As they watched, a single orange leaf broke
loose of a high branch and spiraled to the ground. Already they were
falling.
"You know, it's copyrighted," Dan said, without turning around.
David shuffled forward and leaned against the railing. "What?"
"The song 'Happy Birthday.' It's copyright protected. You can't use
it in public without the permission of the estate of the two little old
ladies that wrote it."
"I did know that, actually."
Dan pulled hard on the cigarette and let the smoke drift out through
his nose. "I found out the hard way."
"You find everything out the hard way." David chuckled humorlessly.
"Mom's glad you came up, Danny."
"I'm up here more than you."
"The hell you are." He held up a hand. "But I didn't come here to
argue with you."
"Really. Well." Dan tapped the pocket of his leather jacket. "You
want a cigarette?"
David folded his arms. "Not even a little bit. I mean, I'm up here to
celebrate with Mom and everything, not to get into a pissing contest
with you."
Dan nodded vaguely and sat down on the steps. The light breeze made
the smoke weave through the air, and the backs of his arms break into
goosebumps. He tried to see a pattern in the tiny patches of dry
brown grass marring the even green lawn.
"The double nickel," David said, idly fingering the chipping paint on
the railing. "The speed limit. In some states. She can, in fact,
drive fifty-five."
"Dude," Dan said flatly. "What do you want? 'Cause we don't do this."
"We don't do what?"
"Hang out." Dan drew a circle in the air between them. "This. We
haven't been the guys who spend time bonding since you started high
school and discovered you had a dick."
David's eyebrows shot up. "Yeah, it's a shame, because I'm finding now
that you're really fun to hang out with. You're laid back like that."
"Yes. Yes, so could we just be here and be in the same house so Mom's
happy? Then we can each go back to work tomorrow and go three hundred
and sixty-four days without having to play nicely together."
"Are you gay?" David asked suddenly.
Dan closed his eyes against the surge of blood into his brain. "Why
would you ask me that?"
David shrugged. "I just thought maybe you were angry because you're
under the stress of hiding that you're gay."
"Did you see that on HBO?" Dan bent his shoulders forward. "I've had
about eight dozen girlfriends, Dave."
"That's my point. You've had about eight dozen girlfriends for about
three weeks apiece. By the time I was your age, I'd lived with Stacy
for two years. I couldn't help wondering what that's about."
Dan hurled his cigarette forcefully into the square post at the foot of
the stairs. The remnant bounced off, briefly scattering a trail of
sparks before it died under Dan's heel. "I'm just out here having a
cigarette," he declared. "I inhale, I exhale, it's all very Zen."
"Whatever." David sighed. "I was trying to be, you know, brotherly.
I'm fairly open-minded. I'm cool about this."
"Cool about this?" Dan barked a laugh. "You know how everyone says
that you're a lot like Dad? You're a lot like Dad. And Dad is the
distilled essence of not-cool-about-this."
"So, are you gay?"
Dan took the pack out of his pocket. "I'm just having a cigarette."
David studied him, shaking his head in disgust. "Have a good year," he
muttered, and turned to go into the house.
The clouds were coming off Long Island Sound, moving inland to edge out
the sun. Dan heard the door close behind him as he lit a fresh
cigarette. He tipped his head back and let his eyes follow the aimless
trail of dry grass. Most of it was near the deep roots of the oak
tree. Maybe some year it would burn or fall, the height marks
splintered and lost forever. Even if the tree stood, someday one--
both--of his parents would die, and the house would be sold. Someone
else's children could sit on these steps, he thought, watching the
leaves darken and crumple and blow away.
VI.
He went to her and she was coloring her hair.
She said that she opened the door with her elbows and held up her
gloved hands as proof. He followed her through the suite, took notice
of stray teacups and candy wrappers, and sat on the edge of the bathtub
as she stood in front of the mirror.
"I would have thought you could afford to have somebody do that for
you."
Rebecca separated out another section of her hair and squeezed liquid
the color of pineapples onto the roots. She worked it through the
strands, talking to his reflection. "I can, but I like to do it."
Dan looked around the corner, around her shape and her legs, to the
bed. The sheets were crumpled, slept in, and he wanted to lie between
them. "It looks good, your hair."
She grinned. "The wet look is in this year."
"I meant in general, when I saw you before. It looked good."
"Thanks, Danny."
There were bottles of bubble bath along the edge of the tub closest to
the wall, sample sized but not hotel issue. He uncapped one of them
and held it to his nose.
"I'm sorry about the smell." Rebecca wrinkled her nose. "One of her
perks of going to the salon, I guess, is that it doesn't smell so bad."
"It's fine." He stared at her heels, at the backs of her ankles and
her knees. When he swallowed, he tasted them, and then she caught him
looking.
"I need a flannel nightgown."
"You need a flannel nightgown?"
"A real head-to-toe number."
Dan tilted his head back. "I'm sorry, Rebecca."
Rebecca dumped the rest of the dye down the sink and tossed the gloves
into the wastebasket, then pulled a small egg timer out of her cosmetic
bag and set it. "I don't blame you for anything, Danny. I never
have."
"Whew."
"Danny..."
"No, I mean, I'm really relieved here. All this time, I've been
feeling guilty over you lying to me about Steve Sisco. Thank you for
letting me off the hook."
She scooted up onto the counter, hands wrapped around the edge.
"You're mad at me."
"You know what?" He screwed the cap back onto the bubble bath and
tossed it into the tub. "I'm actually not. I'm not mad at you at
all."
"So that was you being happy?"
"That was me doing everything in my power not to kiss you."
A smile spread across her face. "Why in the world would you do a thing
like that?"
"Quo Vadimus."
"Am I supposed to know what that means?"
"I think you are. They've acquired CSC."
"Quo Vadimus?"
He nodded. "Quo Vadimus."
"And so you are staying."
"I've got a show, Rebecca."
"And you love your show."
He didn't look away from her. "I do."
A thin stream of pineapple dripped onto the back of her hand. "And
that's it, huh?"
He had things to say, things that he wanted to tell her, about how he
popped his shoulder out of the socket in high school, about how he
ached sometimes because he missed watching her sleep. Her eyelashes
were damp and he remembered the tickle of them against his palms. "I
don't know how else to be, Rebecca."
"I thought this might be fun."
"For me to come here?"
"Yeah." She wiped the color off her hand with a pink tissue.
Dan traced the toe of his sneaker along edges of the floor tiles. "I
haven't had this much fun since my cousin Brad's funeral."
"Danny, I swear, you know that, but I can't change things."
"I know." He stood and drummed his fingers along the wall. "I have to
get back."
"To work?"
"Yeah."
She stood, too. "Okay. Thank you for seeing me."
His right hand was on her cheek before he thought about what he was
doing, and the sting set in his bones before her mouth enveloped his
lower lip. He felt her leg, long and bare, move up and rub against his
hip and the small of his back. Fingers wrapped around fingers, then
slipped away and traveled to Dan's zipper.
"Rebecca," he said.
She wrapped her arms around herself. "You've got dye on your chin."
He ran a few drops of water onto his thumb and smudged the mark away.
"I have to get back."
"What would it hurt if you stayed?"
They stood inches apart. Her eyes were a different color that he
remembered and she had new lines around her mouth. "It would hurt."
She leaned forward, squeezed his hand, kissed his cheek. "Have a good
show."
"Thanks, Rebecca."
"I'll walk you out."
Dan slipped his hands into his pockets. "I'll find my way."
VII.
His knuckles were mottled, white and red, and ugly against his bottle
of Heineken. He left some money on the bar for Jack and took a step
toward the table. Then he stopped, stayed where he was, trying to
ignore the shaking of his hands.
He heard laughter behind him, placed the voice instantly. He didn't
turn but he could see Dana's yellow hair sweeping against Casey's neck,
could see her hand on his forearm, could see her lips, full and pink
and close to Casey's ear. He saw Casey, too, knew the way Casey would
be resting his elbows on the table and crossing his legs to hide his
erection. Dan took another bitter swallow. He set the bottle on the
bar and began shredding a napkin.
From the corner of his eye he spotted Natalie gently tugging Jeremy
toward the jukebox. Jeremy slid an arm around her waist, resting his
hand in the bend with comfortable pride. She counted her change out in
the palm of his hand and tipped it into the machine. The voice, airy
and sweet and inconsequential as whipped cream, rose out of the
speakers and elicited noisy groans from Jeremy and Casey and a half-
dozen other patrons. Natalie giggled into Jeremy's shoulder as he
rolled his eyes and drew her closer. "Now I'm stronger than
yesterday," the voice sang, and Dan clenched his jaw and reached for
his beer again.
He shifted in his seat to face the television and saw light and dark
uniforms, colorful billboards and a swaying crowd. The volume was low
but Dan didn't need volume; he knew the calls and the plays like he
knew his name. Dana spoke again. Her volume was low but Dan didn't
need it, either. She would say something about a line in the script
and Casey would repeat it. She would laugh, he would grin, she would
lean forward so he could smell her perfume, he would sip his beer.
popped a handful of peanuts in his mouth and chewed.
Beside him, Jack leaned forward, wiping warm wet circles off the bar
with a striped dishrag. The clammy moisture condensing on the outside
of Dan's bottle seeped between his fingers. In the corner, Natalie was
dancing, with Jeremy's hands on her hips. Jeremy looked vaguely
bemused; Natalie's eyes were blurry but her smile was sparkling. She
wasn't graceful, and half the time she was missing the beats of the pop
song. Still, she seemed happy, and in spite of his bewilderment Jeremy
did too. Dan picked up a second napkin and wiped his hands before he
began to tear it apart.
Jack raised his eyebrows at the pile of shreds but didn't speak. Casey
swore loudly, vocalizing what Dan presumed was his displeasure at the
game. He imagined Dana lifting her fist in agreement and bringing it
down slowly, sliding it under the table, spreading her fingers out on
Casey's thigh. He could call their plays as easily as he could the
ones on the screen.
He turned away from them and watched Natalie arch her back into
Jeremy's chest. Jeremy caught Dan's eye and shrugged helplessly. Dan
wasn't the only one watching them sway; Natalie's unsteady dancing had
grabbed the attention of a few of the regular drunks, who were cheering
her on. If she noticed, she was playing to it, tossing her shiny hair
and deliberately shaping her mouth to the bubbly lyrics.
"My loneliness ain't killing me no more," and Dan knew he was done for
the night, needed ten or twelve hours away. He let the damp scraps of
napkin flutter from his hands and drained the last of his beer. Jack
lifted his chin toward Dan and went to fill somebody's glass. Dan
turned away, easing his jacket upward by rolling his shoulders. He
pulled the collar up so that it shielded his throat, and bowed his head
on his way through the doors, into the city street.
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