Tales from Brooklyn: Short Stories About Love (Actually Sex): Part 3

by T. J. Clarke

I am awake but all is still sleep.

Last night. I don’t remember much about last night. I know that Dree fell asleep on the couch. I know I had left Nan’s house in a bad mood. There was a lot of wine. I must have looked a fool, sulking at the dinner table, pouring myself fuller and fuller glasses of wine, until there was none left in the bottle. No one said anything. Devon ate quickly and left. Nan ate as she always did, slowly and deliberately, cutting her food into neat, small pieces. I didn’t eat much.

I helped Nan clear the table, load the dishwasher. We didn’t say a word to each other. She stood at the sink, scrubbing the cast iron pot while wearing a pair of yellow rubber gloves that reached past her elbow. I leaned in to kiss her neck, but she didn’t respond.

“Thank you for having me for dinner. It was delicious.”

Then I closed the door.

I remember now the voicemail message from Dree: “Hi. I just smoked half a pack of cigarettes. Can I come and sleep in your apartment tonight? Jason won’t return my phone calls.” Her voice sounded tinny, like the yelping of a caged cat.

There was more wine. No, it was beer, then a few hours later, gin. Andrew was there, going on and on about some big bankruptcy case at work. He was trying to be as good of a friend as he could, by distracting me from my problems with legalese and alcohol. Debtor in possession. Creditors committees. Another round of beers. Plan confirmation. Schemes and rules to keep a company’s dissolution orderly. Similar rules exist for taking apart people.

“Love is a creepy hunter,” I said to Andrew after two more pints of Guinness. The bar was full of people by then. It is always the same crowd: guys wearing plaid shirts and the girls who think that’s sexy. Andrew ignored me and kept talking. The center of main interests. Intangible assets. Andrew doesn’t get tired of talking about the law. He runs on it. His passion makes me jealous. I want to have something to dive into, dedicate my life to its study, to love and cherish; I want to find a cause worthy of my time and devotion. Instead all I have are people.

“What if this means I love her?” It wasn’t a question for anyone to answer.

That was when the phone rang. It was Dree. I let it go to voicemail. Then another text message: I am downstairs.

“No matter what, don’t have sex with her.” Andrew waved me off when I tried to put down some money for the beers. He wasn’t ready to leave yet. His nights only began after a shot of Jack. His mind wasn’t built with an “off” button, so he manufactures one every night with Jack and Smirnoff.

Dree looked impossibly cute in a short yellow sundress and a cardigan. She walked in front of me up the narrow stair case to my apartment. The hemline of her dress grazed her thigh each time she took a step. My nose was only inches away.

“I hope you have gin. I need a drink,” she said.

T. J. Clarke is the pen name of a struggling writer. She lives in Brooklyn.