Page 17 of Jealous of the Clouds
*
Josh stands over the bed, looking down at me, when I wake. There’s no expression on his face, just a blank stare. The overhead light is on and in the unforgiving glare, his eyes have morphed from green to brown. His stare is dead.
Michael and Dan are at the foot of the bed and they’re dancing—a waltz—toward the bedroom door, then back again. Michael keeps time to music only they can hear, “one, two, three, four, one, two, three, four.”
Josh holds out a hand. “Shall we dance?”
I get up on my elbows and the sheets and quilt fall away from my chest. “Here? Now?”
He laughs and points to Dan and Michael. “They are. No time like the present, sweetheart.”
I turn away from them, listening as Dan and Michael’s rhythmic footfalls retreat into the living room. Then they stop. The front door opens and closes.
“I think we’re alone now. What shall we do? The Watutsi? The twist? No. The tango. C’mon, bitch, get up.”
I pull the covers over my head and even through them, I notice the room suddenly goes dark.
Josh yanks the pillow out from under my head.
I roll over, emerging from my cocoon, and am about to ask, “What the hell are you doing?”
My words cut off, though, before they can emerge from my lips.
He’s bringing the pillow down over my face.
*
I woke from the dream, sweating, in spite of the chill from leaving the window open before I got under the covers. The air wafting in smelled of imminent rain.
I sat up to free myself from the damp clothes. For a moment, reality and dream merged. I called out, “Josh?”
Of course, he’s gone. I watched him leave.
I got up anyway and made a circuit of my apartment, checking under the bed, in closets, and behind the shower curtain. In the kitchen, I searched for any missing knives from the block on the counter. I breathed a sigh of relief when I realized they were all present and accounted for.
I stood for a while in the kitchen, feeling disoriented and a little sick to my stomach.
To calm the grumbling, I opened the fridge and peered inside. There was a little leftover chicken in a Tupperware container. I pulled it out and made myself a quick sandwich—chicken, mayo, on wheat. I slapped it on a plate and took it into the living room.
I knew getting back to sleep wasn’t going to be easy. The dream (nightmare?) had unsettled me. The stillness of the night outside made me isolated, alone. I noticed things like the floors creaking as the building settled. Or were those footsteps in the hallway?
I took a bite of the sandwich and chewed. It tasted like nothing, causing me to wonder if I was still dreaming.
My phone was on the coffee table. I snatched it up and saw I had several texts, all from Josh.
I wasn’t in the mood, so I prevented myself from looking.
I decided that, since sleep seemed to be off the table, I’d finish the podcast I’d be listening to when Josh arrived. Ibrought it up in Apple podcasts and pressed play, not bothering with fetching my earbuds from the bedside table.
*
Podcast transcript, “Meat Locker: Cold Cases” Episode No. 44
True Crime Audio Presents: The Case of the Unsolved Hate Crime
Bailey Anderson: Welcome back toMeat Locker. Before the break, I told you about how my brother’s world fell apart during his sophomore year of college at DePaul University in Chicago.
It happens. Kids on their own for the first time can make bad choices and get led in the wrong direction. I use the word “kid’’ deliberately. Reggie was no different. He’d grown up accustomed to my guidance and my annoying corrections. Because of me, he’d led a fairly sheltered life. I was his sole moral compass. I kind of thought for him, so he could always see the right path. I wasn’t much more than a kid myself, though, and no one told me I needed to teach him how to think for himself, how to make his own good decisions that would benefit him in the long run.
