The days passed, because that is what days do. Their ethereal genetic code is comprised of moments lost and savored and relived, but never held. Of instances and loss. Of kissing and cutting and shitting. The days buzzed past us like shrapnel-winged flies. They slipped through our claws as if covered with scales and cast us away, palms smeared with longing.

I used to fight against it. In Chance’s college dorm room, I’d hold smoke in my lungs until the point of choking, absorbing and cataloging every detail: the nauseating weave of his carpet, the laminate grain of his desk, the gold-turning-green Orthodox cross he’d taken to wearing. As Delilah tried to consume my soul through my penis, I watched her hair tumble like chunks of slate, her hands squeeze my flesh like a butcher; anything to prolong the sensation of teetering along orgasm’s razor edge.

All of these scenes flashed on the back of my skull like some post-liberation concentration camp compilation video I couldn’t scrape my eyes away from, all while Amy breathed softly into my chest, snores punctuating the rhythm like her subconscious was using Morse code, telling me to stay away from the light, don’t step into the light. Crawl into the present, it said. Nestle yourself in the moment and sleep.

Her breathing was all I heard.

#

Chance once broke up with an artist’s model he was dating because she refused to take of her shoes in his apartment. He punched me in the face for adding too much milk to the macaroni and cheese: we were stoned, he had the munchies, I was adrift somewhere inside my skull. He pushed a fifteen year-old Delilah down the steps for ironing a crease into his jeans. Though the last two years had tarnished his façade, his anal-retentive sense of design remained still intact, like man whose hearing improves when he loses his sight. As it stood, though, he was two reprimands away from having his dental work ruined.

“This is all wrong. All wrong.” He flapped his hands like a flightless bird.

The crown-molding and floors upstairs were perfect, but the yellow was less mustard gas, more canary. The color reminded Amy of the curry hut we’d go to during the winter. To me it felt like watching the back of our eyelids while lying in Patterson Park on Sunday afternoons. At least Chance liked the kitchen. I worried that Paddy’s head might otherwise explode.

We stood in the basement, scratching imaginary walls in the dirt, positioning chunks of concrete to stand in for ventilation ducts. I could feel the grit in the air between my teeth. My skin felt like a salamander’s.

“A dehumidifier would help more. You don’t need this many vents.”

“The speakers draw in air, and if there aren’t enough vents, I’ll suffocate.”

“How many speakers do you plan to have down here?”

He smiled and licked his teeth. “A lot.”

“And this is the reason for all the locks?”

He stood in the corner, smoothing his moustache and measuring distances with a glance while ignoring my question. Paddy kicked away an empty bottle, afraid to say anything.

“Okay.” Chance unbuttoned his sleeves and rolled them above his elbows. “This is all wrong. We need less space between the cellar walls and the drywall.”

“Seriously, I’m going to cut off your balls is you change—”

His hand silenced me, the just let me explain motion he used so well.

“Remember soundproofing your room for drums?”

I nodded to Paddy. ‘‘We’re a legitimate company. We don’t need to use mattresses for insulation.”

“Dead air.” His palm hit the wall with a damp smack. I could almost see ripples through the moisture. “Pre sound-foam, post getting-punched-for-using-you-dad’s-mattress. Leave a foot of dead space between the walls.”

“Then you lose—” I looked around the room, trying to calculate some square-footage of space lost so that my answer would be authoritative and he’d finally listen to me, “—a bunch of space.”

“So use some nouveau shit to make it look bigger.” He glanced at his watch.

“What the hell are you talking about?’”

“That art shit you’re into. All over Miami.”

“Art Deco?”

“Sure. The Jew art.”

“Doing Art Deco won’t change any…” I raised my hands, palms out. “Know what, never mind. I’ll make it work.”

Paddy coughed. I jumped. I’d forgotten he was there.

“I need to be going,” Chance said. “See me out?”

I started to follow him up the steps and Paddy grabbed my forearm. “The fuck is going on, Cole? You’s started with Mr. Miller this and Mr. Miller that and now you sounding like a damn married couple.”

I shrugged, made some noncommittal grunt, twisted my arm from his.

“Dunno. It’s weird.”

#

Two days later, I was hunched in the basement corner leveling fresh concrete when Paddy shouted down the stairwell.

“Mr. Miller asked you to go meet his wife for him. Said he’s caught up at work.”

“Now?” I drew a heart in the grey mess with my finger.

“Twenty minutes ago.”

Mine and Amy’s initials. Childish, probably. “I’m in the middle of something.”

“Not no more.”

Outside, Paddy was trying to talk to one of the day laborers. All I could hear was pendejo and jefe, though I wasn’t sure what the relationship was. I passed behind the truck, avoiding coming in contact with him, but he called my name before I could sneak away. He put his hands up, saying what the fuck? with a gesture. I lowered my head and kept walking.

Delilah was smoking a cigarette outside the café when I arrived. I opened the door and motioned for her to enter.

“Already ate.”

“Oh.”

“Don’t worry. You didn’t miss much.”

“Oh.”

We stood facing each other, the occasional passing car rattling the empty cans and takeout containers scattered over the street. I ran my tongue along the inside of my gums, rocked from heel to toe. In a parking lot next to us, a woman tossed chunks of bread to the gathering seagulls. Her coat looked to be little more than scraps of discarded carpet.

“We’re not on a first date, Cole.” She lit another cigarette, offered me one. My hand twitched and I shook my head.

“Never said we were.”

“Then don’t act like it.” The hunk of cut-glass on her ring dead-armed me when she punched my shoulder. Chance had taught her where to hit. She nodded her head, indicating to walk.

We stopped in a Polish deli because she wanted a pierogi. When I asked if she’d just eaten, she told me that she was an empowered female and she could eat and fuck whenever she wanted. The shrunken woman behind the counter coughed, her face the same color as the jar of pickled beets.

“Anyway, I told you the food wasn’t any good.”

Grease made her hands shimmer like a puddle of gasoline. The wind caught her hair and tossed it as if it was a clutch of snakes. She tried to brush it away with the back of her wrist but only managed to smear oil on her face, cursing under her breath.

“Jesus, you’re hopeless.” I gathered her hair and held it for a second while she shoved the rest of the pierogi into her mouth. Touching her, my body felt too large for my skin. I pulled a napkin from her pocket and wiped her forehead clean.

“My hero,” she said.

“More like your hospice worker.”

She dead-armed me again.

Another block passed in silence. I stumbled over a crack in the sidewalk. Our feet moved in opposite rhythms, my left and her right, my right and her left. This was how she used to fuck, inhaling when I exhaled. Repeat, repeat, repeat. Her orgasm would be so intense that the only way to keep her head from twisting away, she’d scream at me to bite her lip until I tasted blood. She called it circular fucking. Don’t confuse it with circle jerks, though. That’s for Thursday nights. I never knew if she was joking.

Her voice chirped, startled me. “Come back, Cole.”

“I didn’t go anywhere.”

She lit a cigarette to hide a smile. Offered me one again.

“I keep telling you that I don’t smoke.”

She only gave a shrug, as if she knew some secret and might tell me if I earned the privilege.

“Del,” I said.

Her doe eyes batted, snaked their way around me, looking for a crack.”‘Yeah?”

“Why are you here?”

“What did Chance tell you?”

“He wanted to turn Baltimore into Endor.”

“Still hasn’t let that go, has he?” She took a long inhale, tipped her head back and blew tiny puffs into the air like a steam boat.”‘He’s a business man. The housing market down here—”

I grabbed her wrists, bones twisting beneath my fingers. Her face broadcasted shock, but breath fell heavy from her nose, shuddering like when we used to make out. I could hear my teeth squeak as they ground against each other. Saltwater and fumes sharpened the air. She pressed her body against mine.

“I don’t want any part of your fucking drugs.” I tasted the words, felt every angle and corner. “Do. Not. Bring that shit. Around. My. Family.”

And somewhere in the remote crevices of my skull, where shadows were liquid and silverfish burrowed, we were already crushed against the side of a building, ravaging each other’s body.

“And what if we just missed you?”

My hands shook from some internal vibration. I dropped her wrists, took a drag from her cigarette, and instantly wanted to vomit on her shoes. Instead, I turned and kept walking, her heels clicking behind me. I tried to swallow, but my throat wouldn’t work. I tried to disappear, but my heart wouldn’t stop. Amy rolled along my tongue.

Her body radiated heat next to mine. It made the air shimmer like a mirage, like an impending explosion. Her hand brushed mine and, in my head, I pulled away as if it was a poker fresh from fire. On the sidewalk, though, it brushed mine again. She began to laugh, voice undulating and unspooling down the street like a ribbon made of dried skin. I tried to ignore her, focusing on the cadence of my footsteps, the frequency of the sidewalk cracks, but the laughing enveloped my head and I had to look up. She smiled and winked, then laid her hands on my chest and I tumbled into the street.

The car’s hood was cool against the side of my face. If the streetsides hadn’t been full, if the guy hadn’t been prowling the neighborhoods looking for an empty space, I would’ve been a splatter mark for some work-release inmate to remove. I only bounced off the guy’s car and had an empty soda bottle thrown at me. Delilah was merely smiling on the sidewalk, like she was waiting for her prom date.

“What the fuck was that?” I could feel the vein throbbing in my neck, but my voice sounded shrill.

“I thought we just had a moment.” She knitted her fingers together.

“A moment? You fucking psychopath!”

Her expression was genuinely distressed, a puppy reprimanded for bringing in a dead bird as a gift.”‘I wasn’t being mean.”

“You pushed me into a fucking car!”

“Jesus, Cole. When did you become such a faggot?”

I opened my mouth, closed it. I bit my tongue, worried that the grotesqueness of the whole scene would cause me to laugh and I’d never be able to stop.

“You don’t have to be such a dick,” she said.”‘I was just flirting with you.”

Fingers splayed, I shoved my hand an inch from her eyes. “You see this. I am fucking married. I have a wife.”

She cinched my fingers between hers, pushed her face to mine. “What if I cut off that finger?” Onion and potato rode on her breath. “Would you still have a wife? Would you fuck me then?”

I stepped back, shook my hand from hers. “Jesus, Del. You are certifiable.”

“What the fuck ever.” A glob of spit landed on my boot. “I need to take care of something.” She whirled around and clicked down the street. My blood was bleach and my head was echoing with a thousand hammers falling, yet I still had to consciously tell myself not to watch her as she walked away. I stood in the middle of the sidewalk, as if lost. After a minute, I fished coins from my pocket and went searching for a payphone.

Amy picked up on the fifth ring, thankfully. I was terrified of the answering machine.

“Hello, beautiful.”

“What’s up?”

“‘ just wanted to hear your voice.”

“Oh. Thanks.” Scratching in the background. I wasn’t completely sure it wasn’t in my head.

“You okay?”

“Sure.”

“You don’t sound okay.” I laid my forehead against the booth, feeling the halo of condensation form on the cold glass.

“Did you sign up for a mailing list or anything?”​

“Not that I know of.”

“You sure?” Her voice had a frozen edge I hadn’t heard before.

“I think I’d remember. Why?”

I pulled the receiver away from my ear when she exhaled. “I’ve gotten three calls about refinancing our house.”

“What house?”

“Exactly. I just…” The ice began to thaw, crackle. “I feel like the universe is taunting us, you know? I mean, first the toilet, then the sink leaking, and with the exercises not working and class enrollment down because nobody cares about yoga when the world is collapsing…” Breathy sobs punctuated her over-reactions. I caressed the mouthpiece, hoping she might feel it.

“It’ll be fine, honey. Don’t worry.” I waited for the long shudder that meant the tears were drying. “How about I come home early and make us dinner and we can write down everything that’s bothering you so you don’t have to think about it anymore?” I learned that trick from her. She was good.

“Okay,” peeked from her lips.

“I love you.”

“I love you so much, Cole. So much.”

We said goodbye and hung up. The condensation halo had grown too large. A single drip cut through the middle of my face.

#

I was convinced I was clairvoyant.

The whole walk back to the job, I counted my steps. To keep things ordered. To keep my brain occupied.

I rounded the corner. Chance leaned against Paddy’s truck, hat tipped back on his head, sipping coffee from a Dunkin Donuts cup. At least he’d finally found one. He spoke to a man whose back faced me. Over the man’s shoulder, he caught a glimpse of me, leaned in and spoke quickly, then patted the man’s shoulder. He hurried away, but I caught his profile. Familiar, like the ghost of a memory. Pale, unhealthy skin. Like caulk.

Chance gave a broad smile as I approached, extended his arms out to welcome me. On the lapel of his suit, a handprint filled with dust.

“Cole. How goes it?”

“Fine.” I took his cup and sipped from it, coughed after I swallowed the burn of whiskey. With squinted eyes, I said, “A little early, isn’t it?”

“It’s already three-thirty. Baltimore’s supposed to be a drinking town, right?” He laughed and cupped his arm around me, squeezed my shoulders.

Shit.

“What’s wrong?” I saw Paddy in a window upstairs, watching us.

He cocked his head, inquisitive.

“Chance, I know you. Something isn’t right.”

He took a long drink from his cup and pulled me forward. “Actually, brother.”