86 THE CUTTER

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THE CUTTER

We played until about one in the morning when Colin came down and said he had to get up for a temp job at 8am. Bart and Michelle went home and Christian and I watched half of a late night movie before he fell unconscious on the couch. Of our other two housemates, there was no sign of Lars, and Mike was currently driving a van across the country with Miracle doing small dates. I shut the TV off, took a shower but didn’t bother to shave, and went up to my room.

I was only aware of having fallen asleep after I woke up–I opened my eyes to find the overhead light still on and my hair still damp. I got up from my mattress to shut the light off. Something tapped against the window like rain. My fogged brain had some recollection of that sound–the sound that woke me. I went to the window.

Now that I was listening for it, the noise was clearly driveway gravel hitting the glass. I turned off the light so I could see outside and there was Ziggy, about to lob another handful at me. I turned the light back on and opened the window.

Cold air made me shiver. “What are you…”

He silenced me with a finger to his lips and disappeared into the bushes a few yards to the left, then reappeared on the fire escape ladder. In a few moments he was inside, the window shut, while I had retreated under my blankets.

He let his leather jacket slump to the floor as he looked at me. I didn’t want another round of our staring contest, so I started to say what I had said before and got even less far. “What..?”

His eyes flicked toward the door to the hallway.

“Christian’s passed out on the couch. I’m pretty sure Colin’s asleep–haven’t seen Lars all week.” That is, if you’re here to fuck, I thought. I watched him peel off the rest of his clothes, so it seemed that he was. I didn’t feel the need to ask any more questions, and he didn’t say anything as he slid under the blankets with me.

Honestly? I think we both enjoyed trying to keep quiet–maybe even that tense moment when I heard Christian’s heavy step as he climbed the third floor stairs to his room. I resorted to biting the pillow while Zig fucked me and I didn’t even care it was a cliche or a stereotype or anything, it was necessary.

When it was over we lay there damp and groggy for what seemed like a long time. Questions returned to my mind: would we do this again? would I ask him to? or would I ask him not to? what made him come to me tonight? how could I tell when to expect him? and, would he be leaving soon, before anyone might notice? Before I mustered the nerve or energy or wherewithal to speak out loud, he got up, got dressed, and climbed back out the window.

Not even so much as a goodnight kiss, I thought as I closed the window after he was gone.

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