The same song plays again, Lover’s Spit, and she makes a decision. Allows the boy to have his fantasy at least once for his sake and she hands Jesse another drink. She asks, so what happened to her? What was her name?

Wendy, he says. My father found out about my mother’s affair and we had to leave the state, he says blankly without expression. Or moving. It was a rough divorce. My father had custody only of his oldest child, which was me, and I had to leave to go with him and I didn’t bother to tell Wendy about any of it.

No?

No.

Hmm.

They both miss a humming growl, they realize, from the cooling vents that stopped blowing sound from the floor and ceiling. She thinks the DJ of the late, late night radio show must be asleep or away, because the same album keeps playing and shuffling over and over again from the alarm clock and she looks at the time. Nearly three in the morning, and she wants something else to happen: serendipity or bestiality. So come on, she says, taking Jesse’s palms and leading him from the bed to the middle of the room, where the music is loudest. A slow dance is impromptu and he does, tremble. Look at him she thinks, he’s wilting like blown feathers. Did you ever go looking for her, she asks?

Yeah.

Oh yeah?

Yeah. Once. He says. I came back to the city. But I couldn’t even remember what her face looked like.



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