No Bolos, Por Favor

She had curled up and slept — a cat nap to let her energy settle into the bowl of her belly. What had splashed up the sides during the day she had just needed to gather together again, like the last sip in a glass.

Coming back to consciousness, the quiet room came into focus. Her clothes hung in the closet. Her books sat on the shelf. Her dog slept in a tightly curled ball on the bed. She looked at the spot on the ceiling that she had never painted, at a new crack in the plaster. The overhead fan thrummed softly. She stretched and thought about Pablo.

That’s when she remembered about the time. Rolling over to look at the clock, she realized with a start she would be running late. He would be angry with her. Again. No time for a shower, she ran a brush through her hair and splashed water on her face.

Her dog followed her through the house. His tail thwacked against her ankle, then on the side of the bathroom cabinet with a rhythmic boom. She gave him a pat on the head, a quick scratch between his ears.

“Do you want some dinner, boy?”

His tail sped up as if he understood complete sentences.

“Okay.”

Kibble spattered into his bowl as she heard the pre-buzz of the broken doorbell hum and then the light-hearted ring. She found Pablo on the porch in a black leather vest, wearing that horrible iridescent glass pendant he loved so much and with a look on his face that told her what he had been doing. In that moment she wanted to close the door, to say, “Oops, my mistake,” or “No bolos, por favor,” or just to cry and get it over with.

He swaggered in apologetically. He had an air of taking up space — unembarrassed in the taking but embarrassed about the space. She closed the door behind him.

“Hi honey,” he said. His voice was rich, low and accented. She caught the familiar smell of medicinal mouthwash and citrus aftershave. This was the scent that came in the house whenever he was late to pick her up. She gave in to the frown pulling across her face.

“Hi Pablo.”

Without kissing her hello, he continued toward the bathroom.

“Just a minute. Got to drain the snake.”

She rolled her eyes.

When he was done, instead of coming back to her, his footsteps went into the kitchen. She heard the refrigerator door open and shut. When she got there, he had already opened a bottle of Sierra Nevada.

“Are you having a beer?”

“Yes.” He enunciated the “s.”

“Haven’t you already had one or two or four?”

He paused. “Yes, I have.” His grin was crooked, his eyes glittered with cool. “Sure I have, so what?”

“If you are drunk, or about to be drunk, or planning to be drunk, you can just drive home and go be drunk at your house. I’m not going out to dinner tonight with a bolo. I’d rather stay at home.”

He looked at her. His infinitely jet black eyes did not betray feeling for her. His beautiful purple brown lips did not curl into a smile to melt her. She found him handsome when he was sober, but reptilian when he was not. He held the full bottle of cold beer in his hand. He looked at her. The moment held, suspended on the thread strung between love and hate.

“Okay.”

He set the bottle on the kitchen table and ambled toward the front door. His boots thumped on the wood floors like a sonorous drum. He opened the door. She heard the finality of the door as it was pushed closed, not slammed. An angry slam would have been less final. She held her breath. The footsteps did not come back to her. They did not grow stronger and crescendo back to her. In due time she heard the engine of his car turn over, then fade down the block.

Her dog sighed on the rug in early evening contentment. He rolled onto his back, showing his soft underbelly.

—

Anna Reed‘s writing has appeared (or is forthcoming) in journals and ezines such as Alimentum, AlterNet, The East Bay Express, Exquisite Corpse, CleanSheets, The SoMa Literary Review, and Waccamaw.

Her feature story for AlterNet, “Sleeping Around Craigslist,” was #4 in 2008. She is the road hand, curator, creative director, and CEO of Speckled Egg Studios, which designs and publishes poetry broadsheets and produces literary readings throughout the San Francisco Bay Area. You can contact Anna at speckledeggstudios@gmail.com or find her on Facebook.