The cracks in his lips were fault lines that wouldn’t stop shaking.
“Did you know it was a musician who invented string theory?” Mark asked, dead serious. He was worse than Spit. Much worse. “Dude figured out that a perfect fifth wasn’t three fifths, but actually Pi fifths. That means the universe dances in 3/4 time. That’s a fuckin’ waltz, dude.”
I nodded along pretending to be distracted by all the road signs nailed to the walls. Stop. Wrong Way. The house smelled like rotting strawberries and all of the furniture were covered in the same faded, floral pattern. Mark had inherited the place from a grandparent, or something. Maybe he was squatting. I couldn’t remember.
“Make them stop!” a pile of garbage shouted from the back of the room.
My heart skipped a beat, and I dug my fingernails into the frayed couch. A young girl shifted from behind two black trash bags. Her hair looked like it had been caught in a food processor, like an animal with mange. Road kill.
Mark didn’t even acknowledge her.“Quarks, electrons, neutrinos. They’re all just strings vibrating at different speeds, you know? Everything is just an illusion created from those waves, you just gotta tap into the right frequencies, control the vibrations.” The bottle of vodka in his hand shook in his hand like a storm. He couldn’t sit still. Speed Limit 25. No Passing Zone.
“Mark!” Carpet girl screamed again. “They’re outside! Make him leave!”
“Dude.” Mark trailed off, staring at the closed blinds next to him like he could see through. “Dude…ok. Ok, you gotta go. One sec.”
Mark got up and stumbled towards the pile of trash, picking things up and tossing them to the side. A stiff washcloth and an empty can of beer both landed against the girl’s face. Watch for Pedestrians. He finally pulled out a Ziplock bag filled with crumbled cash, and brought it back over to me. I remembered the man with the perfect gloves. Or was it the perfect hair?
“See you around, dude,” Mark said. “Stay safe out there.”
The sun peeked over the mountains, turning everything beyond my windshield into a mirage. Mark’s house waved with the heat, and some old man in ironed slacks walked by. Next caller, the jockey on the radio said. Tell us what’s on your mind.
The man in the slacks knelt down in front of Mark’s house. He was holding a camera with one of those telescope lenses. I checked my rear-view. There was no one else around. Look, I’ll say it. This town? It’s just not as safe as it used to be. The man brought his camera to his face, pointing it into Mark’s yard. What was he doing?
The bushes beneath one of Mark’s windows shuddered as something came free. My wife and I? We don’t even go on walks anymore. It was a bird. Some short bird with what looked like a mohawk. I started my engine and pulled into the street. The old man didn’t even look over his shoulder as I sped past.
Verona snored into her sheets as I walked in. New paint stains dotted her oversized shirt, and the lilies on the nightstand were still dead. I needed to shower.
Ice cold water cascaded down my back, and I felt better even though my mouth still tasted like meat grease. I brushed my teeth twice—spitting phlegm and bits of pork down the shower drain. Several small bottles stared at me from the shelving. Bain Riche. Cica Chroma. I didn’t know what any of them meant. I chose one at random and scrubbed with a sponge until my skin was red.
By the time I came back into her room, Verona was awake, stretching out her body in the bed. “You know,” she said. “If this is the beginning of a bad porn, I hope you at least brought pizza.” A bead of water rolled from my naked belly button and into the crook of my dick. “Actually,” she said, “I would love it if you brought my Vicodin.”
“Xanax,” I corrected.
“Sure,” she said, sitting up out of bed. I grabbed a towel from the floor to go look for the pills but she interrupted me before I could put it on. “Actually,” she stood up and grabbed my wrist. “You need to come see this first.” Water dripped from hair as she led me down the hall, towards her paint studio.
White sunlight beamed through the windows, and the canvas tarp covering the floor was stained with soft pink paint. “Do you think it looks too much like a Rachel Baes?” Verona asked.
The painting rested against an easel. Large. Looming. It depicted a bleached white silhouette against a streaky black background. Some kind of dog. The only notable color came from the bright pink strings tied around the beast. I didn’t know who Rachel Baes was.
“Is that a coyote?” I asked
She stared at her painting the same way she had stared at me from the lingerie photo. Another bead of water rolled between my hips, ziplining off my growing erection. I pushed my fingers through Verona’s hair and kissed her. Her eyebrows rose, and she let me take her down, amongst the paintbrushes, Xacto knives, and Scotch Tape. The painting hung over us, and as Verona started kissing down my chest, the painted animal stared holes into mine.
Verona dug fingernails into my thighs, but I couldn’t look away from the canvas. The bright pink string slithered around the coyote, coiling tighter and tighter. I blinked and tried rubbing my eyes, but it was still moving. As the rope constricted further, the animal’s fur bulged between like a packaged turkey. Verona hand gripped between my legs. Both hands. The strings couldn’t get any tighter now. As the coyote’s skin started to tear open, my stomach pulsed against Verona’s wet breath. Wet, hairy flesh erupted over both of us. Chunks of meat slid off Verona’s head, splattering against my thighs.
“Shit,” I said, pulling back.
“What’s wrong?” Verona looked up at me, pushing the bangs from her face. She looked fine. No blood. No animal parts. Everything was back to normal. The coyote, fully intact, sneered at me from the canvas above.