Page 28 of Dirty Chorus

Nothing. But I don’t say that. I’m not sure what I could say.

She adjusts her underwear and climbs off me. She pats down the bed until she bundles up the shirt I gave her to her chest. I adjust myself, but my dick is still about to slice my pants in half at any second.

I run a hand over my neck. “I’ll get you some water,” I tell her as she throws her arms through the sleeves of the shirt, pulling it down.

I go to the fridge, pry it open and find an unopened water bottle. When I got to my room, she was tugging at my covers, wrapping herself up in a cocoon. “Thanks...” she says as I twist open the bottle for her.

“I’ll see you in the morning.”

Chapter 16

Charlie

The Westminster chimes of a grandfather clock bounce off the walls, and my eyes pry open. My mouth is drier than the Sahara Desert, and my bladder screams at me in pain. The curtains are drawn closed with only a streak of light bleeding through. Mourning doves sing outside the windows, and so do the cicadas. I sit up, using a finger to wipe my eyes, and realize my tear-ducts are caked with makeup remnants. One whiff of my armpits, and I’m mortified by myself.

I tug on the shirt and stretch out the dark black fabric. This doesn’t even belong to me. I kick off the sheets and stand up, scouting the room for my clothes. There are three guitars mounted on the wall. The dark grey dresser has nothing on top of it. The room is squeaky clean, with not a single lonely sock anywhere, and it doesn’t smell like feet.

I find my clothes at the foot of the bed. As I gather them into a ball, I notice the neatly folded towel on the nightstand with a toothbrush still in its packaging. My purse is there too, with my cellphone, which I’m sure is completely dead.

There’s a note on top of the towel, and I pick it up. “The bathroom is down the hall. There’s coffee in the kitchen, and if you steal my clothes, I expect you to hang out with me more,” I read to myself.

The bedroom door is slightly cracked, and I creak it open. Noah is nowhere in sight, and I cling onto the towel as I make my way down the hallway to the bathroom. When I flick the light on, the first thing my eyes lock onto is the blue safety rails next to the toilet seat. Next is the medical chair in the bathtub.

This bathroom is spotless compared to my own and even has a full air freshener plugged in. The mirrors are wiped clean, and the countertop doesn’t have any evidence of anyone ever brushing their teeth or washing their hands.

I shower, using Noah’s Old Spice soap. I scrub my tongue clean, and steal Noah’s hairbrush and braid my hair using a hair tie I managed to find underneath the sink. Men with hair ties. I find it so odd, but at the same time I dig it. Do I steal some of his clothes? Yes, I do. A pair of blue plaid patterned boxers I can adjust and make them look like a cute pair of shorts, and then one of his baggy shirts that almost reaches past my thighs. It has Jesus crushing Satan at a game of basketball. I leave his bedroom with a complete walk-of-shame look.

When I reach the kitchen, I halt in my tracks, staring at the bird clock ticking. An older man trembles, picking up the coffeepot, pouring it into his mug. Little white clumps of hair on his head stick up, and I stare a little longer than I would like at the liver spots on his scalp and arms.

“Oh... oh!” He smiles with teeth yellowed and worn. “I didn’t expect any company.” He shuffles his slippers across the floor. He holds onto the smile, and his wrinkles are deep around his greying eyes.

“Umm, hi.” I wave at him, and he doesn’t seem to question my wardrobe choice.

He trembles as he rests his hand on the ear of a wooden chair and places the cup gently on the wooden table. “Noah doesn’t usually bring girls home.” He groans as he sits, and he takes his cup of coffee, bringing it up to his lips. “There are mugs in the cabinets.” He wags a finger at the coffee maker.

“Thank you...” I open it and stand on my tiptoes as I debate which coffee mug I want to use. The glass clinks as I pull one out and inspect the inside with a chronic fear I might find a spider. It happened once as a little kid – I poured milk into a cup with a daddy long leg in it and, halfway through drinking it, the legs appeared. I haven’t been the same since.

“The sugar and milk are over here,” he points at the container and holds up the silver spoon as well. I pour myself a mug and sit on the opposite side of the older man.

The living room is in my view, and I’m taken aback by the enormous wooden TV stand that takes up the entire wall. It has more drawers and cabinets than necessary, and the television is a puny box. Even the couches are out of date with the flower patterns.

“Did you sleep well?” he asks. I glance back at him as he blows on the steam rising from his mug. He smacks his lips before taking a sip.

“Yeah...”

“Sounds like you had some fun last night.”

Oh...shit. My brain is a bit foggy, there are bits and pieces I remember, but after I finished that last drink, all I can recall is swaying my head back and forth, dancing with the crowd, and the faint memory of Noah sucking on my... Oh my. I bring the cup to my lips and cross my legs, straightening myself to stop the strange ache between my legs. I really did do that.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to crash without permission.” I stare down at my reflection in the coffee before I reach over to the container with sugar.

“How did you meet my grandson? A beautiful thing like you doesn’t just randomly show up at the doorstep.”

“At church.” In the bathroom, and me peeing to be precise, but I’m not sure how he’d tackle that comment.

His eyes light up. “You go to church?”

“Sometimes. My mom usually forces me.” I sip my coffee, and it saturates my taste buds. “She’s going through a rough divorce, so I think it helps her a bit.” I swallow.