Bad Medicine

By Donald Torres

"Where were you last night?" Michele asked.

"I was at my mother’s," I said smoothly. " She called and said that she wasn’t feeling good so I went over to check on her and I wound up staying for a while." Even as I said the words I knew it was too late. Michele never asked a question that she didn’t already have an answer for. I closed the door to the fridge to see her standing there holding up Nanette’s black G-string for my inspection.

"Angela, I can explain."

"Who the fuck is Angela?’ she asked politely.

"Michele, I can explain..." was all I got out before my world tilted over backwards and blasts of light filled my eyes. Seconds, maybe minutes passed before I was able to raise myself onto my elbows. Hot blood poured from my nose and a freshly split lip. Blinking through the tears I looked up at her, God, she was beautiful. She had flame red hair that fell down to the small of her back, sharp green eyes, and soft brown skin. And even though she was trained as a classical ballerina, I actually met her at the Crazy Horse Saloon on 8^th avenue. She was stripping to pay for tuition on her third year of law school.

Now she was standing there, fists clenched wearing one of my old tank tops and the red lace panties I bought her last Christmas. Her shapely legs were spread far enough apart to block exit out of the kitchen. She was just standing there waiting for me to get up so she could knock me on my ass again.

"I hate you!" she screamed.

"No you don’t." I said quietly

"Why do you keep doing this? Are you fucking psycho or something? Do I need to put you in a cage?"

"I love you." I said softly.

"Fuck off, you love pussy." She marched back to the bathroom and slammed the door. I stood up. My legs were a little wobbly. Leaning over the chrome sink I watched drops of blood splatter into the basin. From the drawer I pulled out a dishtowel, turned the water to as cold as it would go, and soaked it. I glanced over at the bedroom door and imagined that she was sitting on the edge of the bed sobbing and hating me for breaking another promise.

I washed my face and felt my lip. She had popped me pretty good. My lower lip was bleeding but it wouldn’t need stitches. My nose had stopped gushing. I pulled an ice tray from the freezer and dumped the ice into the towel. I approached the bedroom door and listened for a moment. I could hear her moving around and I knew she was pulling her clothes out of the closet. I tried the doorknob. It was locked. I jiggled the knob to test the lock. I gripped it really hard and cranked it to the right. The flimsy lock popped open inside the door.

Michele had covered the bed with two suitcases and all her clothes. She was in the bathroom emptying her things out of the cabinets. Stepping into the doorway I saw that she had already gotten semi-dressed. She was bent over tugging something from under the sink. She had a nice ass that looked great in her faded Levi’s.

"How’s your hand?" I asked

"Fuck you." She walked past me and started packing things into her suitcases.

"What are you going to do?"

"Fuck you."

"Will you please stop saying that."

"Okay, fuck off."

"Very funny."

"Fuck you."

"I won’t stop loving you."

"Fuck you/"

"But I can’t help myself sometimes."

"Oh bullshit Nathan!" she screamed. "You’re not the victim here. You’re a selfish prick and you don’t care about anything but your own selfish needs. So don’t fucking stand there with that hurt little boy look on your face. Nothing you say or do can even compare to the damage you’ve done. You promised me. You fucking promised me."

She was right. I did promise her. I promised her every other time also. She continued to shove things into the cases. My hand was getting numb from the ice pack. What could tell her that I hadn’t already told her? What could I promise her that I hadn’t already promised? I let her pack.

Michele filled the suitcases and pulled a pillowcase off of a pillow. She jammed more things into it and tied it off with the cord to her hair dryer. She really didn’t have a lot of clothes. Most of what she wore was mine or something I bought for her and she wasn’t taking any of those things.

When everything was packed she looped the pillowcase over her left shoulder and, threw her purse over the other, and yanked her suitcases of the bed. They looked heavy, but she managed them with very little effort. She looked at me and opened her mouth as if to say something, but she didn’t. She went into the living room stepped into a pair of unlaced sneakers by the door and walked out. I was numb. My hand was numb. And water dripped from the melting icepack.

I looked at the door. I imagined that I could run after her. But no. I couldn’t go after her. I looked at the door. I imagined her walking back in to stay. But no. She wasn’t coming back. I looked at door. Then it opened. She reached into her pocket, pulled out a set of keys, and threw them at me. The keys hit me in the chest and fell to the ground. She closed the door and was gone.

"She closed the door and was gone," I said watching the microscopic bubbles rise to the top of the glass.

"Just like that?" Megan asked.

"Just like that." I opened my mouth and tossed back a gulp, one of hundreds that were sure to follow. Megan walked away to get something for someone at the end of the bar. I stared into the glass. Then I stared directly into the mirror behind the bar. There was a reflection of some poor pathetic mook with a busted lip. He was hunched over his beer clutching it as if somebody was going to take it away if he let go. He wore a red T-Shirt and a black leather jacket. He has short black hair that needed a comb, a tanned face, and ice blue eyes. He sat there and looked back at me as if I was the most pathetic mook he has ever seen. I looked back into the glass.

"Who was she?" Megan asked.

"Michele, I just told you that."

"Not her, dumbshit. Whose panties?"

"G-String" I corrected.

"Whatever. Who was the bitch?"

"Nanette."

"Nanette, you did her? You slut." Megan laughed. "She’s been banged more times than a screen door. If you dick falls off it’ll be your own fault."

"Thank you. Can I get two shots of tequila?"

"Are you driving?"

"I live two blocks away."

"Answer the question."

"No, I’m not driving. I’m drinking, then I’m getting drunk, and then I’m stumbling home to puke, fall down, and die. In that order."

"Okay then. Just don’t forget to pay your tab before you leave." She added, then she returned to the other end of the bar to deal with the happier, better paying clientele.

"What about my tequila?" I asked.

"What about it."

She turned her back and joined a well-dressed couple in a conversation that was obviously better that the one she was having with me. I looked back into my glass and found it empty. I looked up and the drunk in the mirror noticed that his beer was empty too. We both reached across the bar and helped ourselves to the tap and poured ourselves another. We did this several more times until the stool jumped out of the way as I tried to sit back down. The last thing I saw was the drunk in the mirror sliding down out of sight behind the bar.

It felt as if my eyes had been welded closed. With both hands I squeezed my head forced them through my hair hoping that the pressure outside would equalize the pressure on the inside, but it didn’t. I dragged my dry tongue around my dry mouth searching for desperately needed moisture and found none. The only pleasant thing about waking up was the erection signaling the necessity to pee. I got up and staggered naked to the bathroom. I unloaded my bladder into the toilet, adjusting my aim due to stiffness.

Ducking my head under the faucet I sucked cold water and rinsed the gamey taste of stale beer and cigarettes out of my mouth before spitting into the sink. Looking around the bathroom, the blank spots announced that Michele wasn’t here anymore. Her curlers, brushes, make-up, and her tiny little dancing costumes were all gone, leaving patches of clean spots among the dusty shelves. I knew I was going to miss her touch, her feel, her smell, her taste. All because I fucked up, again.

We always had morning sex. It was her favorite. She said she liked getting laid in the morning, because it put her in a good mood for the rest of the day. I looked down. My dick was still hard and pointing up at an angle. The poor bastard didn’t know she was gone yet and I just didn’t have the heart to tell him. I was starting to sober up so I headed out to the kitchen to correct that with whatever I could find.

I paused at the foot of the bed when I saw a tanned leg with painted toenails and a tattoo of a rose winding around the ankle sticking out of the sheets. I followed the leg up to an equally tanned firm looking ass cheek and the rest disappeared under the blankets. On the pillow next to mine was a fluffy mass of curly blonde had hiding a face. I crept around and gently pulled the hair aside to find Megan’s sleeping child like face.

I didn’t remember how she got here. I didn’t even remember how I got here. Images of her shining race looking down at me and clouds of supple cleavage rolling across the ceiling of the bar played in my mind like remembrances of a dream.

I bought my face down to hers and watched her breathe for several moments. I could see her eyes dancing around beneath her eyelids. I passed my hand over the landscape of her face and brushed the soft curls away from the back of her neck. I found the spot where her hair met the nape of her delicate neck. I nuzzled her there, breathing in her scent. Leaning forward I lowered my mouth and gently kissed her neck. My lip stung a little but the desire to taste her was greater than the rear of a little pain.

She turned onto her stomach and stretched with a sensuous cat like grace. I took a step back and pulled the sheets off the bed. Her body appeared both soft and hard at the same time. She arched her back and looked back at me over her shoulder.

"I see that you’re already up." Megan said looking at my erection.

"I see that you are remarkably hot."

"Thank you."

"How did you get here? How did I get here?"

"You passed out. I brought you home. It was late. I stayed. Do you want me to leave?"

"No."

"What do you want?"

"You."

"You can’t reach me from there." She said looking at me then her eyes fell to my hard-on. "I take it back, you can reach me from there."

I stopped talking and joined her on the bed.

"It’s time to wake up." Megan laughed, bouncing on the bed. "Hey, I found some KFC in the fridge. I hope you don’t mind."

"What time is it?" I asked. Megan reached over me smashing her tits against my face. She turned the alarm clock around.

"It’s a quarter to eight. You slept all day. Hey did you know you talked in your sleep?

"No. What did I say?"

"I don’t know. You mumbled."

I sat up and swung my feet over the side of the bed. Rubbing my eyes I noticed that my cheeks were wet.

"Are you crying?" Megan asked.

"No." My headache was gone, but I still felt like crap. I looked around the room for something to wear and settled on a T-shirt that was lying on the floor. I smelled it and it passed the stink test. I poked my head and arms through and shrugged into the rest of the shirt. And then I just sat there. Lost.

"Nate, are you okay?"

"What’s today?"

"Wednesday."

"The date."

"Today is the fifteenth. What’s wrong? You’re acting weird."

I turned and looked at her. Her blond hair was pulled back in a scrunchy. Her brown eyes were intensely focused on me. She sat there naked with her legs folded underneath her munching on a chicken leg with a box of Kentucky Fried Chicken in her lap. She looked good. I smiled.

"Everything is fine." I said.

"I’m not staying." Megan said. " I have to work tonight and I still have to go back home."

"Why did you stay so long?"

"It looked like you needed you somebody and I really needed somebody."

"So you were just using me then?"

"Don’t start with me, Nate. "Megan said as she tossed the half eaten chicken leg back into the box, rolled off the bed, and started getting dressed. "I didn’t come here for this."

"Then why did you come?"

"I came here to get fucked, not to argue." She was starting to get irritated with me so I probably shouldn’t have asked my next question

"Tell me why did you break up with me?" I asked.

Megan stopped, spun around, and stalked over to stand in front of me. Leaning down as if to talk to a child she said, "Because you are a cheater Nate. Its what you do. It’s who you are." She sat down next to me and put her arm around my shoulder and spoke softly. "You charm your way into a woman’s pants and then you try to turn every fuck into a relationship. But when things begin to look promising you fuck it up. On purpose. I don’t know why, but you do. Look at yourself. You sleep all day, drink all night, and fuck all the hours in between. If you want do better, you have to act better."

She stood up and put on the rest of her clothes. I picked the box of chicken, pulled out Megan’s unfinished chicken leg, and started eating it.

"I don’t know what happened to you that screwed you up so bad, but you need help. And you’re not going to get it sport fucking every piece of ass you meet." Megan said. She picked up her purse and keys and walked out the door.

I waited for a couple of minutes just see if she would be come back. When I was sure she was gone I reached under the bed and pulled out an old shoebox. I shoved the blankets to one side and made some space on the mattress. It was a little blue shoebox that was long past being useful, but I kept repairing it with tape because I needed it to last a while longer. I took a moment then opened the box.

I pulled out a little black jewelry box and snapped open the lid. In side were two gold wedding bands and Angela’s engagement ring. I put mine on and placed Angela’s back in the box. I lifted a soft little white T-shirt that she used to wear to bed every night. I buried my face in the fabric and inhaled deeply. It was wonderful that after four years it still smelled like her.

Underneath were some pictures I pulled out of her mom’s photo album. A few were of her and her kindergarten students at Disneyland. A few were of Christmas time at my parent’s house. There was one of her and her brother sitting on the couch. And my favorite. The one I took of her at the beach. It was a great picture. She didn’t even know I took it until I told her. She was standing there facing the sunset. Her long back hair waving around in the breeze. She had a yellow summer dress on and the water was up to her ankles. The low clouds were smeared across the sky and in the picture it looked like she had angel’s wings. Two days after the picture we found out she had stage three lymphatic cancer that had spread to her liver and kidneys. Those last five months were the best and the worst of my life. I stared at the picture for a long time.

"Happy anniversary baby." I slowly and painfully put everything back in the box and pushed it under the bed. I looked at the clock and it read nine thirty. I picked up the phone and dialed a familiar number. It rang and somebody answered.

"Hi Nanette. Are you busy?" I asked.