Beyond the Pale Motel Read Free Page A

poisoned bungalow was all I ever wanted, really. When Dash was there, anyway. He’s as big as the Cal King mattress and didn’t even fit in the claw-foot tub. His giant black Docs sat by the front door because we agreed we wanted the floor pristine. We had meditated together every morning and before bed, slipping the cool, clicking beads of the malas between our fingers. My mala’s made of rhodochrosite, pink and marbled, and his is wood. As a teenager I’d used a rosary to help me fall asleep at night, especially during that Dahmer phase, when I couldn’t stop thinking about heads in refrigerators and organs in Ziploc bags. After I got sober and met Dash, Catholicism started making less sense than Eastern religions.
    It was better than drinking, better than cigarettes and caffeine, our meditation practice, our lovemaking, our life. But it had been changing in the last year, a slow decline. I didn’t want to admit it to myself.
    As I headed into the bungalow, our neighbor from down the block ran by in a streak of neon short-shorts and tan skin. Dash and I called her Skipper; she was always running, sprinting, skipping backward, sometimes twice a day, nose, breasts, and butt pert, high ponytail bobbing. Must have been one of those model/actresses that come to this city in droves, I’d thought. Not quite pretty enough to be Barbie; more like her sidekick. I’d almost asked her to dinner once but decided that between Dash’s gigs, our AA meetings, Head Hunter, and Body Farm, my husband and I had enough estrogen in our lives.
    That night I was making him pho with fresh herbs, rice noodles, shrimp. For dessert—freshly baked chocolate chip cookies, which were our favorite. The smell of butter, sugar, and chocolate, and lemongrass, ginger, and jasmine tea, filled the kitchen. When I heard Dash at the door, my heart flipped like a fish about to be reeled in. I wished I hadn’t worn the red dress all day. I should have just put it on after work, but I’d wanted to pump myself up, see if any men looked twice to remind me I was worthy of Dash.
    I called out, “Hi, baby,” waited, counted to ten, trying not to rush to him.
    He came in while I was crushing the garlic, popping the skin with the flat of a knife, and I glanced up and saw that his face looked different, white and still. Black T-shirt and black jeans as always. Muscles defined by pale blue veins. I always felt small around him, which was part of what turned me on. I was really heavy in high school, and even though I’d lost a lot of weight after getting sober, I was still a big girl. But not in his arms.
    â€œHey, baby, you okay?” I put down the garlic, wiped my hands on my fruit-patterned, vintage apron, and went to him, untying the apron strings to show off my dress.
    He kissed me, but it was in a distracted way, eyes open. He was chewing peppermint gum but I could taste the tobacco and caffeine on his lips.
    â€œWhat’s wrong, baby?”
    â€œI’m just tired. Smells good in here.” He moved away a little too quickly, and something fell and shattered inside of me, like when I had dropped my favorite gold shot glass that time. I should have known. Women’s intuition and all. But who wants to know? Delusion is so much more pleasant in the end.
    *   *   *
    When he finally told me, it was dawn and we were lying awake, sweating, not touching each other. My cat, Sasha, had abandoned her usual post on my pillow. The fan wasn’t cooling the room, just making an annoying sound as it blew hot air around. I wanted an icy-cold gin and tonic more than anything at that moment so I went through the acronym of AA warning signs, HALT: Hungry, Angry, Lonely, Tired. I wasn’t hungry. I was tired for sure and very lonely, even with Dash lying there beside me in his underwear. I was angry.
    â€œWhat?” I said finally. The word that always preceded our arguments.
    â€œWhat