Beyond the Pale Motel Read Free Page B

what?” He groaned and turned away from me, onto his side. His back looked meaty and pale in the light that was starting to finger us through the blinds.
    â€œSomething’s wrong,” I said.
    Dash sat up with an exhale and rubbed his forehead. “You always think something is wrong.”
    â€œWell, is it? You haven’t touched me, you hardly ate.”
    â€œSo this signifies a problem? Because I didn’t fuck you after being up for, like, twenty-four hours? Because I wasn’t in the mood for pho ? Seriously, Catt?”
    â€œJust tell me,” I said. I was quietly leaving my body already at that point, everything going numb as I slid out of my skin and observed myself from some odd spot on the ceiling. I looked bloated and washed-out and my hair was tangled. Get up, I told myself. Leave now. Don’t listen to him say it. But I couldn’t move.
    â€œOkay, fine. You can’t just let anything lie, can you.”
    I don’t want you to lie anymore, I thought. In that moment, even before he said it, everything I had been denying was becoming clear.
    â€œThere’s someone,” Dash said.
    â€œWhat do you mean there’s someone?” I just couldn’t move any part of my body. He had met someone? On his trip he’d met someone he liked, that was all. He hadn’t actually …
    â€œThere’s been someone. It’s serious.”
    I doubled over, grabbing my stomach, feeling the layer of fat there. He’d socked me in the gut with two words and I couldn’t breathe.
    â€œWhat are you talking about?” I whispered. But my voice was getting louder and louder. “Who did you meet?”
    He wouldn’t look at me.
    The thoughts careened into each other as they fought to get out of my mouth. “Who is she? How long has it been? And you’re telling me now? Tonight?”
    â€œYou asked me what . You always want to know. What, what, what? Okay, I told you. Are you happy?”
    The ice pain in my abdomen flared to heat that spread through my whole body. My heart was pounding like I was on the Body Farm treadmill. “What the fuck? Am I what? Happy? Get the fuck out of here, Dash.”
    He got up and put on his jeans. The belt, decorated with skulls, was still threaded through the belt loops, and the heavy metal buckle clanked.
    He pulled on his T-shirt without looking at me. His back was huge, straining the cotton fabric as if it might tear. I realized I would never touch him again. Everything irrevocably over. One of us might as well have been killed in that instant. And it was probably me. My first death of nine. Who was the zombie now?
    When I was in my early twenties, I had a dog I’d found on the street. A gentle beagle-and-pit-bull mix I called Pinkie. I walked and fed her, she slept on my bed. It was good for me, at that time, to have something to take care of, even though I couldn’t care for myself. Then the seizures began. Her body hurtling against the walls, mouth lathering, shit everywhere. Afterward she wouldn’t recognize me, would just growl for a long time. Once, after an episode, she looked at me without recognition. When I reached for her, she bit my hand, breaking the skin, though it wasn’t that deep. The meds they gave me for her didn’t work, the tumor they discovered was inoperable, and finally I decided to put her down. I was drunk. It was raining. I drove her to the vet, who told me I should leave, that it wouldn’t be pleasant to watch. She was still big and strong, nothing seemed wrong to look at her. The vet walked into the back room and she followed him, trotting along, trusting. Sometimes I still dreamed of her bony head, her lopsided eyes, and long, graceful legs.
    â€œI’m sorry,” Dash said. For the first time since I’d asked the final what, his voice sounded human, even kind. This made it worse. I wanted to grab him, tear him back from wherever he was. I was