The God Particle Read Free Page A

says.
    He can hear something now, a muffled voice perhaps. Mostly what he hears is shuffling sounds. Rustling. As if a cell phone in someone’s pocket has inadvertently called him. This sort of thing has happened before—the accidental bump of a friend’s cell phone calling him with the one-touch function—and the first time or two he listened closely, for some reason certain he would hear a scandalous tidbit of information unintended for public consumption. But of course he hadn’t. Life, after all, isn’t a soap opera.
    The rain plays with his hair, soaking into his turtleneck, and Steve is about to give up on the call when he hears the voice again. This time it’s louder and a little clearer. A woman’s voice, perhaps. He pushes the phone harder against his ear and closes off the other one with his index finger. The female voice rises and falls between intermittent bursts of static. Then another sound—another voice—eclipses the first. This one is most certainly male. The guy is cheering . . . cheering or grunting. Now the female joins him, yelping with predictable and hurried regularity. But she isn’t cheering.
    She’s squeaking.
    Now Steve maneuvers his finger over the volume control on his phone and turns it up. Three girls exit the bar, laughing and berating each other in French, but Steve barely notices. He doesn’t understand the phone call. Who would be stupid enough to have sex so close to a cell phone and not lock the buttons? Not turn it off? Who would—
    “That’s it, Barry,” the female urges. “Fuck me.”
    Steve drops the phone. It clatters against the wet cobblestones and lands face down. When he picks it up, he is sure the phone will have powered off, jarred by the impact. But no, it’s still on. He presses the phone against his ear again.
    And, yes: His girlfriend is still having sex with someone who isn’t Steve.
    His hands begin to shake, badly, and he nearly drops the phone again. His stomach seems to fill with helium—expanding, defying gravity, rising toward his chest, his throat, where the sour remains of his Pizza Dante make an encore performance. He stumbles in erratic patterns. Nearly falls down. Decides to sit despite the rain.
    This must be some kind of mistake. Janine is not having sex with someone else. He’s going to propose to her. He’s got the fucking ring in his fucking
pocket.
    But still Janine continues to moan. There isn’t any question that it’s her. He’d recognize that hiccupy desire anywhere.
    What the hell is she doing? She’s ruining everything.
    “Janine!” he yells into the phone.
“Janine!”
    She answers with more squeaking. Then some kind of popping sound. Like a slap. Steve can hear much more clearly now.
    “Move your ass, bitch,” the man says. With authority he says it, as if perhaps he’s forcing himself upon her. But she isn’t being raped. You don’t invite someone named Barry to fuck you when you’re being held against your will.
    Steve realizes he should disconnect the call. Obviously he doesn’t need to hear any more of this. But is the answer just to let it go? Allow them to rut like animals while he goes back to the hotel room with his twenty-thousand-dollar ring and flushes it down the toilet? Is he really supposed to—
    “What
is
that?” asks Janine.
    “What is what?” asks Barry.
    “What keeps bumping into my head? Stop for a second, will you? I need to . . . I . . . get the
fuck
off me for a second, Barry. What is this . . . what . . . oh . . . oh my God, it’s on—”
    “
What’s
on?”
    “The phone! The goddamn phone! It didn’t ring! I must have called someone!” Now into the phone directly. “Hello? Is anyone there? Hello?”
    Steve says nothing.
    “Hello?”
    “Just disconnect,” Barry says, “and then see who you called. Check the dialed numbers.”
    “Hello?”
    “Good-bye, Janine,” Steve says and disconnects.
    3
    It’s unclear to Steve just how long he stands there, phone in hand, staring