The Chrome Phase

"So?" "Got the McLaren. It's at the warehouse." "I don't care about the car. The ring is worth twice as much." "There's a little problem. It's still on his finger." "No you didn't..." "Had to." "Where did you put him?" "East River."

I want to sing something from "Phantom", but Maggie told me not to because that's what everyone else is doing.  It doesn't matter. I won't get the lead. I just want to get in so I can be in the dance scene.

It had been years, but with one sip I tasted everything. Marlboro Lights mixed with bonfire smoke. Roasted marshmallows. Horseshoes in fresh cut grass. Crickets chirping before a late storm. And the salty taste of his lips. The summer I'll always remember.

"It's been down to here," he gestured to his fourth shirt button.  "But a couple years ago I trimmed it short."  I stroked its current length, an inch or so, well-groomed and fragrant.  I gave it a tug and kissed his cheek.

I came to in the passenger seat, head throbbing. Bruised, probably. Keys vanished; him too.  I deserved it. We began intimately, but my last recollection was rage. Forgive me , I silently pleaded.  My phone chimed. Desperately, I swiped and read.  “We’re done."

I can’t answer anymore. He stabbed the cork and twisted clockwise. “Patience. They’re here only one night. You, a month.” Pop, pour. Time stops in a hotel. A stranger arrived next to me. “Where’re you from?” Yet again, I answer. Pop, pour. Answering the ultimate question: Have all your clocks stopped?

Standing in the kitchen, my back to him, Jones pushed his fist into the knot in my shoulder. “What did you do to yourself?” he asked as he worked out my pain. “I have no idea. It must have been you,” I said mischievously, stepping away for a minute to grab a drink from the fridge. “You can’t say it wasn't worth it,” he said, one-upping me. Jones continued the massage as I guzzled a Gatorade. I turned my attention to the gallery of photos on his fridge and noticed a recurring face. A young woman, squeaky clean and innocent, smiled like a darling in at least a half a dozen pictures with her head on Jones’ shoulder. In the middle was a photo of the pair at a football game wearing matching Redskins jerseys. Another of her with Jones in a beautifully intimate pose, their eyes closed and foreheads touching. It didn't upset me. Jones and I were longtime friends who provided only occasional distractions. We had no higher expectations of each other. I was curious, so I asked. ...