Kentucky Sugar

My boss, Lena, answers the door and says my name before she hugs me, lets me in. God bless hippies; she’s barefoot and her front porch smells like Nag Champa. Her place reminds me of India. She has scarves over the windows instead of curtains and something in the kitchen smells like onions and mushrooms and cumin. She has a long, gauzy yellow scarf in her hair.

“Should I take my shoes off?” I ask.

“Sure and hold on a sec. I’ve got to turn off the stove,” she says.

I use my toes to loosen the back of my grey sneakers and leave them by the door. There are white candles on the mantle, hanging plants in front of the windows and sequined pillows on her couch. She’s thrown red scarves over some of her lampshades. It gives the whole room a warm glow like we’re inside a big bloody, slowly beating heart.

She comes out of the kitchen.

“What did you make? It smells awesome.”

“Aloo gobi. Have you had it? It’s cauliflower and potatoes. I threw in some mushrooms and some other stuff too. We’ll put it over basmati rice. You’ll love it,” she says.

“I’ve had it. I love it. I’m hungry,” I say.

“Hey come over here,” she says, standing in the kitchen doorway.

I walk to her. She throws her arms over my shoulders and tilts her head to kiss me. I pick her up. She sighs softly, disarming me completely. I’m hers.

We go to her bed. I’m inside of her. The bedroom window is barely cracked so it’s cool around and underneath and above her blue-as-the-ocean sheets. She says fuck under her breath, so quiet and quick it’s meaningless. A breathy wink. She’s on top of me. I watch her breasts bounce—heavy teardrops of sunned honey. I finish first. I’m holding her hips and rocking them back and forth as she comes. I turn my head to the side and close my eyes tight.

I’m restless again. Fidgety. I know I like her too much. We put our clothes back on and I go to the bathroom. When I come out she’s walking down the hallway carrying two big red bowls of food and two spoons. We eat, sitting crosslegged on her bed. For dessert we have oranges and mint juleps.

When the doorbell rings, Lena rolls her eyes. She goes over to the door and snatches it open without looking to see who it is. I pull the orange ball cap she gave me from my back pocket, put it on and lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees. Casual, right? Just in case.

“Everything is over there.” She points to a corner of the living room as a tallish dark-haired dude steps into the house. I take a good look at him. He’s at least ten or fifteen years older than me. He’s wearing holey jeans and a black t-shirt boasting some Seattle donut shop in rounded yellow letters. I’m pretty sure I shrug without knowing it. I look over at Lena because it’s more than obvious she fucking hates the guy. He’s looking right at me and smiles.

“Hot damn, you’ve gone and got yourself a young’un this time!” He’s loud and I can’t tell if he’s putting on his accent or not. It’s thick and country.

I decide to lean back and own the space. I put my arm on the back of the couch and reach my other hand out for him to shake. She sure did, motherfucker.

Lena makes me nervous. I’m intimidated by her, but not this prick.

“I’m just messing with you, man,” he says in a regular voice.

“Just get your shit and go,” Lena says, putting her hands on her hips.

“Obviously that’s what I’m here for,” he says, shaking my hand. But he’s not looking at me. He’s looking at Lena.

“Scott,” I say.

“Patrick,” he says.

“I used to be married to Patrick,” Lena adds.

“And I used to wear that hat,” Patrick says, pointing to my head.

I take it off, look at it. I laugh and put it back on. I’m trying to think of a good response.

“You used to do a lot of shit before we got divorced,” Lena says. She points to the corner again. Patrick walks over there and bends to pick up a video game console, some controllers and a package of socks.

“You want your hat back?” I say, finally. Patrick is at the door now. His arms are full. He grins at me.

“Nah. It’s all good. She’s your girl, huh? Well lucky you.”

I don’t say anything.

“Fuck off, Patrick,” Lena says with that dishy Kentucky mouth.

“You fuck off,” he says back. I stand up from the couch, step a little closer to him.

“Say that to me.”

He says What so I start talking again.

“Tell me to fuck off,” I say.

Patrick leans down to set his stuff on the floor.

“Fuck. Off,” he says real slow.

I punch him first and it lands. We’re fighting and knocking shit off of the walls. He’s got the collar of my shirt in one of his fists. He gives me a good solid blow and I feel my bottom lip split.

“Hey assholes. You’re tearing up my house,” Lena says in a voice so normal it would’ve made me laugh if Patrick hadn’t had me in a headlock.

“Alright, man. Alright,” I say holding my hands up.

Patrick pushes me away and puts his hand to his face, checking for blood. We’re both out of breath. I touch my mouth, feel the warm blood on my fingers, the metallic tang on my tongue.

“Hey you owe me one,” he says, pointing at me and smirking. He brushes the hair from his forehead. “This kinda shit turns her on, man.” He takes his time picking up his stuff and Lena walks over to him.

“Oh yeah I’m real hot right now, Patrick,” she says. “Hell yeah. I know you are,” he says before he leaves.

Lena slams the door. For a moment I think she may cry but I’m wrong because she takes a deep breath and starts laughing. She snatches the orange ball cap from the floor and goes into the kitchen. I follow her. She shoves it into the garbage can, smashes it down. She takes a big ladle of sauce from dinner, pours it in there too.

“Alright,” she says after she’s finished.

“Alright,” I echo. My right hand is busted, sore. Was she worth getting my ass kicked? She leans her head to the side and squints her eyes at me, reaches up to pat the side of my face. Right now in this moment? Hearing the sound of the front porch wind chimes, my belly full of her food, how she moved when I was inside of her—when I think about how the wind felt coming through her bedroom window, her hot breath edged with spicy mint and orange sugar—it might be stupid but I’m gonna go with Yes.

She puts crushed ice in a plastic bag and hands it to me. I hold it to my mouth before laying it across my knuckles.

“I’m not gonna try to spend the night,” I say. I look down at her legs draped over my lap, her feet. She has these perfect feet. I put my hand underneath one of them and lift it up to kiss the top of it.

“Look at your perfect feet,” I say.

“Hush. It tickles,” she says, throwing her head back and wiggling her foot out of my hand.

“Sorry.”

“I wasn’t worried about you trying to stay here. You’re a big boy.”

“How old are you, Lena? I can ask that, right?”

“I’m thirty-two. And you can ask me whatever you want.”

“I like you,” I say.

“Don’t like me too much. I’m mending from being all cracked and broken,” she says, moving her hands a lot as she’s talking, like she always does.

I nod and give into my urge to reach out for her again. I let my hand rest on her leg.

“Are you seeing anyone else right now?” I ask.

“Sometimes but not really,” she says.

“Fair enough.”

“I’m doing whatever I feel like doing whenever I feel like doing it,” she says as she sits up and tucks her feet underneath her.

“I understand,” I say, smiling at her and then looking away.

“That means I like you too,” she says. She stands and we go back to her bedroom. Again.

“Are you scared of Patrick?” I ask when I’m tired enough to leave.

“I’m not scared of anyone,” she says, like an alligator snap.

I go home and before I fall asleep in my own bed I picture myself beating the shit out of Patrick, not letting him get one shot at me. In the morning when I see Lena at work she says let’s go get coffee. Says she got me a new hat. She hands me a navy blue ball cap. I put it on and we drive off.

She tells me Patrick came back over super-early in the morning because he’d forgotten something but she doesn’t tell me what. She says it was fine and nothing happened. Not sex, not fighting and I try to talk myself into believing her. I’m a little angry. I show her by drinking my coffee in silence for a couple of minutes.

I touch my tongue to my swollen lip. She leans forward, turns her hippie music up, drives us to her place. I take my boots off, leave them on the porch. There’s a slap of darkness when she closes the door behind us, but I’m buzzing and flickering, white-hot.