story: Urges

Urges
by Mary Miller - Maryulmer1@cs.com

     Carter and I sit at the bar and order drinks. I make a couple of rotations on my barstool and then throw a leg over his knee because both of us are miserable and I think this might help. Carter plays rugby. He wears his hair short. He lives off campus in a house surrounded by trees. Last night, we made out in his front yard. The lawn was patchy in spots like he'd been burning leaves or burying things. When he unbuttoned my jeans, I said, "I don't know you well enough," and he said, "No one knows anyone," and I said, "Of course they don't," and he looked at me like, so what's your point? Then he ran a hand through my hair and it got caught in a tangle. Then I buttoned my jeans and went home.
     "I'm not a virgin, but close," I say, continuing the conversation from last night.
     "Either you are or you aren't. There's no such thing as close."
     "I've only been with a couple of people, and both of them were in love with me."
     "So you need to be loved first," he says.
     "I guess."
     "Well, I can't say that yet."
     "Me either."
     "But I'm not the one who needs to hear it," he says.
     I look at him with my mouth open and he places a hand under my chin and lifts. Then he winks to soften the blow.
     I should get up and leave but I just sit there. He starts talking about his ex-girlfriend and how she supposedly had her vagina reconstructed so her lips wouldn't hang out like loose meat. I don't say anything. He holds up the peace sign to indicate two more beers and the bartender looks at me hard when he sets mine down. He watches me after this. I can tell he wants to rescue me.
     When Carter goes to the bathroom, the bartender stands in front of me and says, "That guy's an asshole," and I say, "I'm aware." I bum a cigarette off him, and I hear a sound like chicken frying when the lighter flicks and our eyes meet.
     "So what're you doing with him?"
     "He asked me out and I said yes. Now we're kind of dating," I say. He shakes his head and holds his eyes closed for longer than necessary when he blinks.
     Carter stands beside me with a hand on my arm. "Let's go," he says.
     I want to slip the bartender my number because his eyes are huge and grey and because he has a single eyebrow that runs the length of his face, but Carter takes my hand and leads me to the door, places a hand on my back and guides me through. In the car, I imagine writing my number in blue ink on his palm. I imagine us in bed, a pair of tweezers in my hand.
     "Could you just take me home, please? I'm sleepy," I say.
     
     I call up to the bar and the bartender answers. I feel like I'm calling one of those late-night DJs I'm afraid of, like I'm going to request a song he doesn't like or one that's already been requested fourteen times and he'll say something rude and hang up before I have the chance to say goodbye. I don't know his name, so I say, "Hey. I was up there earlier. I just wanted to let you know that I'm not gonna see that asshole anymore."
     "Oh. I'm glad," he says. And then, "Can I call you back in five seconds?"
     I hang up and finger the silky inside of my comforter and wait and it's just like I thought it would be.
     He calls back and says, "Shit. I'm sorry about that. My manager. Can you drive?"
     "Yes."
     "So come back up here."

     "I'm glad you called," he says, and the weird single eyebrow goes up and stays there. I wait for it to fall back down but it's stuck. "I know that guy. He plays rugby?" I nod. "He has a bad reputation."
     "So do I," I say.
     "Like how?"
     "I got kicked out of my sorority. I failed Finite. I date assholes."
     "That's nothing," he says.
     "It's something."
     "It's not what I'm talking about. You seem like a sweet girl."
     "Thanks," I say, and he smiles and sets his fist on the bar with a thump. Then he waits on two blond-haired girls a few seats over. They look at me and look away. He fixes them martinis. One pink, one green. The girls have straight slick hair and bangs, blue eyes. Something inside me opens up wide and shuts with a snap.
     "I'm a fisherman," the bartender says, standing in front of me again with a rag in his hand.
     "Did I miss something?"
     "No, you didn't."
     "I've never caught a fish," I say.
     "Have you tried?"
     "Sort of."
     "Well we'll have to work on that," he says, and I'm reminded of the blue cooler full of fish my father used to bring home on Saturdays. All those jelly eyes. How he would slice them clean down the middle with an electric knife as I watched.
     "I don't eat anything that has eyes."
     "Really? Nothing with eyes?" He seems concerned. The eyebrow bunches up in the middle.
     "When I was little I had this dog and it would look at me like it knew something I didn't want it to know," I say, and he nods and one of his eyes gets smaller and smaller until it just about closes. "It was like it knew my expiration date."
     "Humph."
     "You probably never get the urge to run your car into a ditch," I say, and he shakes his head no and disappears into the kitchen and this is my cue to leave but I don't take it.

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bio: Mary Miller is published online at Barrelhouse, Arsenic Lobster, Fling Quarterly, and forthcoming at SmokeLong Quarterly.