Their night in San Francisco had been terrible. Maxine’s unexplained moodiness, the overpriced, sparsely-portioned plates at Montage-­ at least their drinks were potent-­ and the sold-out movie that they’d stood in line for had made for a dismal time. Jim reflected on this as he studied Maxine, who was pulling into the parking spot adjoining his apartment. Her inscrutable profile, illuminated by the lot lights, was as gelid as the fall chill outside. 

He gave her a quick buss on the cheek. “Got to use the head before I go to bed,” he said, opening the car door, “You’re welcome to hang out if you want to. If not, I’ll see you later.” He wanted her to leave, but he couldn’t bring himself to condemn her to the loneliness of her apartment, four cities and forty-five minutes away. 

Maxine did not deal well with solitude. She usually found herself fucking a near-stranger-­ like she had at that house party last month-­ or she ended up drunk or high. Often, it was all three. Jim, knowing this, was aware of her destructive streak, and wanted to help her as much as possible. Six years of careful friendship, following three tumultous years of dating, had not lessened his concern for her. Rather, it had increased it. Odd, considering how little he thought of most of his other exes. 

She hesitated before she spoke, as if his offer surprised her-­ funny, considering he always said this when they went out, once or twice a month since Erica, his last ex, had dumped him a few months ago. 

“Sure. But only for a little while.” 

Jim was already half-way out of her Impala when she said it. He turned to her. 

“The door will be unlocked.” 

He shut the car door, darted towards his second story apartment. He had to piss, big-time. To his left, a couple of kids loitered in the central basketball court, burning herb, ignoring the white metal sign that forbade loitering. Not recognizing him, they tried to look menacing. They smiled when they saw him rush up the stairs to his apartment.

“Hey, Jim! What up?” 

“Same-o, same-o! Got to piss...” 

They laughed, resumed their toking. He chuckled, remembering his toking days, a few years past. 

Door unlocked, he ignored Quimper’s startled feline gaze as he rushed towards the bathroom. King Mob, his black fur contrasting with Quimper’s conjoined calico shades, didn’t even look up. 

Pondering his relationship with Maxine, Jim urinated into the toilet. 

The irony that he was wasting his time with her-­ they both knew they weren’t meant for each other-­ was not lost on him. Still, he felt responsible for her; he was bound to help her in this ambiguous, drug-punctuated time, even if she had helped wreck his relationship with Erica. His pallid cheeks flushed with anger at the thought, but he choked it down. After all, she loved him in her own fucked-up way. When he’d made that ill-fated trip to Spokane eight years ago, it was she who’d put a five dollar bill and a note reading “For food. Good luck. Love, M.” in his glove box. When he’d found it a few hours later, he damn near cried. 

The front door slammed and as Maxine entered the apartment. He kicked the bathroom door shut. Seconds later, the jingling buckle of her purse passed into the bedroom. 

Kurt Cobain’s sad “I wish I could eat your cancer” filled the spartan apartment, followed by the trenchant sonics of his bandmates. Without thinking, Jim bobbed his shaved head to Nirvana’s cacophonous rhythms. 

He washed and dried his hands before locking the front door. When they’d lived together seven years ago, she’d constantly neglected to do this; as rough as their neighborhood had been, it was a foolhardy foible. 

Some things never changed.

When he entered the bedroom, she was sitting on the edge of his bed. She’d kicked off her sandals, and was flipping through the latest issue of Maxim, its curvy cover model half-nude and snarling. 

“Anything interesting?” 

He kept his voice friendly, as he had for most of the evening. When Maxine was like this, it was easier to humor her. To force her to spit out what was bothering her would only drive her away. She would say what it was in her own good time, be it an hour or a month. He’d learned this the hard way, after several screaming battles, resulting in her saying embarassing things, often in public. He still winced when he remembered her yelling that she’d never had an orgasm-­ this, in front of their closest friends, after they’d been together for two years. 

“Not really.”

“I’m crashing. As you know, you’re welcome to stay here, do whatever you want.” 

She sighed, sounding less miserable than before. 

“I’ll crash with you, if that’s okay.” She cracked her second smile of the evening; her first had been when they’d decided to check out her movie choice-­ the one with David Duchovny-­ and go to the City. 

He returned her smile as he turned down the stereo. She slipped out of her jeans and started unbuttoning her blouse. He lit a candle, more out of laziness-­ he didn’t want to have get up if they needed light-­ and placed on the table next to his side of the bed, before shutting out the lights.

He stripped to his boxers and a wife-beater. The bed was cold when he slipped between the sheets; he watched her unsnap her bra, freeing her huge breasts. Then she joined him in bed, cuddling next him, her head on his chest. The familiar weight of her mocha-tinted breasts warmed his right side. 

He smiled. They were a fucked-up couple, but they slept, literally slept, well together. 

After a moment, she kissed him on the mouth, hooking a leg over his, her knee gently brushing his cock and balls. Her kiss became hungry, demanding, and he gave into it. Her hardened nipples brushed his chest, waking his desire even more. 

All thoughts of her leaving fled from his mind. He let himself drown in the moment, this curvacious, anonymous body pleasuring his own. He wouldn’t let himself imagine that it was Erica he was fucking: to do so would’ve invited unwanted sorrow. It was bad enough, knowing he’d lost her forever, all because of a foolish indiscretion with Maxine; this fact gutted him every morning when he woke up, often driving him to tears. 

His cock went limp. 

Maxine, noticing this, stroked him, never breaking their kiss. He gently pulled her hand away-- it was unlikely he’d get hard, given the drift of his thoughts-- and yanked Maxine’s silk panties over her rounded thighs. His thumb on her clit, he used to fingers to finger-fuck her. Her breasts bounced heavily in the candle’s faint light, his relentless ministrations staining his sheets. 

“Oh fuck, oh yess…” 

She buried her face in her pillow, as she lay on her side facing him. He wondered who she imagined she was fucking. She came hard a few minutes later, thumping the wall with one hand, her cries just as loud.

He removed his hand from her cunt, wiping his fingers on her thighs. If ever he had to remind himself that nine years had passed, he had only to look at her expanded thighs. He immediately bit back the thought, wincing. It was too unkind, even for a private musing. He’d never criticized a lover for gained weight, and he would not indulge such sentiments now. He hardly had room to talk: at thirty-two, he’d lost the lean figure of his twenties. It wasn’t anything that a dark shirt couldn’t disguise, but if he gained anymore weight, it’d be obvious. 

Maxine had taken to stroking his flaccid cock, licking its head. Irritated, he motioned her away. “It’s not happening, Maxie.” 

“Surely it doesn’t hurt to try.” Purred like an expert, he thought unkindly. Again, he mentally winced. Where was all this darkness coming from? 

“I want your cock buried inside me. Finger-fucks are good, but nothing compares to a hard cock.” She winked.

“We’ve been over this before. If I’m too tired, I can’t get it up, okay? Knowing this, I have to wonder why we even consider continuing this fuck-buddy relationship.” 

Her smile disappeared, replaced by her trademark inscrutability. “Because you’re easy,” she shrugged, looking him in the eye. 

Jim was floored. He’d had more than a couple of sex partners in his lifetime, but he’d never thought of himself as “easy.” What made it worse was she was just being honest. When she’d said it, there’d been no anger in her voice.

A second later, the shock wore off. Rage loomed.

“I think you should leave now.” He said this quietly, looking away from her. 

“Yeah, I was thinking that.” She dressed quickly, pausing at the bedroom door. She started as if to say good-bye, but instead she smiled weakly and left.

After he heard the front door slam, he got up. The bitch had forgotten to lock it again.

Copyright © 2002 Nikki Isaak. All Rights Reserved. May not be re-printed in any form without express written consent of the author. Do not copy or post.