Page 26 of Midlife Crisis

“You have my shirt.” The observation is snappy and sharp. She dangles my dress shirt from her finger by the collar, like it’s trash, like I am. I reach forward and rip it from her, hastily shrugging it over my head as it remains buttoned.

“Hank?”

“Time for me to go, right, cupcake?”

“Hank, this is so awkward for me.” She steps toward me, but I stand, my height towering over her. “I’m sorry about Elston. He isn’t supposed to be here.”

“Did he go to his room?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll let myself out.” My tone chills the air between us. I don’t reach for her. My fists curl into balls at my side.

“Why are you being like this? What did I do?” Her shrill voice cracks with strain, but the sound remains quiet enough not to give away that a man is in her house. I’m suddenly not feeling considerate.

“Can’t do something to nothing.” Fuck being somebody’s someone. It never works that way. She blinks, her eyes going wide and glowing like they did in the candlelight long ago. I’ll add it to the memories of women I need to forget.

“Hank?” She still doesn’t get it, but she doesn’t need to. I’m lost in my head because getting kicked to the curb is all too familiar for me. Sweat dots my brow. A distant need for a drink creeps through my bloodstream. Clutching at her chest, clasping the robe closed, she steps forward. She’s too close. “I don’t want you to go. Not like this.”

“This is the way it rolls.” I lie, my chest clenching. I step around her and leave while making as much noise as possible.

+ + +

We work Sundays. The garage is our church. Plus, it works best for our customers. I’m elbow deep in grease with my arms shoved under an engine when Chopper calls my name.

“Hank. Yo, woman’s here to see ya.”

What the fuck?

My first hope is Midge, but I can’t see her. I’m still too raw after the other night. I mean, I came like I’ve never come before, that I remember. I saw stars. My toes curled. But the sad thought is I can’t remember most orgasms I’ve had with a woman. Were they all as incredible as I thought with Kit? Or did I just build her up to be something, someone? Midge’s voice filters through my brain.

I want to be somebody’s someone.

Me too, I think.

Midge made me feel this way for a few minutes. She had this effect on me. I don’t fault her kid for coming home—I recognize she couldn’t help it—but I am disappointed. However, being in her bed wouldn’t have been the best way to meet her child. Midge is a lady, not some hussy taking guys to her bed with her kid in the next room. She’s good, and clean, and smells sweet—not smoky, and musty, and used like rock chicks can be. Like Kit could be. I realize leaving was all on me. I overthought, and I sigh as Chopper calls my name again.

“I’m coming,” I bellow, the double entendre not lost on me. My head screamed it while I filled a condom enough for it to leak. Midge did that to me. My heart races as I’m suddenly hoping it is Midge here to see me.

I cross into the lobby and stop short.

“Stephie?”

“Hey Hanky. Haven’t seen you around for a while. Then we crossed paths at the party. Thought I’d track you down. See if you were up for a hit.”

Shit. I don’t need this kind of thing here. Her here. Why can’t history leave me alone lately? “I don’t do that anymore.” I scrub at my scalp, forgetting about the oil on my fingers. Stephie’s nose scrunches as she takes in my dirty hands.

“Just one little hit. I’m good for it.” She steps closer, and my life flashes before me. Kit. Her needs. Her way of getting me to do things.

“I’m not on that path anymore.” My hands shake. Her face pinches again, but she reaches for my belt, curling her fingers inside the waist.

“Hanky, please,” she purrs. Her pouty lips are too red. Her eyelids layered in bright blue powder. I can’t even describe what she’s wearing because it hardly covers anything. Did I fall for this before? Did I fuck Stephie when she wanted drugs from me? When I had drugs in me? I tremble with the thought or, rather, lack of memory. Maybe?

“Look, I’m sorry. I’m not into that anymore. I can’t even tell you who is.” This goes against my training. I should be helping her like I’d help some kid at the center, but Stephie is too close to me, to my history. Some people I can’t help. It took me a long time to realize that—in both others and myself.

“Not you, too?” she whines. “Look at Tommy. Now, you. Denton will be next. What happened to all of you?”

Mentioning our old mate, who refuses to speak to either of us, stabs my gut.