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She turned the tap off and dried his hand. “You don’t want to sleep with me, remember.”
He remembered. “Fuck.”
She kissed his hand and then pushed him. “Go sit down. I’ll serve up.”
He let her do that. She couldn’t mess up any worse than he had. He had to quit. He had to quit Rendel and quit Flick. He’d already quit Flick, but the fix wasn’t taking. It didn’t feel like he’d quit her when he still wanted her. He only wanted her because he’d had a shitty day. Like beer. He only drank through a six-pack when he’d had a shitty day. How many weeks till she was gone? He’d be sane again when she was gone.
“It was a bad day,” he said, when she put a plate in front of him. He’d forgotten to use the basil, and the cheese was black in places.
“Eat your chicken parm.”
He ate the chicken and drank the water she poured him. He wasn’t drunk so much as angry and confused. Angry and confused and pissed off and horny.
“You’re beautiful, Flick.”
She spluttered on a mouthful of water. “You are drunk.”
“No.” Loose, definitely. Careless, probably.
“You couldn’t say anesthetist.”
“Anesthetist.” The food had soaked up the alcohol.
“Lucky shot. Will you dance with me?”
What? “No.”
“Then I agree, you’re not drunk.”
“How is that a test? I danced with you on the table and I wasn’t drunk.”
“You stood there looking all brooding and anxious and let me strip you.”
“I swayed.”
She laughed. “I’ll give you sway.”
“I can’t dance, drunk or sober.”
“But you want to.”
“Like I want to fall off a mountain.”
“Oh, come on. You loved falling off the mountain. You got all bruised and splintery and it made you think about the things you really cared about.”
“It made me think about how I couldn’t care for you.”
She lowered her chin and puffed out air like she was deflating, and that was because he’d stuck a pin in her.
“Get out of that dress.” He needed her in something shapeless that didn’t advertise her body so well. “Put some new music on and I’ll dance with you.”
Her face lifted so slowly, she might be genuinely done with him and his foul mood and his disagreeable nature, his preemptory instructions.
“I know just the song,” she said.
Ten minutes later there was a snare drum, a woman singing about being left behind, and Flick in her yoga pants and a baggy top that hid nothing because he couldn’t look at her without knowing what she really looked like, angles and curves, tattoos and burns and places his hands, his hips fitted, places his lips wanted to be.
When the bass squalled, Flick stepped into his arms and old-school they swayed to the beat of the snare and a piano. It was a tight and restrained sound, the group called Haim. Sisters, she told him. The song was called “Right Now.” Nothing like the angry rock Flick had been listening to when she wanted to kick the world. The song
