Chapter 57
— Chapter 57 —
On that night, in his office, Charlie starts a pot of coffee. Tells me a story about a time in college when he was very drunk and went cow tipping for a fraternity prank. His roommate fell in a pile of shit. Not Charlie. His roommate. I see the story in my head as he talks, and I feel like the roommate and maybe the cow. I know I’m supposed to laugh, because Charlie thinks his story is funny, but I don’t. I can barely breathe. I want the coffee. The fancy contraption in the office kitchen is percolating, scent wafting down the hall. I keep telling my body to move and it won’t, like someone has disconnected my wires. I’m stuck on the leather couch in Charlie’s office. I have hope that coffee will fix me, and my legs will work, and I’ll call a cab. But then I lose time. Can’t trace it. Charlie’s breath is like the inside of his scotch glass. He’s too close. He’s so heavy. My head hits the armrest. His shirt is starched, and when it crinkles, it sounds impossibly loud. Time keeps disappearing. I’m gone and back and gone again. My damp skin sticks to the leather. The palms of his hands feel like leather too. His zipper bites my thigh. I think about the seat belt buckle in my car pressing into my side and long for that pain instead: a sore spot I’d carry in my ribs for a day or two, and then it would be gone.