Atavist: A Short Story

Atavist: A Short Story

Paydon Miller

Undergraduate/Political Science and Journalism  

 
The dim light poking through the shades woke him, a dull throb settling at the base of his skull. The figure next to him breathed quietly, occasionally snuffling in that detached way one does when in the middle of a dream. They had fucked again, so that was good, he supposed. 

Rolling out of bed, he pulled his underpants on, cursing the clock that reminded him he’d have to be at work in a little under an hour. It flashed at him indifferently. Another day, another dollar, olebuddyolepal. The floor chilled his bare feet, but succeeded in waking him slightly. The automatic coffee maker (A souvenir from three Christmases ago. May as well be thirty), snapped to life and he walked his way to the bathroom, massaging that knot in his neck that never seemed to leave anymore. 

(He should see a chiropractor. How much was a chiropractor?) 

As the water for his shower warmed, he studied himself closely in the mirror, evaluating his face and whether a shave was a necessity today. It was not. 

The shower reenergized him. Something about scrubbing the stink of a woman off of you made you feel new again, you know? He lingered a little longer than usual, letting the scalding water envelope his face and neck, letting the scent of Suave body wash and melon shampoo fill his nostrils. 

A knock at the door. “Roger,” the disembodied voice called. “It’s quarter to nine already.” 

Fucking cunt. 

He snapped the water off, his naked body chilled in the increasingly brisk autumn air. He wrapped his arms around himself for a moment, studying his naked body in the mirror. He stopped. 

A clamor from the kitchen, the tinkle of broken glass. Soft cursing. She always did have a mouth on her, didn’t she? He supposed that’s what had drawn him to her in the first place. He looked at himself again. The red around his eyes was a deeper shade than usual. He was forty-six years old, and goddamn if he didn’t look every day of it. The vanity light above his head flickered. 

As the smell of frying eggs filled the apartment, he stepped out of the bathroom. She stood at the stove, a Pall Mall dangling from her lips, wearing only an old work t-shirt of his. Marv’s Auto Repair…Family Owned Since 1929. The shirt clung to her body, stopping just above her knee. The neckline dipped treacherously close to her breasts. Her nipples showed through clearly. He was not aroused. 

A steaming cup of coffee waited for him at the table, and he was momentarily grateful. It warmed his body against the chilly air of the kitchen. There was a draft coming from somewhere, but he didn’t know (or care) where. 

The breakfast was eggs and dry toast. Tasteless. They studied each other from across the kitchen table. She fought valiantly to strike a conversation, but he found the silence to be a better companion than mindless small talk. Yes, he liked his food. Yes, he may have to work late again. No, he didn’t know what the weather was supposed to be like today. 

As he pulled on his jacket and laced up his shoes, she watched him. The question was obvious, but neither of them would ask it. They probably never would, and that was just fine with him. She handed him a brown paper bag, just like the one you always brought with you for lunch in elementary school. He nodded to her, and she to him, and he left. 

As he pulled out of his (their?) parking spot, he dared a glance towards the window. Sure as shit, there she was again, watching him – t-shirt (Marv’s Auto Repair…Family Owned Since 1929) still showing off her legs, Pall Mall still clinging to her lips. 

He saw the blinds close in his rearview mirror. Would she still be there when he arrived home stinking of sweat and motor oil? He didn’t know. 

But they had fucked again, so that was good, he supposed.