Dirty Law

The man eyed the gun and returned his gaze to me. All sharp edges and muscles, he was handsome—if you’re into assholes, that is.

“I’d like to take you out,” he said.

“Are you insane?” I nearly dropped the gun at the unexpectedness of his request, but held firm. Was it possible that I’d mentally snapped after seeing him? None of this was happening and I was actually living out my life in a mental ward.

He seemed to genuinely mull my question over before answering, “A little bit…maybe.”

I leveled my gun. “Well the answer is: No. Fucking. Way.” He didn’t seem the least bit perturbed by my cannon aimed at his nose. That bothered me. I mean, it was my only leverage.

He smiled a wry half-smile that, if I had been any other girl in any other situation, might have made me melt. I wasn’t any other girl, though. “My finger is slipping,” I warned. “It would be a shame to mar that pretty head with a bullet.”

“You think I’m pretty?” Folding his arms across his broad chest, he leaned against my doorframe.

“I think my trigger finger is getting tired,” I spat.

He kicked off the door. “All right, I’ll leave for now, Miss…?”

I shook my head, aim still steady. “None of your fucking business.”

He nodded, mulling over my response. “Sounds French.”

“It’s not.” What was this guy’s deal? Get the fuck out already. I gripped my gun for emphasis and he winked and turned around. I waited until he had disappeared down the street to slam the door. My heart was racing. Sweat prickled the back of my neck. The stranger was all I could think about. He was ridiculously handsome, but he was more than that. He was intimidating. Like a movie star gone rogue. I didn’t know if I was afraid of him or utterly beguiled. In the end, I went with completely disgusted.

The tea kettle sounded, its high-pitched whinny bringing me out of my fugue state. I ran into the kitchen and pulled it off the stove. As I finished pouring the hot liquid into my cup, I remembered Raskol was still outside. I walked back into the room and opened the screen door.

Lying on his side and completely tuckered out, Raskol didn’t even lift his head when I opened the screen door.

“Some guard dog you are,” I muttered before turning back to get my tea.

After the coffee shop douche left, I spent most of my afternoon and evening dry heaving, sobbing, and throwing things against the wall. When 10 pm rolled around, I threw on my makeup—war paint against the cruel world—and went to work as if I was a normal human being. Inside I was crumbling like ancient ruins.

I crawled back into my apartment at the butt crack of dawn and had been in bed—well, on couch—ever since. I will stay on the couch forever. Couch is my new home. I will live and die in fluffy pillow perfection. When they come to retrieve my body they will say… Well, I don’t know what they’ll say. And who cares. Because I’ll be dead. I’ll have died among my people: the pillows.

It was around two in the afternoon, the only reason I knew that being the paper delivery. And seriously, who still gets a paper delivered? I had tried over and over again to cancel, but no luck. I didn’t give a shit what the paper said. I knew it was all lies, and I got my lies the way all millennials do: the internet.

With my head firmly planted on the pillow, I breathed in dust mites and stale shampoo. I really needed to wash my fucking sheets. And hair. And body. Okay, I needed to wash everything. To my left, Raskol had taken up half of the pillow, his snoring a clear sign he was also okay with the plan to spend the rest of our lives there on Planet Couch.

Despite my dirty sheets, Couch felt like a safe place. On the rectangular safe haven, I felt like I was buoyed against the world. A raft just floating away from all the bullshit.

I sighed, turning over to face the ceiling. Despite how wonderful a notion it was to just stay on Couch forever, I knew it was impossible. Mainly because I had to pee. That gnawing urge in my lower gut reminded me that the world kept revolving, and I had to revolve with it. Even if I really didn’t fucking want to.

Two

I got into the habit of following him. Maybe that meant something inside me had cracked and I was insane now, or maybe that meant I was the sanest one in the city. After all, I was the only one who saw him for what he was: rotten, dirty, and utterly corrupt. Still, I couldn’t help but remember the saying “If everyone’s insane, then you’re the mad one.”

Shrugging it off, I followed him as he walked into a relatively low-key restaurant. I noted it was odd because he always ate at higher class establishments. I didn’t take too much time to ruminate on the fact, though, because at least it meant I could follow him inside.

When he ate at high-end places, it meant my tail stopped at the door. Most days I looked like a wet rag, wrung and hung out to dry. Fancy restaurants only let rags hang in the back with other rags.

I slid in the door, took a seat facing his back, and thanked my waitress for the menu. The glass of water she gave me was slightly dirty; a faded lipstick stain kissed the glass. I ordered a basket of fries so she would leave me alone for a bit and settled in, my face obscured by the drink menu.

“Well I can’t see why I would support that.” His nasally voice drifted to my ears. I perked up, trying to hear more. “A lot of my constituents have cancer or friends and family with cancer, and that drug would help them. Unless you have something that would make me change my mind…” It was no secret that politicians took bribes, but hearing the conversation occur so casually over cheap food and dirty dishes was nauseating.

“We have our reasons for needing the drug stopped.” The voice that spoke next stopped my heart. My menu nearly slipped from my grasp as my palms grew sweaty. It couldn’t be…could it? I looked over my menu to see the owner of the voice. It was him—the other him—the guy from the coffee shop, the one who had asked me out. I knew it, I just knew the guy was an asshole. Clearly th

e fucker had asked me out because he worked for him.

Clearly he wasn’t done with me.