The ragdoll drags her golden shoebox, in which she stores her soot and her mushrooms, across the floor of the basement. She needs a smoke. Marb Reds straight to the head. She’s got an idea for a movie where two lovers kill one another in bed, exchanging stabs wounds and deep kisses in the comfort of home. Their arms wrapped together, ready for champagne, ready for hot blood and then dark tunnels. “This is love,” she says.
“Well, all the things we love do turn to dust, so why not?”
The fake lumberjack is dying downstairs, he’s sick of the scene, of the ragdoll’s misery, and cigarette smoke. All that darkness gives him a headache and hunger pangs in his boots. Her frizz bothers him. It curls to the ceiling like dumb weeds. She wrote romantic things in old Valentine’s cards.
“Thank you for lugging me around all this time and lending me your mustache.”
There is a single freckle on her upper lip. If she were a movie star, it would be her trademark. There’s a mole in her belly button, too sensitive to touch. There’s a beauty mark on her breast and a dark bean on her elbow. She is becoming thinner every day. She remains in her ragged uniform: hooded sweatshirt, gray sweatpants. She sometimes wears a black smock, and in this, she is a shadow stepping from Auschwitz.
The green eyes of the ragdoll would glow against her freckles. She kept a cigarette in her mouth while cooking Thanksgiving dinner, mixing batter in a bowl, and taking drags from her Red. She could bake biscuits from scratch and roast butternut squash. She could twist the hitter into the green dust of the box while driving.
The lumberjack sighs in his flannel. “I’ve told you not to take me with you to pick up the shit.” She’s quick to forget, and he’ll remind her again.
During tender times, the lumberjack would outline the ladybug tattoo near her hip with his finger, and she would writhe a bit and move his hand. He wasn’t allowed to look at her fingernails for long. She would pull her hand away and hide the chewed stubs. She would rub her face into his facial hair and breathe deeply. She would sniff into his ear and feign disgust. They drank pots of coffee whenever they wanted.
He kicks a hole in the wall while sleeping. He jumps up in bed and she calms him, rubbing his chest, a spooked horse in its dark stable, a nightmare specialist.
“Your heart was beating so fast.”
He had violent dreams while in bed with her. Once, he dreamt of his mother falling down a flight of stairs, her shouting out in agony, her body tumbling, and breaking. He dreamt of the poodle Maltese being beaten, blow after blow landing in his white fur. He dreamt of stabbing a man hundreds of times in the chest, the red slits spilling over like full mouths. Each time, these dreams lingered like a foul odor, curling up into nostrils, speeding to his brain like a hot venom.
The lumberjack kept a knife by the bed, or a baseball bat, like dreamcatchers.
* * *
They met in summer. They met in the fire. Half of the first decade of the new millennium had passed. It was downtown, where packed trains came to unload their cargo. They sat together in empty parking garages. Soon, the lumberjack would disappear to Louisville for three days. There, he would roll away from Southern Belles who slid closer to him under blankets on the floor. He was prepared for love at home.
When he returned, Thursday nights were devoted to finding the ragdoll among the crowd. She would search for him too. They tipped their heads to the air like animals with a scent swirling in their noses. They held hands in front of drugstores and under trees surrounded by concrete. The lumberjack wrote his number on a slip of paper. She called.
They exchanged personal histories. He read pieces of short stories to her. She spoke of her bi-polar father and histhick Greek accent, her constipated mother living in Illinois, and Deacon the dog who was decapitated by the cops. There was Jew One and Jew Two who lived down the street.
They kissed for the first time folded together on her bed, her girlfriends giggling behind the door, her father sleeping. Zeus throwing down lightning bolts to him in his dreams. Their lips touched shy and new.
“I haven’t done this in awhile.”
“Me too.”
***
She tied together the flowers he gave her and hung them upside down on the wall. He took her from behind in the hallway. He trimmed his beard and saved the clippings in a sandwich bag for her.
***
“You’re going to break my heart, aren’t you?”
“Sometimes, I wish I would get hit by a car while walking home.”
She sent a slap across his face He threw the chair down. The mattress leaned against the wall. The framed photos and pillows were put away and the Christmas tree unplugged. The stomachs of the empty boxes growled.
