Spill
by Kerri Quinn
This guy, she can't remember his name, is on top of her, his bony hips digging into hers. Last night against the cool white bathroom sink he couldn't remember her name either, whispering baby, baby into her ear even though she told him it was Katherine with a K, not a C.
"I think it is supposed to rain today," she says to see if he's awake.
"Does it matter?" he says and turns on the lamp.
Her finger trails up his spine and stops at a scar, thick and raised, that runs east and west across his back. He shivers, and his mouth finds the edge of her earlobe and grazes it with his teeth. Her hips arch and she turns her head. There is a photo of a woman on the nightstand between a box of tissues decorated with floating umbrellas, and a slim, green plastic cup. The woman is cute with dark swingy hair and bangs. She sits in the center of a large red tea cup about to twirl out of view.
He moves his face, nose pressed against her check. His breath is damp, and tastes like lime. She feels like the inside of a seashell, hollow and windy, and wonders whose side of the bed she's on. He pushes himself up on his forearms and rolls off. Pulling the sheet up to her chin, she stretches her legs and sighs. "Who is the woman in the picture?"
"My significant other," he says, and reaches for his watch on the nightstand. His hand brushes against the green cup and knocks it over, spilling water that puddles around the photograph.
"Is she otherly or utterly significant?"
"What are you saying?" His back is to her as he steps into a pair of khaki pants and turns around. "She works the night shift at Piggly Wiggly, wants to be a lawyer. I don't know how we'll pay for it."
"I want to be a ballerina or a flamenco dancer, I haven't decided yet."
He picks up her clothes, puts them on the edge of the bed and tells her to get up.
"Or an opera singer," she says as he leaves the room. "There's no time for coffee," she murmurs. "I have to go." She pulls her skirt over her thighs, slings on her sling back shoes. The alarm clock on the dresser clicks on. A radio announcer says that the clouds are heavy and there is a slight chance of rain.
"I told you," she says and picks up her purse from the floor.
"Are you ready?" he calls from the other room. The front door makes a sucking sound as it sticks to the molding before it opens.
"Just a moment." She pulls a few tissues from the box, picks up the photograph, and wipes the water away. "Ready," she says and wonders where she left her umbrella.