A Mouthful of Silence

Ryan T. King

“uh
said the man to the lady
uh
said the lady to the man she adored”
—Pixies, “Hey”

To live in a city, any city, it is assumed and expected that all inhabitants understand the rules and guidelines of common courtesy:

Co-Co ‘a Go-Go—the lacey pink script read. And below that, an image of a palm tree next to a Betty Page knock-off with her legs kicked out like opened scissors in the air.
Felix dragged his thumbnail up and down the strip of sandpaper at the bottom of the matchbook. The friction settled his nerves.
He waited in a temperamental rain shower without an umbrella. So far only sparse fat rain drops played leap frog on his head and shoulders every so often, but judging by the grim-wet surface that laced the city streets and the ominous clouds that hung low over the skyline, a reoccurring weather pattern was bound to come. He glanced in the same direction as the others that waited for the H-line bus. Then up at clouds that loomed overhead. Then—a woman with a yellow umbrella and slick turquoise boots turned the corner and joined the party.
Felix watched closely. He rubbed his nail against the sandpaper and relished the gritty feeling. Matchbook in hand, he went to her.
“Excuse me. You dropped this.”
She turned around and looked up at him.
“Clumsy me,”—nonchalant, without a surprise. She raised a brown gloved hand above his own and delicately lifted the matchbook away from him. The same silent and graceful way a crane can effortlessly draw a fish out of water. “Would you like one?”
Her hair was warm: orange, red, yellow—colors that manifest the heart of summer. It was parted and tied up in the back by a turquoise hair tie that accented not only her boots but also two clips that held her hair tightened at the sides. Two long tendrils of hair sprung from her temples and stretched like uncontrollable flames down the sides of her face.
“Would you like a cigarette?” she asked again.
“Yeh-yes,” he answered. “I mean no…. No, I don’t smoke.”
“To each his own.” She reached into the bag at her side, drew out a black cigarette, and placed it gently between her lips. Matchbook still in hand, she flipped the cover and struck out a match. He watched the flame illuminate her face before—puff—it went out.
Horn-rimmed glasses masked her eyes. A trio of lucid rhinestones built into the frames twinkled songs of sirens and uncharted waters. And as she inhaled the cigarette, burning embers reflected against the glass.
“Are those Black and Milds?” he asked.
“Yes,” she inhaled passionately. “Haven’t had one since breakfast. Here, take mine.”
“No. I still don’t smoke.” A perfumed pulse of tobacco darted out of her mouth in sharp stints and became one with the city. He took a small step back.
With each inhalation, her lip-gloss covered lips tightened and slowly quivered. Premature age spread from her thin lips in faint lines; they advanced, hidden behind cover-up in different directions on her face. They resembled the warped paint that cracks and chips on hand-painted antique dolls. Both terrible and lovely—the reason collectors collect.
She spoke softly: “Who gave you the matchbook?”

To live in a city, any city, it is assumed and expected that all inhabitants understand the rules and guidelines of public transportation:

Quinn craned her eyes at the man that gave her the matchbook. He had on a well fitted business suit. For the sake of casualness his collar was unbuttoned and the tie—the staple of the business man’s dress code—was no where in sight. Probably back with his briefcase in a car that cost ten times what she made in a year.
Inside the bus, the city streets were nothing but an imaginary world. The oily, slick residue, whether from recent water or forgotten stains, was omnipresent and faded all colors into one. As the roads continued, so did the slick. On top of immobile cars and sentry news stands. Street signs glossed without the effect of lights. And umbrellas flittered about like massive winged creatures, shielding the slick from hosting onto the city people.
But the shoes came in contact. Dress shoes, tennis shoes, running shoes, walking shoes, black shoes, and white shoes. Wherever they would move, the slick underneath would follow.
“What is your name?”
Quinn put her mouth close to her seat window and exhaled. A vaporous thick film spread slowly.
“Delilah,” she answered.
“Can I be frank with you?”
“Hi, Frank.”
“No, I mean…” he paused unprepared and gave a cheap laugh. “Yes, Frank.”
“Okay.”
“Do you mind if I ask you a question? It may seem odd.”
“Is it going to stop you?”
“Do you fuck for pleasure or do you fuck for love?”
“Keep your voice down.” A hush filled the empty space between them.
She watched as her leavings dissipated from the window. Outside, a small group of children bounded down the steps of an inner-city school. Little shoes were tied to their little feet.
“Fuck for love, of course.”
“Wrong answer.”
“Wrong?”
“Lovers can’t fuck. Lovers make love.”
She did not respond.
“Besides, you can’t fuck for love,” he continued.
She remained unperturbed.
“You can’t fuck for love. Fuckers fuck. Just like sheep fuck and dogs fuck. They do it to procreate and replenish. It becomes a necessity—a testament for survival. There is nothing behind it—in the past. Only in the future—”
She drew up her bag and searched inside.
“—then a new fucker is born. A fucker born by a fucker becomes a fucker—”
She pulled out a small red bottle and coughed to call his attention aside.
His words faded.
“You know what I meant,” she said calmly and put the pepper spray back in her bag.
Quinn looked ahead to the bodies on the bus, quaking in syncopated jitters—the rhythm of public transportation. A group of chattering teeth within a mechanical mouth.
She turned to him, daring to see how she might accost him. His body seeped down with his head directed at the floor. Both of his hands were raised at his head where his fingertips worked meticulously at his temples in small circles.
“Funny,” she said. “You look like some sort of new-age Catholic. Rather than praying, you’re worrying. Or is it one in the same?”
“I’m not worried.” His fingers stopped.
“Are you a cop?”
“What—” his head shot up and searched the bus. “A cop?”
“Yeah. Are you a cop?”
“Oh. Oh, no.”
“Didn’t think so.”
She sighed and looked out the window.
“How much further?” he asked.
The bus rounded past a corner store. “Not much longer.”
“My turn to ask a question,” she said.
His hands stopped moving.
“What do you do if you get a girl knocked up?”
“What if what?”
“What if you get a girl knocked up. Do you keep it or…”
“Or?”
“Or… send it down the river?”
“The baby? Do you mean get an abortion?”
“Yes.”
“Yes.”
“Yes?”
“Get an abortion. Yes.”
“It’s that easy?” she asked. “That simple to get away with?”
He nodded.
“And you’re fine with mutilating a mother and killing an innocent child? It’s practically murder.”
“Sure it is.”
“And you’re okay with that?”
“Yeah, why not? It’s no worse bringing a kid in than having him go out the hard way. No parents to abuse him physically or verbally. No expectations to live up to. No rules to obey. All life is is a series of calluses, bruises, and scabs. After a certain point we’re so dull and disillusioned, we might as well be dead.
“If anyone’s living the high life in this world, it’s the aborted babies. They go to heaven automatically and don’t have to deal with the shit we step in day after day. As Dicken’s might say, God bless ‘em all.”
“Do you really think so?” asked Quinn.
“Yeah, sure.”
“Are you a cop?”
“Why? Do cops talk about dead babies?”
“You’re strange,” she said.
“How so?”
“You talk.”

To live in a city, any city, it is assumed and expected that all inhabitants understand the rules and guidelines of entertaining company:

Felix was out of breath by the time they arrived at the door marked 87. He took off his jacket and slung it over his arm. Something he should have done before ascending the staircase. His brow glistened from the remnants of rain and clusters of sweat.
“Let me see it?” she asked.
His throat was dry, “Excuse me.”
“Are you a cop?”
“No.” A third time was enough to make anyone angry. “I’m not.”
“Then let me see the money.”
“How much exactly is it?”
“It,” she said, pushing her finger at his chest and letting it trail slowly down his front, “depends on what it wants.”
He took out his wallet from his jacket and thumbed out several hundred dollar bills. “I’ve got enough if you’re willing.”
“That’s all I wanted to know.” She turned around and unlocked the door. “I’ll be out of the shower in five minutes.” She flicked on a light and scurried inside before his eyes could adjust to the lighting. He heard a door snap to the left of him along with the sound of running water and was left alone in a strange complex.
The room was a typical studio apartment; one large room accompanied by a small bathroom. There was a small kitchen area equipped with a sink and refrigerator. Felix opened the fridge and found it dark, mildly warm, and lacking contents. He searched the cupboards for a glass to fill with tap water but found them just as barren.
He turned back to examine the rest of the room. Despite the buildings outside appearances, the room was well insulated but the air was musky and warm. Overhead hummed a faulty ceiling fan that spun slowly. He found the switchboard near the studio’s main entrance and tweaked the two toggles. The first one worked the light but the second gave no hint of function.
Delilah’s head popped out from the bathroom. Her hair was matted in dark wavy strands. “Can you stop flipping the lights on and off in here?”
“Sorry,” he said and flipped the switch back.
“You can put the money on the dresser.”
“How much?”
“A hundred per half hour and you can do whatever you like.”
“Whatever I like?”
“Yes. Try not to over estimate. Are you into toys?” She pointed to a three shelved dresser with a mirror fixture. “You can go through the drawers and see if you find anything you like.”
“I’m not into toys.”
“Fine but make sure to go through the jar.” On top of the dresser was a glass candy jar. “Be out in a jiff.”
He made his way over to the dresser and lifted the lid to the jar. Inside was a variety of condoms: flavored, glow-in-the-dark, lubricated, French ticklers. He grabbed one at random and placed it on the counter. When he pulled out the first drawer, several different colored dildos, a large metal vibrator, and two pocket pussys rolled around with the shifted momentum. He stared at the toys some while before shutting the drawer.
Felix placed his jacket on the desk and struggled to get his wallet out. The tie he wore earlier in the day came out with it in a bundle. He threw it back over his jacket to deal with later.
Two hundred dollars was enough. He slipped out the bills but remained fixed with his wallet open. In the photo sleeve was a wallet cut photograph taken three years ago of he and his wife along with their two year old son. He took the photo out of the sleeve and felt the grainy surface where his family was. Scrawled on the back was a message in red ink—Forever, my babes, forever.
“Is that your family?” Delilah asked.
Her voice caused him to stiffen. He did not hear her come out of the shower.
He turned around.
Her hair was still tied back as it was when he first met her. But her hair was the only feature familiar to him. She stood naked in unashamed beauty. Unaware of the brevity of her disrobement, Felix nervously shied away.
“Yes,” he said. “It’s my family.” He tried to refocus on something in the room, but it was too mundane to hold his concentration. Words came from his mouth at a loss to stabilize the present situation. “My son—he’s five now. He starts kindergarten next fall. I don’t know how that’s going to work since—” He stopped and choked on his words. Before he could help it, tears swelled at his eyes. “Well, things won’t be easy for him and all. I mean—well, I didn’t know my father at all and I grew up alright, so I’m sure he’ll be okay too—but…” The tears were too strong to hold back. “Oh, fuck,” he gasped. “Oh, fuck…oh, fuck…that…” he gasped again. “…that fuh-fucking bitch!”
Quicker than Felix and Alex’s first date, quicker than their decision to get married, quicker than the approval on the loan for their first house, quicker than the attempts to have a child despite the doctors worries, Delilah’s arms were around Felix and she held her skin against him. He cried harder and uttered repeatedly, “I hate her. I hate her.”
“So that’s why I’m here,” he said in a final exhausted gasp. “I give her my heart and my love and a child and some other guy gives her a new dick to play with and now I’m here. Tit for tat, that fucking bitch! Tit-for-fucking-tat!”
“Is that where I come in?” Delilah asked.
“Yes, that’s where you come in.” He pressed his mouth against her thin lips and draught the taste of Black and Milds from her breath. Their bodies crumbled over one another onto the cheap grey carpeting. His hands moved over her body aware of the unfamiliarity. His fingers trickled down her sides and stretched over the span of her stomach. He slowly moved down her midriff and felt a horizontal groove cut into the base of her stomach. He stopped and looked down. A faint but apparent line of soft pink skin was directly beneath his finger. “What is that?”
“It’s an old scar.”
“A scar? From what?”
“A c-section.”
“You mean you have a kid?” His voice was steady and thick.
“Yes,” she said. “Eleven years now.” She pulled his head back down so she could kiss him.
“And you still do this?”
“It pays the bills.”
He pulled back and said, “I need to get something.” He went back to the dresser and fumbled in the first drawer. He turned back where she waited for him on the floor. Her bottom lip was bit back as he starred intently into her eyes. He held the large metal vibrator at his side.
“Do you need me to show you how to work that?” she asked.
“No.”
“Come here and fuck me already.”
He knelt down over her naked body and said “Yeah, I’ll fuck you.”
Felix tightened his grip on the vibrator and brought the metal toy down against her face. Blood sprayed out on the carpet floor. Her legs twisted to push him off as she let out a low cry. The second blow knocked against her temple and she no longer moved. The third snapped her jaw out of place. The fourth came down on her chest. As did the fifth, the sixth, and the seventh.

To live in a city, any city, it is assumed and expected that all inhabitants understand the rules and guidelines of goodbyes and fond farewells:

Quinn could feel her own lung. She could feel it inside of her. They say God works in mysterious ways. So does pain.
Blood pooled in the carpet around her head. She shifted her twisted arm from beneath her and a sharp pain split against her ribs. She tried to scream, but all she could muster was a stagnant exhalation that floated weakly into silence. Pain resonated in her head and bloated her thoughts to the point of rupture. She brought her hand under her breast and fingered a sticky collection of blood around an open protrusion. A shiver of spasms tormented her and she pulled the hand away.
There was no sign of Frank. He was lost in memory—lost in his own marital problems. Tears cut the surface of her aging skin, warped her complexion, and fell down, mixing with the blood in the carpet. Pain, memory, loss. She moved her hand to the scar on her midriff. What a long time ago. Eleven years when the man in the blue robes and the funny blue shower cap and no smile came around. They did all they could do. Tried everything in the books. Dead. We deeply regret to tell you. Please, accept our apologies. Stillborn. We cut you to pieces. Please accept our apologies. Have a nice day.
The room was too quiet to cry any longer. She was too abused to cry any longer.
The ceiling fan no longer hummed.
She tilted her head upward to get a better look. Frank’s neck was strung in a noose bellow the fan, hanging by his business tie. She kept her head tilted up and stared intently at his glossy black business shoes.
A knocking came from the door. She tried to say something but recoiled and tasted blood. The knocking continued.
“This is the police,” a voice said from outside. “We received a call about a disturbance. Is anyone there?”
Quinn lay broken on the floor in the stirrups of Frank’s carnage. The room was no longer too quiet to cry.