By Frank Carellini
they undressed methodologically. unprovocative. like they were about to examine each other for lumps. folding his clothes neatly into rectangles. those worn brown chinos. the chambray button down shirt with underarms that smelled with years of his bitter sweat. sweat that at one time, attracted her. she used to liken it to “my salty Mediterranean man that smells like the rind of a lime.” where that man went, neither of them knew. the fauvist views of succulent fruits clinging to branches above a sparkling sea are a lifetime removed. she, folding her jumper into a square that ballooned at the edges. never had a penchant for perfection. their bodies were cold and clammy as they came into mutual embrace. they tried to make love. tried pressing the atoms of their bodies into some form of miracle. paused at each others lips, not moving, but waiting for some sort of momentum to build. nothing. barely air passed between them. they tried in the kitchen. in the bathroom. on the couch. looking around at the set of japanese steak knives, the Breville, a distressed velvet ottoman. as if to put the blame on them for lack of ambiance.
checking into The Schofield. Corner suite (always wondered what it looked like). Lots of mirrored surfaces. their bodies moved like lava in a lavalamp from one distorting surface to another. two beds. weird, he forgot to request one king. lots of vague objects. a miniature Calder mimic. she put pressure on one pendant. let it ricochet. watched it ease back into balance. then into stillness. the lack of its optionality into a chaotic form was upsetting. couldn’t be broken. he went into the mini-fridge. two bottles of tonic. little bottle of bombay. grabbed glasses from the desk. they had a nice weight. a weight that felt official. called for ice. and a lime. two thank yous and a $10 tip later, he mixed them a drink. thumb stung from the lime juice. she was sitting on the edge of her bed. patting her skirt. she wore that perfume. he sat at the desk chair. swiveled around to cheers her.
“i used to wear a beret.”
“and smoke cigarettes.”
“i once knew Yves Klein. he asked me to be one of his brushes.”
this went on. the days in montmartre. maybe it was true. he was no Yves Klein. he could see it. her body draped in that ultramarine. being spread across a canvas. the gushing figures materializing on canvas.
this aroused, then irked him. didn’t dr. muchlenbach teach her not to bring french painters to romantic getaways.
he downed his drink. she hadn’t touched hers. the ice had melted and it looked diluted. he went and sat on the bed opposite hers. turned the tv on. Joe Rogan’s Fear Factor, Couples Editions. the programming at this place was meant to keep things spicy. she sighed and got up off the bed, placing the drink down on the desk. walked by him without any acknowledgement. he heard the bath turn on. ran for a while. this episode, contestants had to stand on top of a moving vehicle and grab flags as they sped by a set of markers. she, in a bathing suit (why were they always in bathing suits) and he, a muscle shirt, cutoff jean shorts. after they win first place, they’d go back to their trailer and have mind-blowing sex. maybe the exercise the entire kama sutra. this irked, then aroused him. annoyed at the thought of an erection through jean shorts. felt like an insult. the faucets turned off with that creak that the old guard turnstile knobs made. he could hear her swishing around. sitting up. falling into the water. now she was rolling onto her stomach and back. now she was—
the second task was a water one. one of the team would be submerged underwater. the other would have to crawl through a tunnel of roaches to find a key. the key opened the tank and let the water out. jean shorts muscled through the tunnel. even ate a roach for style points. bathing suit floated glamorously in the tank. did a twirl to the right, then to the left, then winked at joe. then to the camera.
drive home was eventless. across the bridge. down the parkway. Nicholas greeted them at the door. Said something about the dogs behaving well. they sat on the couch. he turned on the tv. maria appeared from the linen closet with a “miss, the blue does not come out of your underwear.” she blushed.
“I used to wear berets.” she uttered. “and smoke cigarettes.” she was speaking to a void. he went to the refrigerator. took two bottles of tonic. he put ice into his. lime into hers.
Frank Carellini was born in Connecticut in 1993.