Apology by Jon Pineda (good novels to read .TXT) 📗

going to call her in at any moment, so I knew now would have to be my chance.

I stood up.

Maybe I startled her. I think I startled myself more. I was going to say it, whatever it was. The words, I guess. I swear I was going to say them. But my throat burned, the words glowing like embers.

I realized I was crying. I was trying to speak but nothing would come out. She, on the other hand, was patient with me. Maybe she was confused. She waited for me to say something. I don’t want to say I found this confusion comforting, even though I did. It made it easier that she didn’t know. That she would never know.

There, I said it.

I hope you can understand why I’m not sending this to you.

There is no you.

Respectfully,

Mario Guzman, M.D.

The neighbor’s cat, a gray tabby, had a sizeable piece out of its left ear. It pawed at the glass again. Mario could hear its claws click and then catch on the frame of the sliding door. He knew he should never have started feeding it when he had.

“Shoot him,” she said.

He could smell her breath. Ancient and sweet, like figs. Her lips were still colored from the wine. He pushed gently on her chin, trying to close her mouth, and she made a face, as if the touch alone had hurt. She turned onto her side.

“It’s a girl, by the way,” he said.

She said nothing.

Mario climbed out of bed and stood there, his nakedness held by the dim light. He stretched before reaching for his boxers. For the first time in a long time, he had nothing to do for the day.

“Make coffee,” she said.

“I’ll think about it,” he said.

Just outside his bedroom were the den and the patio door. The Elizabeth River. The cat, wide-eyed, was tapping on the glass. It looked as if it had trapped a fly and was now about to kill it properly.

“I’m not happy with you,” he said, sliding the door open. The cat cocked its head. It sniffed at the air like a dog. When the cat entered the house, it did so slowly, almost begrudgingly.

In the kitchen, the cat rubbed its body along the trash can. Back and forth, like a bow across a string, the grating noise almost building into a note.

“I smell it too,” he said. He wiped at his eyes.

A plastic container held the remnants of lump crabmeat; the rest of the dried pieces were stuck along the inside of the trash bag. His last girlfriend, Tammy, had been so meticulous. The container would have gone through the dishwasher at least once, and then into the recycling bin.

On a shelf in the refrigerator, Mario found the wrapped plate. The last crab cake. The cat wove in and out between his legs. He pulled off the plastic wrap and set the plate down.

“You want to hear something funny, Queequeg?”

The cat made raspy noises as it chewed. It stared at the floor as if concentrating. The coffee pot was just finishing.

“Who are you talking to?” Janet said.

She wore one of his shirts, buttoned halfway. Her tangled black hair was pulled to one side. She had brought her chunky glasses this time, had smuggled them in her small purse. She looked like a librarian who had just survived a tornado.

“What?” she said. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” he said. He reached down to pet the cat. It hissed at him. He didn’t move, waiting for the wet sandpaper of its tongue.

She stepped around them both to get to the coffee. “You take cream and sugar, right?” She searched for the container of sugar.

He didn’t answer her.

On the side of the refrigerator was a hanging calendar. He saw his uncle’s name, a penciled-in X, and the time they had planned to meet written carefully underneath.

She asked him something. Already he could feel himself losing the words. Tammy, at least, had lasted longer. She was prettier, too. She had managed to move in for a while before it had become too much.

“I don’t really know much about you, do I?” Mario said.

She looked at him.

“What?” he said.

“I could say the same thing.”

“Your favorite book.”

“Excuse me?”

“Your favorite movie then?”

“Are you okay?”

“I was just wondering these things,” he said.

She stirred her coffee, then slowly slipped the tip of the spoon in her mouth. She looked at him, wanting him to notice, and closed her eyes. He felt idiotic.

“Manhattan.”

“I don’t believe you,” Mario said. He was serious. “You must have dated a guy in college who made you watch that film. Am I right?”

“Why are you talking to me like this?”

“But am I right?”

She ran the spoon under water and placed it into the empty sink. She took a sip and studied his face. She smiled.

“Then tell me your favorite part,” he insisted.

“Are you serious?”

“See, I told you. Admit it. There’s no way that’s your favorite movie.” He was pleased with himself.

“Maybe it’s at the end when Isaac, the Woody Allen character, realizes he made a mistake breaking up with the girl. He suddenly leaves his apartment. He’s decided to go see her, to win her back, but there are no cabs in sight. Nothing for him to take. He’s desperate, just starts running down the sidewalk. The camera follows alongside him. But he can’t keep up the pace. Eventually, he starts walking, trying to catch his breath. The camera slows down for him. It’s funny.”

“I don’t remember that ever happening,” Mario said.

“It did,” she said. “Then he starts off running again.”

He didn’t tell her then that he suspected the cat’s real owner wasn’t coming back. He had not seen his neighbor for some time; he thought perhaps the man, who looked to be around his own age, had been called up for deployment.

He had met the guy only once, at the end of West Freemason Street. Mario had just finished a run. He was cooling down, walking slowly as he passed