New place’s washer/dryer was busted. Had to go to the Laundromat. It was bright inside. Cloying fresh linen smell. Stray detergent bottles stoking bad memories. I loaded in, stepped out to a stark black night, faced down the strip. Nodded out to the skittering storefront neon beacon. Probed my jean pockets for warmth. Left pocket: lint, crumpled receipts, encrusted loose change. Sleeping companions for me and the frameless mattress. The other: beater folding knife with a three-inch blade, occasionally howling like a baby with fever. The failsafe. Absolve yourself of the greatest mess you’ve made, the ensuing nothingness. And after? Cleanup? It would be easy. They have the materials.

      The night wind blew, snaked its way around buildings.

    A woman in my peripherals got closer, hobbled from across the street. She was grabbing her arm, cuts and bruises on her face. She spoke.

      “Do me a favor?”

      “Not sure I can be of much help.”

      “At least hear me out,” she said.

      “Guess I’m not going anywhere.”

    A thin stream of blood trickled down from her temple. She held herself and rubbed to fend off the cold. She had track marks on her arm. Cigarette burns.

      “You seem like a discreet person,” she said, “Maybe I can give you money. There’s these guys around the corner.”

      “You want me to buy drugs for you.”

      “Yeah.”

      “I don’t think that’s gonna happen.”

      “Why not? I’m good for it,” she said, producing a fistful of bills.

      “Not really my thing.”

      “Nice one. Fuck you then.” She turned to leave.

      “What happened? It’s their job to sell you shit.”

      “Guess they’re just bad at it,” she said, turning back. She flashed a bloody smile, doubled over, coughed wetly.

     I went inside and bought her a Coke from the vending machine, something to keep her awake. Tossed her a baby onesie I saw laying around so she could stanch the bleeding from her head. She refused an ambulance, just called a car, asked if I wanted to come with. I felt the night wind blow again and left my clothes in the cycle.

 

I’m at her place, further up the city with the nicer Victorians. I’m drawing a bath as she disrobes, silently groaning. Her entire torso is layered with dark bruises, like she’d been run over by a car. Some blood drizzles on the tile. She carefully takes off her underwear.

      “Are you shocked,” she says.

      “Not at all.”

      “Well. Most people are.”

      “Did those guys do that to you?”

      “This would be me, when I was sixteen or seventeen,” she says tracing the bumpy scar tissue.

      I help her to the tub. Antique claw foot. She stumbles. Her head wound is worse up close. Steam rolls off the water surface. She gasps as she gets in. Dirt and blood billows.

      “Been in and out of the psych ward until I was in my mid-twenties.”

      “I’m sorry,” I say.

      “Whatever. Everyone’s sorry.”

      “Regardless.”

      “Just don’t fucking call 911.”

      “We’re square.”

      “Promise?”

      “I just met you but sure.”

      “Doesn’t matter anyhow,” she said.

     Bathroom bulb hum. Mirror fogging up, faint scrawl of past notes. Cartoon devil horns at approximate head level.

      “Took a wrong turn somewhere, I guess.”

      “What about you, when did you take your wrong turn?”

      “I don’t remember,” I say.

      She coughs, wipes blood from her mouth. The bathwater ripples. I start to ask if I can do anything for her but she stops me.

    “It all worked out. I was going to shoot it up all at once,” she says, “That was everything I had but my money’s no good. Assholes.”

      “They really are very bad at their jobs. Money’s always good.”

      “It’s yours if you want,” she said, “on the bed.”

      “I’m not going to take your money.”

      She grows more agonized in the water.

     “I let one of them feel me up. Got him wound up for months. I wasn’t what he thought at all,” she laughs, “Matters of the heart or cock or whatever. Fucks with business. Kills their dream of you eventually.”

      “I get it,” I say.

      “Do you look at me any differently?”

      “No.”

      “My beauty tarnished?”

      “No. You look good.”

      “Why did you come here,” she asks.

      “I don’t know.”

      She shudders and slurs her words, “Don’t call them. Please.”

      “I won’t. I promise.”

      “I don’t want to wake up.”

      We sit for a moment. Gentle lapping of water.

      “How do you feel?”

      “Freezing,” she says, trembling. I offer my hands and she takes them, looks at me, “I think you’ve always been sad. Don’t be sad.”

      “I’m not. I’m not anything.”

      My mind wanders off and I dream.

    When I wake up her hands are still gripping mine. They’re cold. The water is lukewarm and tainted. I carefully pry the fingers off and head back for my clothes.