WHAT DO YOU DO?
by James Francis Flynn


I know I shouldn't be doing what I'm doing but I'm doing it anyway.  

I'm going out to the bar with the boys, and I know something will happen tonight, but I don't know what
and I don't know with who.  But it beats hearing my baby scream and throw food all through dinner, so I 
say fuck it, text my wife that I'll be working late and head towards downtown after work, straight to the bar.

**

She's another in a packed crowd, nodding her head to the music.  J.T. points her out to me and she's 
damn cute and I'm a little drunk at this point, so I make my move over there and start in with the 
20 questions:

Question: Hey, how are you?
Answer: Fine, thanks.
(Keep going.)

Question: Can I buy you a drink?
Answer: Yeah, sure.
(Good.)
  
Question: Can I sing you a song?
Answer: Do what?
(Scratch that.)
  
Question: What are you having?
Answer: Gin and tonic.
(That's just disgusting.)
  
Question: Do you want to get a booth?
Answer: Sure.
(Fuck yeah.)
  
Question: My name is Mike, what's yours?
Answer: Jill.
(Nice name.)
  
Question: What do you do?
Answer: I work at an architectural firm, where I am a...
(Blah blah blah.)
  
On and on like this for a while until we've had too many drinks and she's talked too much and I've
smoked too much and it's closing time.
  
**
  
So she says your place or mine?  I say yours and I get my coat and take her arm.  We walk a couple 
blocks to her place and go inside and immediately start kissing without even closing the door first.

She stops for a second and says do you want something to drink?

I say yeah, but not a gin and tonic.

She shakes her head and laughs a little laugh.  She kisses me again quick then goes into the kitchen.  
I sit on the couch, kick up my feet on the coffee table, put my arms behind my head and wait for the drink, 
but I hear a crash as she drops a glass she was trying to get down from the cupboard.
  
I go in to help her clean it up, but as I'm picking pieces up off the floor, I cut my finger a bit on the glass.  

Oh shit.

She looks at my finger and the drops of blood and the glass on the floor, and she stops trying to clean up.  
She sits down on the floor with her back against the dishwasher and she laughs and I laugh too, but 
there's blood on the floor and she's going to regret that tomorrow.

**
  
She says so in that particular way; I put my hand on the small of her back with one finger in her 
belt loop and I lead her to her room.  The room is clean and she has three pillows on her bed.  She takes off 
all her clothes and I take off all mine and then I'm touching her hair, I'm kissing her lips, I'm grabbing her 
tits, I'm putting my hand between her legs, I'm going inside of her, all of that.
  
She says don't stop don't stop don't stop and I don't stop, I keep going and then it's over and that's that.
  
I roll off from on top of her; she goes into the bathroom.  I lay there for a second, listening to the sound of 
her pissing with the ceiling spinning above me.  Then I pull all the covers over my body and curl into the 
fetal position.

She comes back in, silhouetted by pale light coming through the windows.  She's wearing a dirty bathrobe, 
glasses on now, her blonde hair up in a pony tail.  

Good-night, she says, then goes into the living room and turns on the TV.  

I think I'm already asleep.

**
  
I wake up the next morning thirsty, wondering where I am.  I get my clothes from up off the floor and dress quickly.  
As I leave, I see her sprawled out on the couch, the TV still on with the sound muted, her bathrobe partially open.
  
I walk a couple blocks back to my car and drive home.  On the way home, I reach into the glove-box and get my 
wedding ring from under the insurance and registration cards and an old ticket.  I slide the ring back on, careful 
not to break the scab from the cut on my finger.
  
I get home to an empty house, since my baby is at day-care and the wife has already left for work.  The digital 
clock on the night table in our room says 10:13.  I take off all my clothes and call in sick for work then go vomit 
in the sink.
  
I am still a little drunk as I look at my face in the mirror above the sink.  It looks like someone else's face in
the mirror, all drooping eyelids and fleshy neck and puffy cheeks.  My face looks too old in the mirror.  I am hoping
it is just the mirror.