Summer Nights
A short story about frustration, stagnation, and imperfect relationships.
It takes twenty minutes to bike home from work. Normally takes half an hour to get to work, but by the time I leave it's four in the morning, and it's easier to dodge around drunks than cars.
In the summer, the bike ride home is the best part of my night. Yeah, partly because it means I'm done my shift and don't have to deal with drunk idiots yelling at me to bring them more beer, but mostly because of how it makes me feel. When you're stuck running around for eight hours carrying food and beer from a sweltering hot kitchen to an equally hot patio, you build up a bit of a sweat. Then there are all the drunk girls with lowered standards asking for your number, and the guys trying to downtalk the big, bulky bull and make themselves look like tough shit.
So when the sun's down and you get those few minutes of wind cooling your sweaty fur while you're riding away from the noise and stupidity, it's nice. Real nice.
Generally by the time I get home, my mind has settled into a comfortably tranquil and numb state. Sure, my muscles are still aching, but they aren't covered in a layer of sticky, hot sweat. My ears are ringing from all the noise, but the thrum of bike tires on pavement and the soft clinking of the chain have taken most of the edge off. It's easy to lock the bike up to the bus stop out front and stumble up the three flights of stairs to our apartment.
I always try to be quiet when I sneak through the door. I honestly do my best. Unlock the door, open it just wide enough for me to slip through without making the hinges squeak, and slip out of my shoes. I walk across the floor, dodging creaky floorboards with familiarity that only comes from months of practice. Past the kitchen, either grimacing at the dirty dishes or thanking him silently for getting them done before bed.
Then it's into the perfect silence of the bedroom. Assuming I haven't screwed up and tripped over something by then, he's generally still asleep. I step gingerly over dirty laundry and the occasional empty mug or glass. All the while, I'm popping buttons and pulling down zippers with the delicacy and care of somebody diffusing a bomb. I can only just make out the silhouette of his body on top of the blankets, softly rising and falling with his breaths. Rhythmic; he's still asleep. Good. My sweat-soaked clothes join the pile already on the floor.
It's normally right after this that things go wrong. Sometimes I'm so distracted by seeing him that I forget where the nightstand is and stub my toe. Other times it's a soft sigh of relief at thinking that I've finally managed to sneak in without waking him up. Most of the time, though, it's the simple dimpling of the mattress as I slide onto it.
Regardless, at some point he wakes up. Every time. He doesn't immediately jump up or anything. No, never anything quite so obvious. I can never even tell he's awake until he rolls over towards me. Those big eyes look over at me, and I look back into them. I can smell the cigarette smoke on his spotted fur, leaking out into our bed sheets through his sweat. I always used to assume that the heat-adapted creatures, like cheetahs, would be able to handle the heat better. A few summers spent nuzzling against those teardrop markings at the corners of his eyes and feeling the slickness in his fur have taught me otherwise.
The conversation always starts the same. How was work? Same as always. Any hot girls fall in love with me tonight? Of course, how could they not?
We lapse into silence after that, simply lying there in the bed looking at each other through the darkness. We breathe in the smell of each other's fur: the sting of nicotine in his, the reek of beer and deep fried food in mine. Oppressive heat fills the room, stifling us and seeming to throw a blanket over the smells to trap them in close to us.
Sometimes it ends like that, with both of us falling asleep. Other times, though, we start talking again. Maybe I'll open up and tell him about having to clean throw up out of the bathroom; maybe he'll tell me about how late the shipment was today, or how the rest of the guys were still hung over so he had to load everything into the warehouse on his own.
I dread and look forward to the times when we keep talking. It never really goes anywhere good. At some point or another, the frustration and exasperation leaks through into my voice. He tells me it won't be much longer, and I tell him that that's what we've been saying for years. Just a little bit longer. Come the fall, he'll be back in school and my hours will get a bit more normal. We'll see each other more often, I won't be tired all the time.
He'll finish his degree. He'll get a job and we'll move out of this fucking student ghetto. I can go back to school and finish my degree then, or just be a stay at home, or do whatever the hell I want. I won't have to deal with drunk, belligerent customers, incompetent bosses, and homophobic co-workers.
At some point, he starts apologizing. I tell him not to. He's still sorry and feels guilty, though. It was always the agreement; I would put him through school first. Better odds of him getting a job with an engineering degree than me with a fucking English degree. This was my choice, and I'll live with it.
I can't make him see it, though. And I'll admit it: sometimes I like thinking that he feels bad about how things are going. Maybe he should feel bad that I'm putting myself through hell, putting my entire life on hold so that he can follow his dream. It isn't fair when I think that. I know how much sleep he loses and how he drives himself insane during the school year to make up for it.
At some point we wind up pushed together, me rubbing my muzzle into his fur and ignoring all the sweat. His hands wind up holding and rubbing my arms, always seeking out and tracing along the outlines of my scars. We might kiss once or twice, but that's as far as it goes. During the summer, it's rare for either of us to have the energy to do anything really intimate. Too hot, too frustrated, too... dead.
It doesn't matter. The fights about chores; his empty promises to quit smoking; the times when I just go quiet and won't talk to him all day; how much I hate how rich his parents are and how fine he is with the toilet we live in; how frustrated he is that I'm ashamed of it. At four, five in the morning it all stops mattering. In those moments, in those long, quiet moments, all that matters is that there's somebody that cares about me. I can never tell him this, but I need him for that. I need to know that somebody would notice if I just disappeared tomorrow, that somebody would look for me.
Maybe that's the only thing we really have in common. Maybe I only stay with him because I'm afraid of losing that and of being alone.
Maybe he needs the same thing.
In those moments, though, it doesn't matter. He cares about me, and I care about him.
That's all that's important.