FAÇADE, 5
“Nothing,” I tell Ray. “Even if I talk to her, it’ll be about the day or her appearance, or I’ll laugh at one of her jokes, even if it’s not funny. But I won’t ever tell her a damn thing about me.”

The redheaded jogger reties her shoes and pushes her ear buds in. At sight of me, she smiles as she turns on her music, which I can hear clearly from my position on the bench. If I knew more about music, then I would have something to say. She stalls for a moment.

“Say anything, man,” Ray insists. “We’re all just people trying to be people.”

“It doesn’t matter,” I respond. “Even if she and I hit it off, she won’t ever know anything about me.” The redheaded jogger passes by, music seeping out of her ear buds, and I can’t peel my eyes off of her. She blurs into the sunlight somewhere beyond my view. “Ever,” I repeat for emphasis as I rise to my feet and jog after the redhead. 


Her name is Sarah or maybe Cara. Perhaps even Patricia. She’s the redheaded jogger from the park, and her hands roam along the fringes of my body. Nearly glued together, we stumble into my dark bedroom, spotlighted by the starlight peering in through the blinds. 

Both of our faces appear flushed in the idle television screen across from my bed as she pulls my head towards her and runs her hands over the right side of my face. I sink in for a kiss and entangle in the sheets with her.
After a quick snooze when we finish, I rub my head and look at Sarah, Lisa, Patricia, or maybe even Carol. The redheaded jogger who is deep asleep next to me, naked under twisted covers and dead to the world atop of tossed pillows. I stare up at the stucco ceiling until I pass out again.



​Into an unfamiliar bedroom, I carry two glasses of red wine, though I cannot recall ever favoring the sharp tongue of it over hard liquor or other spirits. ​
The floor distances itself from my feet, tunneling far below my toes. I realize my socks are the only thing I am still wearing, and between the falling floor and the crooked entrance to the bedroom, it’s obvious I’ve already drank my fair share.

Lucy, Linda, or Lexi – the redheaded jogger – awaits me, her bare nipples pressing against the silk sheets. Every fabric melts around her, as though it was designed for flattery and to compliment her figure from every angle.  I gesture the glass, but she shakes her head. 

Placing the glass on an end table, I slide under the covers next to her, socks still on. We toss and turn, never separating more than a few inches. She play-bites my lip over and over until it’s numb, and I grunt and bite back, although nothing about pain turns me on. Then I taste the saltiness of blood.

She’s pulling me closer. Sliding me towards her. I reach out for the side of the bed to grip on, but knock her wineglass against the brass-base lamp. Glass shatters.

The redheaded jogger smiles and reaches over for the largest shard of glass. My reflection, upside down on the pieces, glares back at me. 

Her grin draws wide as she lifts the shard high above her chest and plunges it down, lacerating her flesh until the glass thuds against bone. 

I’m falling off of the bed and convulsing. “Oh my god,” I mutter. “What?”

The redheaded jogger stares down at her chest, watching the red river stain the sheets. With a worried smile, she looks at me and asks, “I’ve really done it this time, haven’t I?”

Thwack! My back smacks against the cold tiled floor. 

What bedroom floor is tiled? I wonder.

Collapsing into a fetal position, I can’t help but stare at the blood as it cascades over the edge of the bed and onto the floor, inching towards my face. ​
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