Jayel Aheram

Jet was tired. Bull-screwed, hound-dog-tired, as the cab driver spun out, left him heaving against the entry sign to Appleglen Apartments. He curled a tight fist into the dappled apple image inked along the border of this month’s banner: Voted Laurendale’s #1 Apartments for Seniors. Appleglen. Jesus, even the name sounded like a remake of a remake, precisely how his entire summer felt, what with his girlfriend, Sweetie, gone and all the hot sunrises of a Carolina summer thick with that same choking humidity.

He toiled up the stairs to his second story apartment, fingering the keys, clumsy at first, then aligned them with the lock by sound and feel. Even drunk, he knew enough to piss first, drink water until he had to piss again. He set his keys on the counter, let loose his belt, the button on his scrapped Levi’s, filleted the zipper in one fell swoop and the fabric dropped to his ankles.

“Christ,” he said to the dark apartment. “Damn shoes.” He sighed, bent over to untie the laces, the stretch a little stiffer than he liked to admit. Ten pounds overweight. Fifteen, according to the doc, but what did he know? Jet was still young, in his late-thirties and not even the hint of a receding hairline. Ticker like a Seiko and genetics on his side, thank God for that one. He still maintained a decent pace around the track and could do push-ups with the rest of them, if he wanted to—which seemed the buzzword these days.

“Do you want paper or plastic?” That, from the checker at Bi-Lo two blocks north of Appleglen. “Do you want your receipt?” That, from the drive-through teller at BB&T. Or more to the point, “What do you want for yourself?” as Sweetie put it in their final state-of-the-union conversation.

It wasn’t as though he’d come home blitzed this often when they were still together—no, Sweetie wouldn’t have allowed it. Besides, they didn’t need to go out as much. They had each other. Naturally quiet, Jet sought gregarious friends. This allowed him to be around the jock boldness he enjoyed, even though it felt phony when he tried it for himself. But he only craved this rough-and-tumble in small doses. True camaraderie came in the softer moments, one-on-one or with family. Or with Sweetie. Times when sitting in a room together and not saying a word seemed the most intimate thing Jet could imagine. Sweetie had been a little too professional to sustain this tenderness—just a tad on the aggressive side and never quite patient enough with him. When she finally left, it was his sluggishness she said she loathed the most, the way he insisted on being so comfortable. Maybe he didn’t really want her back, anyway.

Jet flipped on the lights and shuffled barefoot down the carpeted hallway, the pressure of shag on his tender soles. So many years on the field, so much sweat laced up in cleats and layered socks, pickling his feet game after game. He sighed again, this time into the bare face of the toilet bowl beneath him and waited, poised for the inevitable. But then he remembered it was the urge to pee not vomit that led him to the bathroom. And yes, there it was, urine swelling behind the floodgates like fans in the stadium, aching to rush the field. Jet slid his hand into the flap of his boxers, working quickly to aim over the toilet bowl. He scribbled with his urine as it broke the surface of the toilet water. Tonight he accomplished a B-level challenge: a series of small, capital letter Js, each smooth gesture pillowing into yellow clouds.

One morning when Sweetie was still with him, she walked in on him and dubbed it piss painting. It seemed almost unjust for her to capture him that way: naked save a pair of white sports socks, squinting in the bathroom light. Why couldn’t he date a woman who didn’t notice his every move?

“What are you doing?” she said.

“Nothing,” Jet told her as he cut the silhouette of a mountain range into the surface of the water. This, still two months short of the break up—she knew it was coming and, perhaps  had Jet glanced up in that moment, he would have seen it too.

“You’re swiveling all over the place,” she said. “Whatcha doing?” Whatcha. He coveted that. The way her words slid into each other like lovers.

“Can’t a man take a piss in his own apartment?” He hadn’t meant to snap.

“I thought we were past this,” Sweetie said, and they were. Had been for months. Jet actually felt pleased by the way he handled sharing the apartment with Sweetie, the relative peace they managed together. And remembering, this was the juncture in their conversation where he flushed the toilet, pressed his body into the back of her nightgown, the scent of sleep lifting off of her. A deep breath. His hands on her hips, then lower. She paused in her task, brushing her hair, and let him kiss the back of her neck, holding her in front of the mirror where they could imagine that this reflection of their best gestures was all they ever knew.

Jet recoiled from the instant replay. Fat chance getting a moment like that again. Not now. Not with Sweetie, anyway. Her opinions worked like sidelines on a field. They could be crossed, but only with swift penalty. Jet flushed, stepped to the sink and leaned down to press his lips to the chrome faucet. He drank deeply before he fumbled to his room and set the alarm for seven, slept in his shirt. Tomorrow, opening day of football tryouts at Laurendale High School where he worked. The first weeks required patience, the culling out, the constant attention to every player during drills. In bed, he cupped his hands at the open edge of his cotton tee for warmth, a leftover gesture from childhood. He glanced at the clock. 2:37 a.m. Tomorrow would be a bruiser.