Within Range

This story contains non-graphic bodily injury and adult themes.

I’m early. It’s a choice I make every time. My attempt to reduce uncontrolled variables.

Our meeting spot is open despite the time of year. The opening hours taped to the door have been amended once, twice, in red pen. Between Christmas and New Year everything operates on habit. People show up because they always do. Good citizens flock to their regular spots. They’re nothing without them.

It’s too warm in here. Evening humidity bleeding through the swinging door. I’ve chosen a table at the back, where my view of the street is blocked. I flatten my palms against the sticky table and stare at the back of my hands. I will them to stop shaking. They won’t. Not yet.

A bead of sweat slides down my spine.

I note the exits. The one at the front of the bar, past a bartender with a watchful eye and a woman attempting to get his attention. Another at the back, past a rancid kitchen and a bathroom. There are two patrons in there giggling, chasing euphoria from a bag they picked up in an alley. Unbothered by how quickly want morphs into need.

I note the places my own reflection is getting caught. The lacquered tabletop below my hands. The black screen of a television mounted high above me. I look directly at it, meeting my own eye, but I feel the stare remain even as I turn away.

My stool creaks against the bounce of my knee. Over and over.

I check the time again.

Our plan assumes punctuality. It assumes neutrality. We meet in a public place. I follow her rules. She follows mine. There are no escalations or amendments.

I repeat the boundaries to myself, not because I’ve forgotten them, but as a reminder that this works for a reason. Repetition reinforces results.

I don’t contact them outside scheduled appointments.

There’s no physical contact beyond what we agreed on.

She sets a timer and I stop, without hesitation, at the five-minute mark.

She leaves immediately after.

Each one has her own rules. Some of them insist on a third voice in the room. This one prefers we meet in public first.

The bartender meets my eye, then looks away. He’s young. Pouring beer with the slack confidence of someone who hasn’t earnt it. He glances at me again out of the corner of his eye. His heart stammers and corrects. I lift my beer, but the smell makes my stomach clench.

The bell above the door is broken, muffled by a wad of tape, but I sense her arrival without it. Heat rushes through the door, carrying her perfume across the room. It’s cheap and musky. She pauses before coming inside, scanning, weighing the exits. She gauges who is watching.

She spots me and approaches. She looks tired.

“Hi,” she says, perching on the stool across from me. She doesn’t look at my face at first, her gaze lingers on my hands splayed on the table, unnaturally white against the dark wood. “You look like you’ve been here since I left last.” I can smell the cigarettes on her breath. “Same stool. Same coat.”

I don’t blink. “I’m punctual.”

“How are you then?” She leaves her coat on.

“I’m… within range,” I say. The phrasing is neutral, transactional.

She nods. “That’s good. I’ll grab a drink then before we leave.”

I try to maintain composure, but my insides are writhing, a restlessness setting my nerves on fire. I want to stand and pace. Instead, I bite the edge of my thumbnail.

I watch her saunter off. She smiles at the bartender, who looks from her to me.

She seems to take an eternity. Or she means to.

I will her to hurry. Force myself to breathe. I take my hands off the table and squeeze them between my thighs.

When she returns, she waves a napkin in my face, grinning wryly. I see the bartender’s phone number glaring in red pen. In her other hand she holds a bottle of orange juice, condensation dripping down her wrist.

She opens her mouth to say something but changes her mind. She takes in my form: hunched and clammy.

“Within range huh?” She raises an eyebrow at me. “My car’s out back.”

I nod.

She cocks her head at me to follow. When I slide off my stool, my legs threaten to buckle. I pull my hood over my face and avoid the eyes still staring from the black screen. Those eyes follow me out of the room.

We slip out the back door into the alley. The heat has bled out of the day, but the air is thick with the smell of rubbish. Bile rises in my throat. When the door closes, the noise from the bar feels blessedly far away. It’s replaced by a car stalling a street over, the clatter from the kitchen vents. My ears prick as someone pauses in the mouth of the alley. They keep walking.

Her car is parked close enough to the bar that red neon spills over the bonnet. She unlocks it, pausing at the door. She looks at me.

“I know you don’t like the car,” she says.

“I’ll manage.”

I try to keep my voice steady, but it comes out wavering.

She gets in first. I wait a moment, watching her adjust the seat, the mirror. All small rituals that matter to her. I force myself to remain still, hands jammed deep into my coat pockets. Sweat is slick on my forehead, a cold shock.

She nods at me through the window when she’s ready. When I open the passenger door, the smell hits me all at once. Her signature scent: recycled air and cigarettes. My eyes water.

I get in and force my breathing to slow.

When I close the door, her proximity almost becomes too much to bear. The skin on her neck is thick with makeup. I can see her pulse beating at the base of her throat. My hands twitch.

She reaches into her bag and pulls out her phone. She fiddles with the timer for an eternity, or a second. She places it between us on the centre console. The number five glows harshly out of the dark.

“Same as last time,” she says.

“Ok.”

She pulls up her shirt sleeve and holds out her wrist.

I lay my hands flat on my knees, wiping sweat onto the fabric. I count my breaths. I remind myself that this alone is not enough.

I turn to look her full in the face, watching her eyes.

“Are you ready?” I ask her.

She meets my stare, bracing. “Yes.”

I take her hand in mine, the tendons of her wrist flex under my fingers. I know she can feel me shaking. I pause a moment, ignoring my mouth watering. I listen for her heart. Steady, despite it all.

I take it for what it is.

I lean in, mouth wide, and bite into the soft skin.

It’s over too soon.

The timer rings out like a hammer against my skull. I squeeze her wrist slightly when I straighten, forcing it away from myself.

When I open my eyes, the world has taken a different shape. The edges have softened, the red lights dulled. My hands are steady. I lay them against my thighs and wait.

She pops open the console and takes out a fresh packet of gauze. She presses it against the blood.

Silence stretches, the way it always does.

When the bleeding has slowed, she sticks a bandage across her wrist.

“I’ll see you in three weeks,” she says.

It’s time to go.

I pull the envelope out of my coat pocket, thick with cash. I leave it on the centre console. She doesn’t move to count it.

I wonder what she would do if I short-changed her.

I get out of the passenger seat and close the door. Through the window I watch her open the orange juice with a shaking hand. She takes a sip and turns the key. She pulls out of the lot without looking back.

I walk back through the door into the bar.

I take my seat on the stool again, shoulders loose. I meet my reflection’s stare in the black screen again. We pass something between our eyes.

I feel clean.

When I’ve made it home, I don’t turn on the lights. I take a seat in the chair close to the window. Neon stretches like veins across the city.

The year waits to turn. I sit unmoving and wait with it.