A scary place

"Do you mind if I turn that off?" I ask, and he shakes his head gently. Why we've been watching the nightly episode of Shock 'n' Awe I'm not entirely sure, but it's been punctuating our casual conversation with "live updates" and "exclusive video" since we finished our last cocktails almost 45 minutes ago.

"Jesus, the world is a scary place right now," he says.

"Right now?"

"OK, scarier."

The TV off, the low hum of the ceiling fan is the only sound in the room except our breathing. The streetlights are out, again, and there's only three candles alight on the table at the foot of the bed so it's dim now too. If I felt like getting up to put The Kick Inside in the CD player, it'd almost be like I was back in college. Hell, back then, I even thought I was dating the man with the child in his eyes.

Hell, back then, I believed in dating.

Ben's head is resting on my chest and it's a nice sensation, a good pose, a pleasant picture. I like this moment, this one best of all. The before. Or the after, it doesn't much matter. The middle is just mechanics, sense memory with a little improvisation. This part — the before, in this case — is just sweet, but like most sweet things, I wouldn't want a steady diet of it.

"I like the way you smell when you wear this," he says.

Uh-oh.

It's just an old gray sweatshirt, the team logo faded about a thousand washes ago, the cuffs ragged, the collar stretched. It's the most comfortable piece of clothing I own, lived-in, the thing I pull on at night when I come home from the office and toss in the laundry maybe once a week.

And he...well, he's a former "independent contractor" who's become a friend with privileges and, over the past few months, started to get almost as comfortable. Almost. I still manage to keep a professional distance, tenuous but necessary. But from where he's sitting, he can hear my heart beating and I'm given up. He's got to know talk like that makes me nervous, fight-or-flight systems powered up and on standby.

A long silence then, while I stroke his arm and wait it out. The surest way to dodge a bullet is to make sure it doesn't leave the chamber. Finally, he glances up to meet my eyes. "What are you thinking about?"

"Direct Deposit."

He rolls his eyes and laughs. Another non sequitur. From me, of all people!

"No, seriously. I had to take my paycheck to the bank today, and that's no fun any longer since they transferred the cute teller. But anyway, I was thinking about Direct Deposit because I've got the opportunity to sign up for it again and I'm not sure I want to. Right now, I've got a few hours when I hold my wages in my hands, when I can feel them, sort of, when I can touch the real evidence that my work has tangible value."

"You don't want to give up control."

"No, that's not it. I don't have any control anyway. I use this computer program, called Quicken? God, that's an apt name for it. It automatically pays all my bills. The power, the phone, the house note. Quick, quick, quick, 24 hours after payday.

"It knows how much is supposed to come in and there's a little calendar in it, telling it how much to send out. How much to save. How much to send to Visa. That check I carry to the bank just feeds the machine. Balances the account. But if I get Direct Deposit, I lose that moment, that connection."

More quiet. "So you only wash this shirt once a week to, what? Save money?"

Oh what the hell. "No," I say. "I do that because you like the way I smell when I wear it."

Jesus, the world is a scary place right now.

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