Read Online Knucklehead & Other Stories by W. Mark Giles - Free Book Online

of his sandwich methodically, drank the beer in rapid sips. It was weird drinking beer here, in this house. He went down to the kitchen, rinsed the plate, put the beer can in the recycling bin. In the family room, he picked up the pickle from near the sofa. He sat down, looked at the pickle, then ate it. He felt something under his leg: the portable phone jammed between two cushions. Loose bits of threads littered the carpet, he could see the glint of straight pins lost in the cut pile. They’ll never clean it all up by the time Gaddie comes home.
    Beverly worked at the machine now, sewing the seams of the costume. Holding the phone in his hands, he asked: “Are you okay?” Beverly continued her work. “We can get a dog,” Colm said. “For when you’re alone.”

    Beverly comes to bed late, long after midnight. Colm snores lightly, but wakes when she gags on her toothbrush. She moves into the room, shedding her clothes as she stumbles through the near darkness, leaving a trail of sweater, blouse, bra, slacks and panties, socks. Colm holds open the bedclothes and she slips in naked beside him. Together, they slide their bodies into a familiar nighttime embrace, Beverly on her side, facing away from Colm as he nestles like a spoon behind her. His long lean arm wraps around her and his hand cups the plumpness of her belly below her navel. There is no quickening yet, the round curves of her abdomen do not yet show the changes occurring inside her. Beneath Colm’s hand, in Beverly’s uterus, cells divide and re-divide, growing and aligning according to their genetic code, with her every breath, her every heartbeat.
    â€œYour bum is cold,” Colm says into the nape of her neck.
    â€œYou’re warm,” Beverly answers. “Hug me.”
    He presses even closer. “You worked late.”
    â€œIt’s done,” she says. “One mermaid costume ready for fitting. Except for the seaweed.” Colm passes his hand slowly over her stomach, caresses her breast, then glides it across the valley of her waist and up the generous swale of her hip. “That feels nice,” Beverly murmurs. His thumb brushes against her pubis. “Mmmm,” Beverly responds. He tries to move his fingers between her thighs, gently, but she keeps her knees together. “No,” Beverly mumbles. “It’s late.”
    Colm shifts his body, lifts a leg over hers. He nibbles behind her ear. His thumb and forefinger tug at her nipple.
    â€œNo Colm. What are you doing.”
    He lifts himself a little higher, kisses her shoulder. “Please let me in,” Colm says. “Please let me in,” he says again, his voice now inflected with an Irish lilt. “I’m cold and I’m wet and I’m hungry. I’m just a poor gardener from Limerick who needs a wee bit of comfort.”
    Beverly tenses. “Stop it, Colm. That’s not funny.” She grabs his hand and tries to roll away. He begins to kiss her madly on her back as she wriggles. His words are muffled: “Oh, please missus. I’m just a poor man of the soil what needs some warmth and a little solace.”
    â€œIt’s not funny.” Beverly pulls away, but Colm tickles her under the ribcage. “Stop. Stop it now.” Colm wraps her in a bear hug. She tosses from side to side, jerks back suddenly, catching him in the forehead with her occiput.
    â€œFrisky lass,” Colm says, accent now firmly Scots. He presses some of his weight against her. His penis is stiff.
    â€œShhhh,” Beverly whispers, and she stops resisting. “Mmmm,” Colm says, but she hushes him again. “No, Colm. I mean it. Listen. Do you hear that?”
    â€œWhat?”
    They lie still. Beverly turns her head and raises it slightly from the pillow. Colm holds her tightly, but quiets. Finally, after a dozen heartbeats, he says, “I don’t hear—”
    â€œShhh,” Beverly cuts him off.