her partners were baboons. The detachment made it easier, somehow, to deal with their hopeful faces. One, two, three. One, two, three. Around they went. Rapturous. Later they ate vanilla ice cream, the smell of jasmine vine permeating the air. Jimmy tosses off the rest of his drink. “You a nice girl?” His blue eyes shine with expectation. “Are you a hero?” she asks . Jimmy fiddles with his watch, explaining that he was just one more faceless grunt standing on a road knocking the dust off his boots, waiting to be suited up after his friend Salazar got hit. How they had to carry him off the road in pieces after the IED he’d been working on blew. Manny-fuckin’-Salazar. They hadn’t even been looking when it happened. “That’s what you do? You dismantle bombs?” Eyes huge, she fingers the pearls at her neck, cool against her skin. He tells her how they lived never knowing who was civilian or who was military. If the guy on the side of the road was holding a cell phone or a detonator that looked like one. She listens to stories of how tough the sandstorms were. The best they could do was play the radio all night. Take the meds the docs handed out. The Zoloft and the Valium. She’s on Zoloft. He flashes a smile. “Is this turning you on?” He touches her hair. “Hmm? Like checking out funerals? Mingling with the dead?” She moves his hand away from her hair. He’s different than the other men she’s brought to her apartment. By and large they’ve been younger and less focused, full of compliments in the beginning, careful to wash themselves in the bathroom as soon as they’ve finished in bed. Jimmy sits forward, his elbows on his knees, doing something with his shoelaces. He’s been extended, he’ll be back over there in a week. He doesn’t mind. They look off in different directions. “So, what’s next?” he asks. “More liquor.” Kate pushes off the sofa and heads to the kitchSHIRLEY SULLIVAN
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