So Strange and Wild Ch. 01: The Magician

After that, I mostly remember sounds. Hers and mine, our slick genitals. A low, insistent growl: that was me. Constant, ceaseless swearing: Ayame. And above all, the waspish hum of the wand--which would never tire, never rest, till its job was done.

We came together, in a torrent. Her juices flooded out and down my wrist, jetting hot against my thigh. And I sprayed us both with cum--long, ropey spurts that clung to our chests and stomachs, spilling over busy hands and hips and the buzzing wand. Ayame had stopped swearing, suddenly, and we were both left gasping for air as our lungs tried to draw more oxygen. To drag us back to cold, hard consciousness. The world we had sought to leave.

I switched off the vibrator, and Ayame fell into me, weeping. We sat on the floor for a while, after that, heads on each other's shoulders, enjoying the fresh quiet, and the cold carpet, and the chlorine tang of my cum, which was everywhere.

I was the first to get up. Untangling myself from Ayame's spent limbs, I began to pull on my clothes while she watched listlessly. Her gaze empty.

"You want to use my shower?" she asked. "You can."

"I'll take one at home," I replied. "Need to get moving."

I saw the twinned emotions dance on her face: disappointment, then seeming relief. And I could sympathize, because I shared them both.

She stood on wobbly knees and gathered her clothes in silence. There were no more sounds from upstairs, and I found myself wondering if anyone up there had heard us. Our coupling. The lonesome cries from the depths.

Once I was clothed, I went to the window sill and counted out three hundred dollars in bills. Laid them where she could see them. Then I picked up the photo of the Weymans. "Can I keep this?"

Ayame was tugging on her bathrobe--Jax's bathrobe, I supposed. Once it was in place, she came and took the photograph. Gave it a look I couldn't read. Then she tore it neatly in two down the middle, severing the figures on the left from the Weymans. She tucked the first part into the pocket of her robe. Dangled the other in the air between us.

"Give me your phone," she said, signaling her terms.

I handed it over, unlocked. She gave me my half of the picture, then tapped in her number.

"If you learn anything about Jax," she said, "call me."

When I took the phone back, I saw she'd put an emoji where the name was supposed to go:

(^.~)

"I will," I said, and I meant it.

"Thank you, Thomas," she replied, conjuring the name on my ID. But it didn't sound right in this room, in that moment, and we both knew it.

"I go by my middle name," I said, granting her a fond smile.

"I guess you'll always be 'detective' to me."

"Take care, Ayame Jones."

"Happy fucking Fourth," she sighed.

I went outside, into the heat and glare, and tugged on my boots. Then I walked to my car, two streets over, and pulled away.

I drove past the insurance place and a sorry strip mall. Smoke shops, tax prep, a gouged-out Pizza Hut that had become a hookah lounge. The state college where Ayame had studied once, a million years ago. All of it bleached in the sun. None of it coming back.