Macchiato

A. Cerisse Cohen writes about desire in your twenties, in a short story throwback from LARB Quarterly no. 45: “Submission.”

By A. Cerisse CohenOctober 17, 2025

• LARB Lit

• Fiction

This story is an excerpt from the LARB Quarterly, no. 45: Submission. Become a member for more fiction, essays, criticism, poetry, and art from this issue—plus the next four issues of the Quarterly in print.

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WHEN GUY WALKED into the coffee shop, I wanted him more than anything I’d ever wanted in my life. He wore a cutoff black band tee, chest fuzz peeking from behind the truncated cotton. He’d tied his long hair up in a bun marked with two crisscrossing picks that resembled chopsticks. His forehead was lightly lined, dark scruff speckled the skin around his mouth, and black leather and plastic bracelets circled his wrists. Then there were the tattoos. An antlered deer on one wrist, a bear on one bicep, a snake curled around a forearm. He was certainly larger than me, though I couldn’t tell you his height.

This happened during my second summer in the city, when I was working as a barista. I was an adult but still young enough to behave like a child, believing myself impervious to the laws of cause and effect. Though I felt ugly—in the mirror, my eyes went straight to my bumped nose and oversized teeth—I was long and lean, with large breasts. A therapist once told me I was very pretty, as though that settled the matter. When I was out in public, men paid attention. I enjoyed working behind the coffee bar, pulling shots, and tamping the ground beans into hard, pungent pucks. Men looked on, sipped what I gave them, and paid me in tips. The job gave me rent money and something to do.

Guy’s appearance in my life felt like a simple answer to a question I hadn’t known I’d had.

The first words he said to me were: “Can I have a macchiato?”

Guy tipped well that day. He came in once or twice a week, and the order was always the same. Macchiatos were easy to make: a shot of espresso with a dollop of foam, pulled into a small cup and plated on a saucer. What varied was how he paid. With a card, everything transpired on-screen. With cash, he’d hand me dollar bills and coins from his pocket, warm from his body. I preferred it that way.

“What’s your name?” he asked one day in early July, just before we closed for the Fourth.

I told him, and he repeated it. His voice made me think of gravel, if gravel could float.

He told me he was a roadie, a keyboard tech, and he worked for a series of pop acts with big names and little merit.

“You listen to the same show night after night,” Guy said. “It gets old. You know every word, all the stage banter.”

I’d never met anyone with a job like that. I’d grown up around doctors and lawyers and psychiatrists and stockbrokers and people involved in real estate. It sounded exotic to me. All the traveling, the bonding with aspiring musicians in foreign hotels, the judgment cast on pedestrian tastes.

“It’s interesting for a day,” Guy said. “Maybe a season. After that, it’s all the same.”

I asked Dahlia about him after work. We’d brought the leftover croissants to the Emperor Inn, three doors down, and handed them to the bartender so he’d let us drink for free. He said something about some Czechoslovakian soil and skin contact wine and filled our glasses to the brim. It tasted like pebbly lemon Pledge, in a good way.

“Guy, the regular with the animal tattoos,” I said to Dahlia. “Is he seeing anyone?”

“You’re interested?” Dahlia said. She’d moved to Brooklyn from Portland, and her boyfriend had followed her. I knew little about her life from her pre–coffee shop days. To me, she was just Dahlia, the dependable coffee shop manager with a steady, sweet boyfriend. But she was finishing up college now, at age 31, which made me wonder what she’d been doing years earlier.

“He’s good-looking,” I said.

“He was with someone for a while, and they broke up,” Dahlia said. “But I think you’re his type. Why not?”

“What’s his type?” I said.

“Younger, pretty,” Dahlia said. Then she laughed.

“What’s funny?” I said.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I know there’s more to you than that.”

I hadn’t realized that description could be an insult.

Guy left for his tour, and I broke up with the bookseller I’d been seeing. He wanted me to respond more quickly to his messages and set aside time that I didn’t have. I was always with the other baristas or at the art openings and fashion launches where publicists invited me with the expectation that I would blog about them afterwards.

“We’re looking for different things,” the bookseller said by phone.

“Yeah,” I said. “We are.”

“We could stay friends,” he suggested.

“Sure,” I said. “That sounds good.” I didn’t care if I ever saw him again.

We hung up, and it wasn’t until a few days later that I thought about the time, before winter thawed, when I’d been sick with some bug and walked to his apartment after my shift. I fell asleep in his bed while he worked in the kitchen. When I woke up, he was still there, typing and sipping a glass of beer. The sky was dark, and a cockroach crawled along the linoleum counter.

“What time is it?” I asked. He told me it was 8 p.m., that four hours had passed. It seemed like just a minute since I’d gotten into his sheets. It was a miracle that such a chunk of my day had disappeared without my having to do anything about it.

When Guy got back from the tour, he asked for my number. “I’m having a party this weekend,” he said.

I wrote my digits on a napkin, and he messaged me with details. He lived on the other side of Eastern Parkway, with his sister and her boyfriend.

I couldn’t make it to the party. I was scheduled to take Polaroids of an Upper East Side art center benefit that promised celebrity attendance. I suggested we get a drink another evening instead. Guy picked the place, a burlesque show in the East Village.

We sat in the balcony of the venue, and Guy explained to me how he knew the performers. They were part of a community based around Brooklyn, farther south than we lived. They swallowed swords, breathed fire, danced naked, and mounted each other in unusual configurations. Sometimes, Guy photographed them in black-and-white film. He didn’t sell the pictures, just posted them to his website and hoped someone would notice.

Onstage, a man wore a pizza box at his crotch and did a backwards flip without using his hands. Guy cheered as I shrank back into my seat, unsure where to look. I envied the women who preceded the pizza box guy, spreading their legs as they hoisted themselves atop dangling curtains and did splits as their pasties twirled. I felt ashamed that my own talents were limited to flipping my ponytail while I worked behind the coffee bar. These people showed so much more, and with pride.

At an upstairs bar with velvet couches and teacups, we had a couple of drinks made with liqueurs and juices of unguessable proportion.

“Should we get out of here?” Guy said. I nodded, and he trotted down the stairs ahead of me, then hailed a cab along Second Avenue.

“Where are you headed?” the cab driver asked.

Guy looked at me. “Want to go back to my place?”

“Yeah, sure,” I said, trying to sound casual.

I relaxed into the leather seat and Guy gave the cab driver his address.

I felt there should be more friction here. I’d wanted Guy, and now I was about to have him. But I wasn’t going to complain.

Guy’s place was on the second story of a four-floor walk-up. He opened the door and we were in his foyer, staring into the kitchen. Off to the right was the living area, with a bay window overlooking the neighborhood. The street lamps and cars offered illumination and noise.

“It’s big,” I said. It was more gracious than the railroad apartment I shared with two strangers I’d found online.

“My sister lets me crash with her. I don’t pay full rent, but I give them concert tickets,” Guy said. He walked over to a vitrine at the opposite end of the kitchen table.

“Come here,” he said. “Meet Klaus.” He reached in and brought out a lizard. Its scaly tail flicked against the serpent tattoo on his arm. I shuddered.

“He’s friendly,” he said. Klaus had spikes along his back. Guy petted the animal. “You don’t want to touch Klaus?”

I stood still.

Guy walked towards me until Klaus was right there, blinking his beady eyes. “What is it? You’re not into animals?”

I tried not to let my discomfort show. “I didn’t grow up with pets,” I said.

Guy looked at me. “You don’t want to keep living like that, do you?”

I looked at Guy, then stroked the lizard’s back.

“Good girl,” Guy said softly. He put Klaus back in his tank and walked over to the couch without looking at me. He sank into the cushions, his arms extended across the back, his legs spread wide.

I followed. Then he was kissing me, pulling me onto his lap. My black dress spread around me, the front of his jeans rubbing against my bare thighs. He moved his calloused hands up my back, then beneath my dress and up my legs. I leaned into his warmth and kissed his neck. Heat built, and the pit of my stomach dissolved into vapor. Something opened within me.

“Let’s go to my room,” he said.

The first things I saw were the metal racks filled with suitcases. They were mostly black, with multicolored tags. Guy had hung no art or posters. A small window looked into an air shaft.

“Come here,” Guy said. He threw off his shirt, shimmied out of his pants, and sat, waiting for me, on his unmade bed. I followed, facing away from the suitcases. Guy propped my body atop his. He pulled my dress down shoulder by shoulder so it bunched, like a life preserver, around my waist. As I straddled him, all I saw in front of me was the blank white wall.

I met Guy three more times before he left for his next tour. It was supposed to be four, but he canceled once, saying he couldn’t get past the crowds on Eastern Parkway—there was a late summer parade.

Each time was similar: I walked to his apartment, we had sex, went to bed, and woke up. I left around 5 a.m. if I had to work, 8 a.m. if I didn’t. Once, we showered together, seeing each other anew beneath the water and fluorescent light.

His body was a man’s body, muscle-toned and covered with hair. I smelled him, tasted him, felt his various textures. When he looked at me, I had no idea what he saw, but it inspired immediate need, which was enough for me. When I walked down the street after visiting him, I glowed.

While Guy was on tour, I thought about him when I woke up and when I went to sleep. I rehashed the stories he’d told me about himself. Guy was from a hippie commune in Pennsylvania and had three sisters. His grandfather was an amateur photographer. Guy realized soon after high school that he could make a living touring with bands, and he’d get paid to travel the world, so he never went to college. His mother had tried to kill herself four times. As a child, his sister wounded herself at the wrist, and years later, he came to believe this was why he needed all the bracelets. They made him feel safe.

Guy’s tour dates were online, which is how I knew where in the world he was. Each night I drifted off envisioning him in a new hotel. It made him feel close. I missed the feel of his hands, the way he felt inside me, the blankness of his bedroom wall.

“Are you seeing someone?” Dahlia finally asked. She was restocking the milks.

“What?” I said. “Why?”

“You’ve seemed a little dreamy. More than usual.”

“Kind of,” I said. “For a few weeks.”

“It’s not serious?”

I shook my head and wiped down the counter.

“But you want it to be.”

“Yeah.” I looked away as I said this, out towards the street. It wasn’t fashionable to want

something like that.

“You could ask him about it,” Dahlia said. “Ask for what you want.”

“Won’t he break up with me?”

Dahlia laughed. “If he does, is it worth putting up with?”

I thought about the snake curled around his forearm. “Yeah,” I said. “It is.”

Guy returned from Sweden and got back in touch. A musician he’d worked for was hosting a benefit concert, and he had a comp ticket. Did I want to come? I could watch the show and drink free wine while he worked down by the stage, then he’d meet me later at the Midtown hotel they’d booked for him.

I dressed in a black jumpsuit and lace-up heels, straightened my hair, and applied dark lipstick. I met Guy in the lobby before the show. He introduced me to two men, each older than Guy, who were also responsible for the event’s audio. They looked at me and kept looking, which made Guy wrap his arm around my shoulder in a way he never had before.

A bell in the lobby chimed. I got a glass of wine and settled in to watch the performances.

Onstage, an aging rock star sang about lust and waiting for her lover’s telephone call. The song’s potency was only partially about the lyrics, the story they told, which was of course nothing new. It was how she sang it, the want creeping into her voice and the crescendos of the band’s sound behind her. Did the singer think about someone in particular as she sang? And if so, had that person changed over the years, as her own desires shifted and the lyrics stayed the same? These were the kinds of things I thought about when I had some distance from Guy, when my own mind wasn’t crowded with his absence or presence.

After the show, Guy texted me that he’d be a couple of hours loading up the equipment. I could get a drink at a bar around the corner, or just go up to his hotel room and wait. I opted for the bar. It was a shitty Midtown Irish pub, the kind of spot I’d never frequent. I sat by myself, and the bartender asked for my number and comped my wine. I decided I should dress up and wear this outfit more often, just to see what else I could get.

When I’d finished my drink, I walked back to the hotel, took off the jumpsuit, and crawled under the sheets.

Guy came in around 2 a.m.

“Hi,” I said.

“Oh,” he said, kissing me. “I love finding a naked girl in my bed. Let me wash my hands. They’ve got grease all over them.”

I heard the water running, then Guy returned. But instead of touching me, he lit a joint and walked towards the window.

“What a city,” he said. He kept staring towards the street, the Hudson, the lights of Jersey, and the rest of the world beyond that. His smoke curled out the open window.

From the bed, I could only see pinpricks of light. I regretted that I hadn’t taken a longer look at the view myself.

“I’m about to fall asleep,” I said.

“I’ll be there in a second,” he said. He stubbed out the joint and walked back to me.

That night, the sex was painful. “You just have to get used to me again,” Guy said.

I woke up groggy.

“I have to leave,” I said. “I’ve got lunch with my father.” He was in the city on business and had chosen an upscale Korean spot around Midtown.

“Bye,” Guy said. He lifted his head from the pillow, then put it back down.

“When will I see you again?” I asked.

“I’ll text you,” he said. “I leave for Mexico in a few weeks.”

I closed the door quietly behind me and took the elevator down. Soon I was on the city street, beneath the gray morning light, on the subway, and back in my Brooklyn sublet.

I changed out of the jumpsuit and wiped off the lipstick, applied neutral colors, and threw on a black sweater and jeans. I didn’t have time to shower. Then I went right back up to Midtown.

“Hi, Dad,” I said when he walked in. He wore a crisp button-down and a suit coat. His hair, curly and thick, was beginning to gray.

“Hi, sweetheart,” he said. He kissed me on the cheek. If anything was amiss about me, he didn’t seem to notice.

We sat at a white-cloth table, and my father told me about his morning. The crowds at JFK, the traffic into the city, the haggling with the hotel desk for a better room. My father liked Marriotts because he accrued points. Same with Delta.

“When are you getting a job?” he asked. He took a sip of water, chewed the ice. The lunch rush hadn’t started. Aside from the staff, we were the only people in the restaurant.

“I have a job,” I said. “And you know I’m doing those blog posts. I’m working with different editors. Things are happening.”

The waiter came up to us. “Do you know what you’d like to order?”

My father looked at me.

“We’ll share the soup, the bibimbap, and tteokbokki,” I said, pointing to this final item on the menu. My father could never make up his mind, so I always ordered for us both. The waiter walked away.

“Things are happening. So those editors pay you?”

“Some of them,” I said.

“You’re surviving all right on that and the coffee shop?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Kind of.” I could pay my rent. I could buy sandwiches from the bodega and purchase train fare. Once in a while, I could pay for a meal with friends.

“Your mother and I just want to see you thrive,” my father said.

“I am thriving,” I said. I named a celebrity I’d photographed at a party the other week.

“But I still don’t understand what all this leads to. What do you do next?”

“One of the editors might hire me,” I said.

“They might hire you. Have you asked?”

The waiter brought the soup and the tteokbokki.

“What’s this called again?” my father said.

“I can’t pronounce it,” I said. “It’s like t-t-e-o-k.”

“Excuse me,” my father called out to the waiter. “How do you say the name of this dish?”

“Tuk bow kee,” the waiter said.

“Tuk bow kee,” my father said.

“Tuk bow kee,” I said. The waiter nodded and left again.

“I could ask an editor to hire me,” I said. “But those jobs are competitive.”

“And then they don’t pay you anything once you get them.”

“Not a lot,” I said. “But people manage.”

“You think I’m being unsupportive,” my father said. “But really, I care. Any father would be worried about this kind of plan.”

I believed him throughout the rest of lunch. He hugged me goodbye at the door. And then, when I got on the train and headed back towards Brooklyn, the belief left me. Maybe my father wanted what was best for me, but he also wanted for me what had been best for him.

I asked Guy about his own finances. “You do okay?” I said. “You manage all right?” We were lying in bed, the morning sun streaming through his window. I was surprised at how much light came in given the dinginess of the air shaft.

Guy laughed. “I mean, you’ve seen how I live. I’m doing fine. Most of my travel is covered. I’m not paying full rent. I’m not raking it in, but I don’t want for much.”

“What do you do for health insurance?”

He shrugged. “I get stuff done whenever I’m in Mexico. And some friends are healers.”

“Healers?” I said.

“Yeah. Herbal medicine. Acupuncture.”

“That’s not the same as a checkup.”

“Western medicine isn’t everything you think,” he said.

“Do you get vaccines?”

“Vaccines? What kind of vaccines?” Guy said. “You have to get a tetanus shot every 10 years. They’re not that expensive. If we’re traveling to a country where I need a shot, that’s covered.”

“I’m just worried about my future,” I said.

“Since when?” Guy said.

“You never worry about that?” I said. “Where things are headed for you?”

“I live in the present,” Guy said. “Whoever’s making you worried about this stuff, that’s their problem, not yours. You can’t let other people tell you how to live your life. It makes you a sheep.”

“You don’t like sheep,” I said. I traced the snakes, bears, and lizards along his naked body.

“No, I don’t like sheep,” Guy said. “I like people who think for themselves.”

At the moment, this felt like a slight. I remembered those women hanging from the curtains at the burlesque club. Were those the kinds of people he meant?

“Like cats,” Guy said. “Cats think for themselves.” He looked at his sister’s cat, who was lurking in the doorway. She slipped through a crack and jumped onto the pooled sheets.

“Cats don’t think for themselves,” I said. “They eat when they need to eat. They shit when they need to shit.”

“They get a bad rap,” Guy said. The cat curled into him and meowed. “They’re more affectionate than people give them credit for.”

“You feed them, so they curl up with you,” I said. “That’s all there is to it. That’s not real affection.”

“What’s with you today?” Guy said. He was still petting the cat, looking into her eyes.

“Guy,” I said. “What do you want to do about this?”

“About what?” Guy said.

“About us,” I said. “What we’re doing here.”

Guy stopped petting and stared at the ceiling. He sighed.

“I thought I was clear about this up front. I travel. I’m in and out of town. I can’t have a relationship right now. It won’t be what you want.”

“You could try,” I said.

“No,” Guy said. “I’ve been through this before. You’re young. Maybe you haven’t …” Guy trailed off.

“I haven’t what?”

“You’re young. You should fuck around and see other people.”

“That’s not what I need,” I said.

“What do you need?” Guy said. He looked at me, and this time I was the one who looked away.

“I need a job,” I said. “A real job.”

Guy looked away again, and I felt I’d ruined something.

“Actually,” he said, “you don’t. You didn’t need college, you probably don’t need every vaccine

you’ve ever had, and you definitely don’t need upscale Korean food. No one needs upscale Korean food.”

“Upscale Korean food can be nice,” I said.

“Nice,” Guy said. “That’s what you want your life to be.”

“It’s better than a life of desperation,” I said.

“If you’re desperate, it’s not about whether or not you’ve got a ‘real job,’ sweetheart,” Guy said. He’d never called me this before, and I hated it.

I didn’t want to tell him that, and I didn’t want to get angry. If I did, he might end it. Violence built in my body. I felt trapped, and I couldn’t say anything that would alleviate the feeling.

Thankfully, Guy spoke. “I’m gonna get in the shower. You can do what you want here. If you leave, I understand.” He was so calm, it just made me angrier.

I remembered that first cab ride I’d taken with him, when I believed that I was about to get exactly what I wanted. And for the next hour or so, I had. It was only in the morning that this emptiness had begun yawning in me exactly where that sense of pleasure had briefly lived.

It seemed like a person had two options: to be like me, waiting around, or to be like Guy, with those racks and suitcases. His way of life seemed unavailable to me, which I found unjust and unchangeable.

Once Guy was in the shower, I turned onto my stomach and saw the nightstand beside his bed. It was covered with a votive candle and a small, crinkled baggie full of buds. I inched out the drawer with my finger, and it squeaked as I pulled. An orange rope lay coiled inside like a snake. Gold rows of packaged condoms glistened. But beneath these bright, furling objects lay a soft cushion of bills. There were twenties, tens, fives, and ones.

It was a crazy way to keep money. I wondered if Guy was simply due for a deposit, or whether he had something against banks. I’d never asked how he kept his money, how he coordinated transactions with the people for whom he did off-the-books favors around the city. And just what were those favors? What was he not telling me about how he spent his days?

I reached down to muss the bills. Some were torn, or crumpled, or dirty. Some were soft, like fabric. Others were so new and clean, they looked almost fake. I reached in and closed my fingers around a few bills, examining their edges and holding them up to the light. Dahlia had taught me to confirm watermarks, to verify the bills were real. These were all real.

I slipped Guy’s bills into my purse at the foot of his bed. As soon as I did, I had something, besides Guy, to worry about. I lay back against the pillows.

“You’re still here,” Guy said. He stood dripping in the doorway, a white towel wrapped around his waist.

“Maybe it’s worth it to me.” I said. “Whatever I can get.”

Guy smiled at me and dropped his towel. He climbed into bed, then slid on top of me. He was still dewy and wet, and his hair dripped sweetly onto my chest. “I’m glad,” he said, “that you’ll stay.”

Each time I visited Guy, the amounts built. At first I stole ones and fives, but soon I was taking tens, then a few twenties at a time. Once, I found and took three fifties. It became a kind of game. When he didn’t take a morning shower, Guy left the room for a glass of water, or went into the living area to feed Klaus, and I swiftly reached into the drawer. Each time, I ruffled the remaining bills as I ruffled Guy’s hair, trying to disguise his small losses. I made sure the rope and condoms were always back in the same place, right on top.

At first, I wasn’t sure what to do with the money. I considered opening some kind of account in which the funds would grow over time. This was the responsible thing to do, to plan for my future. But it was also October, and the weather was starting to turn. I still wore an old parka I’d had since high school. It was time to buy a new coat.

On one of my days off, I took the train into the East Village and rifled through a few different vintage shops until I found it: my very first leather jacket. It was black and artfully worn. It was long in the waist with pockets that had shiny silver zippers with strong, sturdy teeth. It cost $370, and with a scarf and gloves, my whole autumn purchase cost $410. This meant I had $90 of Guy’s money left. I decided I’d wait until I was back at $500 before considering what to do with the next batch.

I took Guy to a museum party, where I knew the publicist. I’d done her enough favors, written about her clients enough times, that I didn’t need to promise media coverage to receive an invitation. The drinks and hors d’oeuvres were free, passed around on trays by catering staff. Guy and I drank three spicy margaritas each. The party should have been sexy and fun, but all I saw was how much attention Guy was or wasn’t giving me, where in the room his eyes had drifted.

When we returned to Guy’s apartment, sweaty and drunk, he fell on top of me and pulled open his nightstand drawer.

“What are you doing?” I said.

“I want to try something with you,” he said.

Guy pulled out the thin orange rope. I tried to look surprised to see it. Without asking, he began to tie my wrists to his bedpost.

I watched him, more curious than anything. “What are you going to do?” I said. I wondered who else he’d used this with, and what they’d done. How many women had he strung up?

Guy just looked at me, dumbly. Then he shoved himself into my mouth. I moaned, believing it was what he wanted to hear. He couldn’t come, and neither could I. Guy untied me and lay next to me.

“Dumb idea,” he said.

“Why is it you who gets to tie me up?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” Guy said. “I’m the one with the rope. You can tie me up if you want.” He handed me the rope.

But neither of us really wanted that, and I fell drunkenly asleep on top of him, the rope sliding out of my hand in the night.

I was sitting alone at a cocktail bar, reading, when my phone rang. It was Guy. It was the first time he’d ever called. Usually, we just texted.

“There’s over a thousand dollars missing,” he said.

“A thousand what?” It had become so routine that I hadn’t realized I’d already stolen that much.

“Dollars,” Guy said. “My dollars. I keep them in my nightstand.”

“Why would you do that?” I said. “Why wouldn’t you go to a bank?”

“That’s really your question?” Guy said.

“I thought you wanted for nothing,” I said. I rattled my glass and clinked my ice together.

“I leave for Mexico tomorrow, and I’ve been packing all day. I’d planned to go to the bank in the morning, but my drawer’s been ransacked. Maybe you know something.”

“You can’t even ask me how I am before accusing me,” I said. “Ask me a single question about myself for once.”

“Here’s one right now. Where’s my money?”

“Ask one of your other girlfriends,” I said. I just wanted to see what he’d say.

Guy was quiet on the other end, forcing me to imagine what or who was on his mind.

“What are you thinking about?” I said.

Guy hung up on me. I tried to pick my book back up, but I couldn’t concentrate. The bartender asked me what it was about. “A bunch of poets,” I said, “who confuse their lives for literature.” He poured me another glass.

“I’m calling the police,” Guy said the next time he called, a couple weeks later.

I knew he was bluffing. He hated the cops. “Are you back from Mexico? Did you miss me?”

“You think it’s all a game, that money doesn’t mean anything,” Guy said. “I told you that I go to Mexico to see doctors. That was the plan. That’s what I was saving for.”

“Oh, come on,” I said. “You’re as healthy as anyone. And you don’t believe in doctors anyway.”

“I haven’t had my blood taken in years,” Guy said. “I wanted to see a dentist too, and those people order X-rays. Something could be wrong with me. And if it is, how will I know? Things grow inside you, unexpressed, until one day you wind up deathly ill. I don’t even have the funds to get my teeth cleaned.”

His voice sounded different, scared in a way I’d never heard. I didn’t like this side of him. I almost apologized, but that would confirm my own guilt.

“I assume you know nothing about medical pricing,” Guy said. “That you’re still on your parents’ insurance.”

“You’re making assumptions,” I said. “What do you really know about me?”

“I know you don’t want your parents involved in this,” Guy said.

“You wouldn’t do that,” I said.

“I could find them,” Guy said.

“Maybe we should talk in person,” I said.

I’d missed the dark wood floors of Guy’s apartment and the bay window in the living area that overlooked the street. The trees were emptying their leaves, though some, yellowing, were still holding on. Beneath the coffee table, Guy had slid a rug he’d brought back from Morocco. Atop was a vase he’d purchased in Sweden.

“Hi, Klaus,” I said, peering into the tank. He stared at me, clawing at the glass.

“My room,” Guy said. “Now.”

Sitting on the edge of his bed, Guy pulled open the nightstand. “This is where I keep my cash. You’re the only one who’s been in my bedroom for the past few months, besides the cat.”

“Really?” I said. I felt a little better, knowing there’d been no one else. But there remained the possibility that he’d gone to their places instead. Or they’d visited his hotel rooms abroad.

“Really,” Guy said. “And you won’t be in it again anytime soon.”

“Come on,” I said. “You think I’m a liar?”

I reached out to rub his leg, but he jerked his body away and stood up. “I do,” he said. “I think you’re dishonest.”

“Come on,” I said.

Guy stared at me. Despite everything, I still liked how his eyes felt on me. “Where’d you get that coat?” he said.

“I bought it,” I said.

“With what money?”

“People buy coats. This city has one or two thrift stores.”

“You stole my fucking dentist money and bought a coat,” Guy said.

“I needed a coat,” I said. “That’s what I needed.”

“It suits you,” he said. “It looks used.”

“That’s fine,” I said. “It also looks good.”

“Someday,” Guy said, “you’re not going to be 25. Your forehead will wrinkle, and your tits are gonna sag. Every year, you’ll get closer and closer to the grave. You’re getting closer now, but you don’t know it. And you’re not going to have a partner, or any love in your life, because you’re the kind of person who steals instead of being honest. And you’re going to be lonely, and fucked up, and all you’ll have to your name, all you’ll have to show for yourself, is a cheap, old coat.”

I stared at Guy. “It’s a great coat,” I said. “And you know it.”

Guy looked like he wanted to hit me. “Get out of my apartment before I tear it apart.”

As I walked out Guy’s door, back towards the gray, decaying autumn day, the cat rubbed against me. I looked down, and I petted her. She meowed with pleasure. It was strange. I’d never even fed her.

¤

Featured image: Mark Catesby. The Coach-Whip Snake (Coluber flagellum), ca. 1731-43. Gift of Dr. and Mrs. George Benjamin Green, National Gallery of Art (1973.26.21). CC0, nga.gov. Accessed October 16, 2025. Image has been cropped.