Free Year of the Tiger by Lisa Brackman

feet, I see my jeans folded neatly on the seat, my shirt resting on top of that, my bra draped across the shirt like it’s some kind of post-modern window display.
    The bra was on the chair back, I think dimly. That’s where John put it last night. He must have moved it.
    I stumble into the bathroom, thinking I’m going to puke. But I don’t. Instead, I splash some water on my face. Stare at myself in the mirror. My eyes look huge. Everything still glows around the edges.
    What the fuck did he give me?
    Okay, I think, okay. Whatever that was all about, he’s gone, I’m here, and I’m okay now.
    As I come out of the bathroom, I hear a lot of noise coming from Chuckie’s bedroom.
    For a minute I just stand there, my heart pounding in my throat. I’m thinking, what if John’s still here?
    But then I hear a crash that sounds like falling books, and Chuckie curses.
    Okay.
    I go back to my room and put on my pants – not the ones on the chair: I don’t want to touch that pile of clothes just yet. I wander out into the kitchen. Slanting yellow light comes in through the window. It’s past two in the afternoon.
    I pour myself some water from the fridge. And notice something weird: all the dirty dishes have been washed and are sitting neatly in the dish rack.
    Not Chuckie, I think. In general, Chuckie doesn’t do dishes. He lives on takeout. So do I. That’s about two week’s worth of dishes from both of us in that rack.
    I shudder again and leave the kitchen.
    Here’s Chuckie coming out of his room, carrying an armload of clothes and a duffel bag.
    He sees me and jerks back like he’s stuck his finger in a light socket. Then he looks away.
    ‘What’s up?’ I ask.
    ‘Going home to see the family,’ he mutters.
    ‘Oh, yeah?’
    Chuckie can’t stand his family. At least that’s what he always says to me. ‘They are just idiots,’ he complains. ‘Hopeless.’ And they live in Bumfuck Shanxi – nowhere Chuckie wants to hang.
    ‘For a little while. My mother says she wants me to come.’
    I see his face. Pale. Scared.
    ‘You okay?’ I ask.
    His eyes dart around like he’s being buzzed by gnats and can’t figure out where they’re coming from. He shakes his head, fractionally.
    ‘You wanna go downstairs, get a cup of coffee?’
    He nods.
    There’s this DVD store/coffeehouse in the collection of shops that make up the ground floor of the buildings facing Wudaokou Dajie. The coffee isn’t great, but it doesn’t totally suck either. I go there sometimes when there are no beans in the house.
    Chuckie and I grab our coffees at the orange countertop and sit at a little round table by the window with a scenic view of the parking lot and the lovely four-lane thoroughfare that is Wudaokou. Taxis and private cars whiz by while knots of pedestrians make their way across the street like avatars in some Nintendo game, risking all to gain the treasure on the other side.
    Chuckie rips open two packs of sugar and dumps them in his coffee.
    ‘So, what happened?’ I finally ask. ‘You get busted at the Matrix, or what?’
    ‘Or what,’ Chuckie says eventually.
    I’m confused by this until I realize that he’s attempting to play with the language. ‘You got busted by somebody else?’
    Chuckie doesn’t exactly nod. He stirs his coffee, catching sugar grit between the spoon and the side of the ceramic cup.
    ‘I am going to go home for a while,’ he says, not looking at me. ‘You should not stay here.’
    It’s not his fault; I know it isn’t, but I’m still so angry it’s hard for me to speak. ‘Is this about Lao Zhang, Chuckie? Is it? ’Cause I haven’t done anything wrong. You know that.’
    ‘
Meiguanxi
.’ Doesn’t matter.
    Neither of us says anything for a while. I stare out the window. Amid the taxis and cars and buses, a donkey cart piled high with bricks makes its way down the street, pausing for a minute so the donkey can crap in the gutter. The guy driving it, a peasant in patched clothes