Free Ghouljaw and Other Stories by Clint Smith

landscaping company. Vanessa was sitting at the bar by herself. I bought her a drink. And even in the neon-dim light of the bar, her eyes twinkled green, almost emerald—so green they affected sobriety, albeit briefly. Things were short-lived with Vanessa too. She didn’t ask a lot of questions and didn’t expect a lot of answers. She liked meeting at hotels a lot. I think she might have been married.
    Then there was Nikki, a waitress at a chain restaurant a few counties over. Nikki was the youngest and the kinkiest—the worst and the last. Nikki and I lasted for almost six months; but if things would have continued, Nikki would have been trouble for me. While she had a sort of fleeting, injured tenderness about her, she was, more than anything else, a casually cruel girl. Besides her frequently changing hair color, the most memorable characteristic about Nikki was her tattoo—a large, elaborate praying mantis that ran from the outside of her thigh and wrapped up around her back, its long spiny legs extending up over her lower back.
    Only once did I inquire about the tattoo’s significance. I was driving her home one morning when I asked. She was in the middle of lighting a cigarette when she looked over at me, froze for a few seconds before laughing—laughing as if she were watching a child doing something adorable and totally foolish. It was a laugh I’d grown tired of. I kept driving. Eventually Nikki quit giggling, sighed, and lit her cigarette. I saw Nikki at a bar not too long ago; she’d been playing pool with a couple guys, or rather acting like she didn’t know how to play pool—letting one of them repeatedly reach around her from behind to show her the proper way to use a cue.
    It’s occurred to me before, although I haven’t had the language to explain it until now, that there seemed to be some form of emotional parasitism with these last three women—some sort of lonesome anesthetization.
    Sometimes, particularly when I avoid dwelling on Julie for days on end, I have dreams that she’s returned to our bed (the bed I’ve disrespected), slowly materializing in the depression where she used to sleep, like fog drifting into a gully at dusk. Sometimes, in my dream-eager need to communicate, I speak; and as I do, my breath curls the delicate features of the phantom and the fog dissipates. As little use as I have for religion and superstition, I often find myself praying for that phantom to stay.
    The goddamned thing is this: once you give license to old wives’ tales and the supernatural—once you sincerely marry mental energy and commitment—there’s no telling what will break through.
    Most of these Julie-dreams have been pleasant—some of them even felt therapeutic. But sometimes they’re bad; or rather, their essence is bad. The tone is all wrong, and that feeling invariably carries over into the next morning, setting the miserable tone for a miserable day. It was almost as if, through the dreams, Julie had been dictating what kind of day I’d have when I woke up the next morning. Last night I had a bad dream.
    So let me finally get out of bed, or at least tell you about when I finally got out of bed this morning. Let me get back to what this is really about: neglect.
    Rousing myself from those cold sheets, I yanked up the blinds at the window and stood there, looking out over the countryside. Sure enough, it had snowed overnight, and the wind was rustling some of the broken stalks spiking out of the cold, white blanket covering the empty field (again, I think about the chemicals—the bugs). The belt of trees out west was all blacks and browns and grays under the pigeon-colored sky, which hinted at more snow to come. I closed my eyes and gently pressed my forehead against the frigid glass—the icy contact having a pleasantly sobering sensation.
    I started in with my usual litany of resolutions: no more casual sex . . . no more barroom arguing . . . no more blackout drinking. But then I