Free This Is Between Us by Kevin Sampsell

saying, “You could be in the hospital right now. You could be dying right now.”
    When I saw you later, right before dinner, you told me about all the things you did during the day and the plans you had for the next day. You talked without giving me a chance to answer. You were hyper and full of energy. I tried to find a moment to tell you about the accident but it started to feel less urgent. I made the mistake of telling you other trivial things first—our friend’s new dog, the movie I wanted to see, what we needed at the store. By then it was too late.
    I decided I wouldn’t tell you. It would be another secret, thrown on the pile with the others. And I sometimes think of it that way—a smelly little stack of hidden things festering somewhere. I rummage through it with my hands, holding up older secrets and trying to figure out what they are exactly. Some so moldy, dusty, and threadbare that they’re like old clothes decomposed on a corpse.
    “What’s wrong?” you asked me. And that was my opening, my chance to tell.
    “Nothing,” I said. I liked saying that word sometimes, so I said it again. You smiled, knowing nothing was wrong.
    …
    You told me you had a surprise and asked me to wait in the bedroom for you. You told me to take off my clothes and then dimmed the lights until you were almost shadow. You told me to close my eyes and I did.
    I heard you doing something by the closet. Buttoning up, unsnapping, or maybe tying something. Music came on—piano and words of longing. I started to feel some kind of pressure to act surprised when I opened my eyes. Or maybe it wasn’t surprise that you were preparing for me. I was probably thinking too much about it. I suddenly felt vulnerable in my nudity.
    Then I felt your hands cup my face and you whispered, “Hi there.” I opened my eyes and looked at you, my eyes adjusting to the near dark. “Do you like it?” you asked. You were wearing a tight black nightie and a dark wig. Instead of the best simple answer (“yes”), I tried to admire the style, the softness of the fabric. Maybe it was something fancier than a nightie. I was struck with uncertainty.
    I said, “What is it?”
    You snapped upright and scowled. “Forget it,” you said, flicking the music off.
    “Well, no,” I said. “I just can’t really see it.”
    “It’s stupid,” you said.
    “No, it’s good,” I said quickly. “Let me get a better look.”
    “You’re not supposed to ask me what it is,” you said. “You’re just supposed to tear it off. Never mind.” You grabbed some clothes and left the room. “I need to get out of here.”
    I stayed on the bed, naked and stunned. It was after midnight but I wasn’t tired. I looked at my penis like it was to blame, or like it could have saved me. I stared at it as time passed. I grabbed it and looked at it from all different angles. I wanted to find a mirror and look at it a new way, like that movie where the women looked at their vaginas and felt empowered.
    My phone buzzed on the dresser, startling me. You were calling. I let it ring eight times and then answered cautiously.
    “Hey, baby! Guess what! Guess what!” you said, getting louder with each word. I wondered if you were already drunk. I thought you were doing that trick where you do the nice exclamation before the mad exclamation.
    “What now?” I said. I instantly felt bad for saying now , but you didn’t seem to notice.
    “I found a fifty-dollar bill! Fifty bucks!”
    “Oh,” I said. “That’s nice.”
    “Come down here and have a drink with me,” you said. “I’ll give you money for the jukebox. We’ll play pool too!”
    I got dressed and walked down to the bar.
    When I got there, you had our drinks side by side and the pool balls racked up. Your black wig was still on and you strutted around the table, air-guitaring your pool stick. You smiled like a sneaky criminal. It was like the nightie thing hadn’t happened. But then your smile turned dark and you