Free The Girl in the Flammable Skirt by Aimee Bender

said, “please. The pillow?” He pointed again to the couch,just a few feet out of his reach. His blood felt weighted, each corpuscle dragging its own tiny wheelbarrow of rocks.
    “Haggie.” Mona shook out her legs and looked at him. “Go outside.”
    “Blech,” he said to the ceiling, “I hate outside.”
    She walked over and stroked his hair. “Do something good,” she said, “Haggie. Do something.”
    He leaned briefly into her hand. She smelled like vanilla and laundry detergent. “I really would,” Haggie said, “you know, really. If I could only get out of this damn chair.”
    Mona touched his cheek. She stood next to him for a moment, then gave a little sigh and disappeared into her bedroom. Haggie turned his head and watched her doorway for a while, eventually closing his eyes. After forty-five minutes, Mona emerged, shiny, in a brown dress. Haggie was drifting off.
    “Hag,” she said. “Wait, wake up, I have a question.” She twirled around. “High heels or not?” Haggie shook his head awake, looked at her and tried to focus.
    “No,” he said after a minute, voice gravelly, rubbing an eye, “you’re too peppy already. Wear boots,” he said. “Weigh yourself down a little.”
    She stuck out her tongue at him but vanished into her bedroom again and came out in two minutes wearing lace-up brown boots.
    “Lovely,” Haggie said.
    There was a knock at the door.
    “There he is,” said Haggie, “Monsieur Pronto.”
    Mona looked at her watch. “No,” she said, “I’m picking him up. Are you expecting anyone?”
    He laughed. “My illicit lover,” he said. He sank deeper into the chair. “Maybe we’re getting mugged. Didn’t I tell you? We should get bars on our windows.”
    The knock interrupted again: rap rap rap.
    Mona went to the door. She peeped in the peephole. “It’s a woman. Who is it?” she called.
    A muffled voice came through.
    Mona looked at Haggie. “Should I let her in?”
    “Is she cute?” he asked.
    Mona rolled her eyes. “I don’t know,” she said, “her hair is covering her face.” She opened the door.
    “Hello,” said Mona, “how can I help you?”
    The woman tugged off her wedding ring. “Please,” she said, holding it forward, “please, will you take this in exchange for a place to stay?”
    Haggie burst out laughing.
    Mona shook her head. “Oh no,” she said, “I can’t keep that.” The woman’s hand was trembling as she held the ring forward, and the edge of her dress was charred black.
    “Haggie,” Mona said, “shut up. Stop laughing. She wants to stay here.”
    “Fine,” he called from the chair, eyes closing. “But tell this one to keep the ring.”
    Mona opened the door wider. “Please,” she said, “come on in, you look so tired.” She took the woman by the elbow and guided her into the living room. “Haggie,” she said, “getout of the chair, Hag, can’t you see this woman has been through something terrible and is about to collapse?”
    Haggie sat there for a second. “But the sofa,” he said, pointing ineffectually.
    Mona glared at him. “Haggie.” The woman’s legs started to curve beneath her. Haggie put one hand on each arm of the chair and hoisted himself up, wobbling a bit on his feet.
    “Where are you from?” Mona asked, leaning down to relace the top of her right boot.
    The woman closed her eyes. “Sinai,” she said. Haggie sat on the floor.
    “What did she say?” Mona whispered, relacing the left boot for the hell of it. “Did she say cyanide?”
    He looked up and noticed the woman was already asleep.
    “Faster than me, even,” he said with respect.
    “Do you think she’s a poisoner?” Mona hissed.
    Haggie laughed.
    “Sssh,” said Mona, “she’s sleeping.”
    “Her dress is burnt,” he said.
    “I know,” said Mona, “she smells like smoke, too. Camp-fire smoke or something.” She stood up. “Listen, Hag, I’ve got to go. Are you okay? Should I stay? What if she poisons you?”
    Haggie