Free The Parallel Apartments by Bill Cotter Page A

the laundry with a Dr Pepper can for a few minutes, squeezed and wrung them, three-rinsed, then draped them over the balcony railing. The direct sun dried everything in less than fifteen minutes. The warrior was hot as burned toast. The heat of it reminded her of the day she bought it, when the decal was brand-new and still hot from the T-shirt shop’s mangle.
    She’d bought the shirt in 1990, shortly after a public, hissing argument with Franklin at Mulda’s Eatery about the nature of the perfect fleur-de-lis-shaped scar on their waitress’s belly, which was audaciously visible between the belt of her jeans and the knot of her Hee-Haw country-girl red-gingham tied-up halter top.
    â€œBrand,” Franklin had whispered to Justine while the waitress was busy marrying bottles of ketchup at a vacant table, her scar plainly visible, highlighted by the raking light of a warm, sunny fall afternoon.
    â€œI think it’s a bunch of little cuts.”
    â€œIt’s a brand,” he said again, a bit distantly, as he was obviously in deep study of every aspect of the waitress’s body. “French brand.”
    â€œLittle cuts she did herself,” said Justine. “In the mirror, I bet. Maybe she’s from Quebec, or New Orleans.”
    Franklin flared his nostrils just enough to indicate incredulous distaste.
    â€œGod.”
    The waitress came over and refilled their ice teas, leaning over enough so that both Franklin and Justine got a look at the fleur-de-lis scar with almost peep-show intimacy.
    â€œOkay, maybe it is a scar from cuts,” said Franklin after the waitress left. “She wouldn’t’ve done that to herself, though.”
    â€œWasn’t an accident.”
    â€œThe cutter nonpareil issues her verdict.”
    â€œShut up, Franklin. Why do you make me out to be wrong about every single thing?”
    â€œShe had a pro do it. A scarifier. Besides, she doesn’t have cuts all over the rest of her.”
    â€œYou don’t know that.”
    â€œWhy would anyone disfigure their bod like that? A lacy, meaningless tramp stamp, or Star-Belly Sneetches–style nipple stars, mayb—”
    Justine stood up.
    â€œSit.”
    Justine walked over to the waitress, who was sitting at her ketchup-bottle table. Dozens of ketchup-bottle towers, each with one bottle inverted and standing lip to lip on another, stood before her like bloody chess pieces.
    â€œDid you cut your fleur-de-lis yourself?”
    Justine had not initiated many conversations in her life.
    The waitress smiled.
    â€œYes. X-ACTO.”
    â€œIt’s pretty.”
    She stood up.
    â€œYeah. See, sixty-two slits.”
    â€œWow. You’re a really good artist.”
    She looked at Justine’s arms.
    â€œYou, too,” the waitress said, in a timbre that was all at once decorous and dallying and art-critical. “Action painting.”
    The waitress bent over to get a better look, but accidentally bumped the table with her bottom. All the ketchup towers wobbled perilously, and one of them uncoupled, sending both of its bottles clatter-clinking to the table.
    â€œOh,” said the waitress.
    â€œOh,” said Justine.
    â€œGot it,” said the waitress. She picked up the bottles and reintegrated them as a tower.
    Justine blushed—awesome, prickling hives—then hugged herself, squeaked, “Bye,” and went back to Franklin, who was standing next to their table throwing five-dollar bills at the dirty plates.
    â€œWhy would you embarrass me like that?” said Franklin, when they were on the street watching for cabs. “I swear you were hitting on that girl.”
    â€œNo, I was not.”
    â€œWere. I thought you were going to mate. I mean, if you were inviting her into a just-the-three-of-us pah-tay, I’m all for it, but we both know you’d never— Cab! ”
    Franklin stepped onto Avenue A and waved with possessive vigor at a