Free The Merchants of Zion by William Stamp Page B

disappeared in a hardscrabble and unforgiving universe. The debris left behind hinted at an original glory impossible to recreate.
    Mary slept for about thirty minutes. When she woke up, she pointed at the journal on my nightstand and asked “Is that yours?”
    “Who else's would it be?”
    “Can I read it?”
    “There's no one on the planet I would let read it.” I said, not wanting her to think I was being coy.
    “Let me write you a message. In the back, that way I won't accidentally see anything embarrassing.”
    I handed it to her, along with a pen. “Which is the end?” she asked.
    “This side.” She paused for a second, biting at the end of the pen. “Aha,” she said, and scribbled her note.
    “Okay. You can't read it until I'm gone.” I took the journal from her. “You have any roommates?” She absentmindedly curled one of my nipple hairs around her fingertip.
    “Yeah. Two, sort of. One lives here, the other's crashing on the couch until he gets his shit together.”
    “Am I going to meet them?”
    “Sure. Ouch, that hurt,” I said. She had plucked the hair.
    “It's so long.” She straightened it out against the bedspread.
    “Yeah, I hate them.” I used to clip them regularly, but gave up when unexpected bedmates came to seem as remote as Tuva.
    “I think they're adorable,” she said, blowing it off her finger.
    “You'll meet my roommates if you aren't afraid of traveling to Brooklyn every once and a while. Dimitri—he's a sort of math genius. He just sits in his room all day...”
    “I see. I see.”
    “The guy on my couch, his name is James. He's going to try to steal you, and when he fails—which he'd better, by the way,” I said, with affected sternness, “he'll come up with some bullshit excuse like he's looking out for me. He wouldn't want me to date the wrong type of girl.”
    “Sounds like it. So do you think—”
    “He's not actually a bastard though. Like I'll think he's the most selfish person on the planet, and then he'll do something that destroys my entire conception of him.” She opened her mouth to speak, but I plowed on. “Once we were out and this girl—she was wasted, could hardly remember her own name—was wandering around outside a bar looking for her friends. I ignored her, but James flagged a taxi and paid the driver to take her home. But then later the exact same thing happened—with another girl, that is—and he tries to convince her to come over to his place. Her friends stopped him, and then there was a lot of screaming. I can't figure him out. It's like he has a formula for viewing the world that's different from any sane person's, and when he acts thoughtful you can't attribute it to decency—it's just his alien worldview. I really can't explain it. Does that make any sense?”
    “Mmm.”
    “Yeah, you'll see.” I propped myself up on my elbow and looked into her eyes. “So, beautiful, tell me about your dreams for life. Or your roommates, if they're more interesting than mine.”
    She smiled, but it was forced. My skin tingled with embarrassment for boring her, and I wanted to dash out of the room and hide in the pantry until she left. But I stayed, my cowardice kept in check by pride and horniness. The homeostasis of my flaws allowed me to maintain a semblance of normalcy.
    “Well—” she began, but was interrupted by a muffled pounding at the door downstairs. I assured her one of my roommates would get it. The pounding continued, with an uptick in volume. When it became clear no one else would be opening the door I threw on a shirt and shorts.
    “It'll only be a second,” I said.
    “Hurry back.”
    “Coming,” I shouted.
    Downstairs, James was gone. The tablet he'd slept with was on the table, next to an empty mug and a crumb-filled plate. I assumed he'd gone out to grab a six pack from the store and had once again forgotten his keys, and I looked forward to chewing his ass off for interrupting my pillow-talk.
    Opening that door