ANN

Before she turned on me, I liked her body. It was small. She stood a
little over five feet, and wore a size zero. She smeared ant-hills of
cover-up over her acne-swamped Irish face.

My favorite thing was her chest – a disproportioned C-cup. When she
dressed slutty, I felt good. When she dressed in a sweater, I still
felt good, because I could see them hang well, bouncing underneath.

We'd been together for a week before we made it. She cried then. "I
don't want you to think I'm a slut," she said. I said I didn't. I said
she was beautiful. We made it again.

We went out with my friends often. They didn't like her. If she got
drunk, she'd cry back at my apartment. "I don't understand. You know
what you want to do with your life, why don't I?"

"I don't know," I'd say.

She once asked me if I liked Johnny Depp. I said I would like him if
he were in any good movies. "What about Edward Scissorhands?" she
said.

"It is the worst American movie," I said. "It's about a freak."

She introduced me to her parents a month after we started dating. Her
dad, an ex-cop, and I pretended to talk about sports sometimes. Her
mom hated me, I think because I had sex with her daughter.

So, her name was Ann. Her eyebrows were dark and her nose had an
upward tilt to it.

After that first week, we made it every night. I thanked God she
didn't want to talk afterwards. She'd whisper "cum, cum!" into my ear
when she wanted to get it over with. Besides that, she didn't make too
much noise. I usually liked it when the girl made an attempt at
sounding enjoyment. Not Ann.

Eventually the sex turned into just weekends. Then once a month. The
more in control she was of me, the less sex we had. She actually told
me at one point she was scared of getting pregnant even though she was
on the pill and I had rubbers.

One night, while lying on my couch, watching a black family comedy
show on basic cable, I heard the teeth of a key slip into the lock and
my apartment door opened. I turned my head and Ann stood there with a
backpack. I could see her breasts, nice and round through her college
sweatshirt. She had on her glasses, which she only wore when something
was wrong. She'd rather have a headache. She fell on me and cried into
the pocket on my t-shirt. "What's wrong?" I asked, rubbing her back.

"I can't stand them," she said.

"What happened?"

"Now that Chrissy's moving in with Dennis," – Chrissy was her sister
and Dennis was Chrissy's boyfriend – "they're all over me about
getting a career and they want to know why I haven't applied to
schools yet."

I made noises but didn't move my lips, struggling to keep my eyes open.

She leaned up and looked at me, puddles in her lenses. She grabbed a
patch of my hair and petted. "How did you know?"

"Know what?" I asked.

"What you wanted to do."

I worked in health insurance, arguing with doctors over whether or not
they could give care to patients. "I didn't."

She laid her head sideways on my chest. "Then why does Chrissy know?"

"I don't know."

Ann worked as a teacher's aid and didn't like it. Sometimes she cried
about the kids because most of them had bad parents.

***

I woke up the next morning and Ann left a note saying she was mad at
me because while she cried in my bed, I "felt her up." I sent her an
email, trying to sound respectable. "I'm sorry. That will never happen
again. But your breasts are very big. You should be happy about that.
People get surgery to look like you."

She sent me one back saying I was rude and that her chest was regular-sized.

I called her that night and said, "Hi." "Hey. What do you want?" "Just
seeing how it's going." "Fine."

***

"Okay," I said. "I'll talk to you later."

She called back a couple minutes later. "Why did you hang up on me?"

"You didn't want to talk."

"I didn't say that."

"Okay."

***

"I'll talk to you later," she said.

***

In a week, there were knocks on the door. "Coming," I said. I figured
it wasn't her since she had keys. But it was. She dressed in a white
tank-top, and I could see the outline of nipple. Her flat stomach
seemed to indent. "Oh, hey," I said. "What's going on?"

"If I moved to California, would you go?"

I didn't even think about it. "Sure."

"I think I'm going to go to a fashion school in California."

"Where in California is it?"

"L.A."

"Sweet. Did you apply?"

"Not yet." She walked in. "I think I really want to do this."

"Cool."

She looked at me. I wasn't sure if we should hug or what. I sort of
wanted to because I hadn't felt her tits against my stomach for a few
days. "Do you want anything?"

"What?"

"A drink. Or something."

"A drink? I'm asking you to move across the country with me."

I scratched my scalp, through the dense forest of curls. "Yeah. I know."

"You know what? F-you."

"Okay." I looked down at my jeans and noticed a small spot of pre-cum
against the fly. I guess I just missed out on celebratory moving sex.
I left two messages on her cell phone sounding upset, saying I was
happy for her, finding something she wanted for a career. I went
online and bought her a subscription to Vogue Magazine.

She didn't return my calls for a few days. I sent her an email, too.

I called her house a couple days later. No answer, but a couple
minutes later my phone vibrated. "Dren?"

"Yeah. Hey Mr. MacWilliams," I said.

"Is it okay if I talk to Ann? We're really sorry, by the way."

"No, she's not here. I haven't seen her in a few days. I thought she
might not be returning my calls, so I figured a landline would have to
pick up."

"She's not with you?"

"No. I haven't seen her. I've been looking for her. Like I said."

He hung up.

It stunk in my apartment and I sprayed deodorant on my couch and in my sheets.

I called Ann a few more times. A couple more days went by.

I watched 24-hour news one night after work, polishing off a six pack
of PBR. I jerked off twice to the female Washington correspondent with
her wet lips. There were three knocks on the door. "Coming," I said,
cleaning up with some crumbled napkins.

Three more knocks.

"Coming."

Mr. MacWilliams' hair was messed up. His mustache hadn't been trimmed
in a couple days and he smelled bad, like old beef. I turned my head
toward the spray deodorant. His yellow Polo shirt with the blue
stripes clouded with sweat stains.

"You see the news?" he asked.

"Yeah, actually. It's on now." He stared at the floor. "You wanna come
in?" I asked.

I stepped back as he hobbled into the apartment. I looked over his
shoulder at a polaroid of Ann's chest thumb-tacked to the wall.

"You've read the paper?"

"No. CNN."

"You should have read the paper."

"Is this about Ann?"

"Yeah."

"What's her deal? She come home?"

"Don't you know they're going to come for you?"

"No."

"Well, they will." He covered his nose with his left hand. "Jesus. It
smells terrible in here." He walked past me. "Where's that smell
coming from?"

I laughed. "Come on, man. It doesn't look like you've showered in a while."

He peeked over the side of the couch and took steps back. I walked
toward him and he turned around.

He reached into the pocket of his black pants and I hit him in the
jaw. He stumbled backwards a bit, and I ran toward him hitting him and
pushing him until he fell on the floor. I kicked and I kicked and I
kicked. His face broke, and I really liked listening to the cracks. I
reached in his pocket, and fished out his gun.

***

I got a call later on. My phone said, "Dave." A friend from college.
"Hey man, have you read the paper" he asked.

"No. I don't go out to get papers, cause if I do, I'll end up buying
other shit."

"Well, you can read online."

"I don't care for that."

"Okay, well you know they found Ann, right?"

"Oh yeah? Where was she? With some other guy?"

"What?"

"What, what?"

"You're her boyfriend."

"Yeah."

"And you didn't know where she was?"

"No."

"Dude, I don't know how to tell you this. People found her. She's passed."

"You mean dead?"

"Yeah."

"How?"

"I don't know, dude. Seriously, I hate to be the one to tell you this.
They only found some of her."

I hung up.

The day after that, I made two cookies in the toaster oven. I ate them
with some one percent milk and watched 24-hour news. It was mostly the
war and the stock market. I pulled it out when the wet-lipped
correspondent came on, dressed in Army fatigues. There were three
knocks on the door. I turned toward the far wall, over the couch.

Three more knocks.

"Well?" I said.

Three more knocks.

"Are you going to get it, or what?"

Three more knocks. "Open up!"

"You know, for two people in decent shape, you're a pretty lazy
father-daughter combo."

I pushed myself off the couch and walked toward the door. "Coming."

Randy Dalzell lives in Philadelphia, PA. He is 24 years old. He can be reached at Dalzellr@gmail.com