Muscle Memory
Paul’s wife hadn’t been home since Monday. Slammed the front door when the chicken was still warm, the cocktails still cold. So when the footsteps startled Paul out of his not quite sleep, he was more than hopeful. The heat was unbearable which meant the large bay windows were wide open, begging for a breeze that would never come. He could hear each step in the driveway, heel to toe, quick and steady as if pacing. So he pealed his sweat-slick skin off the damp sheets and downed the glass on the nightstand, a melted ice version of what once was. Why was she pacing about? Was it really as dramatic as all this? But the red numbers on the alarm clock read 12:04 which told Paul it was already Thursday. And he wasn’t the type to wait and listen for footsteps to decide the future of his family. Dressed only in a ratty pair of gym shorts from back when he exercised, Paul left the bedroom, stopping briefly to peek on the twins who were asleep in puddles of sweat, before tiptoeing down the stairs. He considered tidying up the kitchen, but knew it wouldn’t matter. She would know. At the front door, the peephole only offered the movement of shadows and the dance of moths that bounced about the hot porch light. But the sound of footsteps persisted. He just wanted to see her face, to know she was okay, and apologize again. Things would be different this time.
When he opened the front door the heat enveloped him like a blanket, and stepping barefoot onto the porch, he soon realized it was not his wife in the driveway. His face fell, his shoulders slouched, and he became acutely aware of the runaway drops of sweat racing down his spine.
“Hello? Can I help you?” But as Paul moved out past the porch he knew exactly who it was. “Ray? What are you doing?”
“She kicked me out, Paul.” He had clearly been crying. But his steps were surprisingly steady.
“Again, Ray?”
“No, this time it’s for real.” He stopped pacing, stood still and stared at his scuffed brown shoes. Paul couldn’t believe Ray was in a suit. In this heat. “She meant it. She’s finished.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know. What can I do?”
The two men stood a good distance apart, and the light beaming from above the garage cast harsh shadows on the concrete.
“I’m sorry, Ray. But you know you can’t stay here. The twins. My wife. And you know the trouble we get into.”
“I know, I know. That’s not why I’m here.”
“Then why are you here? It’s a good three blocks. And the heat.”
“Your light was the only one on,” Ray said. Paul looked down the street. Like a long dark tunnel to nowhere. “The light. And instincts I guess. Muscle memory, you know.”
Paul did know. All too well. And it was something in Ray’s answer that made him want to go back in the house. To clean the kitchen. “I’m sorry, Ray. I wish I could help. You got money for a hotel?”
Ray swatted at the air as if saying goodbye to it all, mumbled something and shuffled off into the dark night. Paul felt a pang of guilt for his once-friend, but it wasn’t enough to call out. He remained on the front step for a moment, thinking of the word “hotel,” and wondered where she might be. Was she sleeping soundly or fretting over the twins?
The guilt and the air were stifling.
Then Paul quickly went back inside where at least there was some relief. But outside, the frenzy around the porch light continued. Wings stuck and fried against the hot glass. And those that bounced off seemed only to return, stubborn, flying back into the light.
Eric Scot Tryon
Eric Scot Tryon is a writer from San Francisco. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Glimmer Train, Ninth Letter, Willow Springs, Pithead Chapel, Los Angeles Review, Pidgeonholes, Sonora Review, Berkeley Fiction Review, Monkeybicycle and elsewhere. Eric is also the Founding Editor of Flash Frog. Find more information on Twitter @EricScotTryon.