Peggy sat with Thom.
He was talking, she wasn't listening. She was thinking.
The usual question: To cut, or not to cut.
The arms were out. Not today. Maybe never again. Too many scars. Too many questions. Too many disgusted looks. Or worse, the pity. The horrible, sinking, ingratiating, slimy pity.
The legs were better. She wore black and if things weren't totally cleaned up the way they needed to be, the way they usually were, the black could cover any excess seepage.
Any of her that spilled out when it wasn't supposed to.
Her friend Anna asked her once why she did it. Only once. Peggy had heard the question and hadn't responded. That was a long time ago. She hadn't spoken to Anna in a long time, too.
Maybe she would change that. Maybe sometime soon.
Thomas would know what she should do.
Doubting Thomas.
He worked at the laundromat. That is to say, his income was generated from the laundromat. He borrowed clothes and then loaned them out to pawn shops. One day he would get around to tracking down all those borrowed pairs of Victoria's Secret tights. It shouldn't be that hard. There was only a butt-load, literally, of the things around town.
Thomas had read a story once called The Borrowers. "That's what I am, Peggy," he explained. "One of the little people. I take a piece here and there, something so small nobody will miss it. I take it as a recycler. As a part of the great chain."
"You're a thief, Thom." Peggy shrugged her shoulders. "It's okay. I'm not totally sure why but I think it's sexy."
Thomas smiled a slow, lazy smile. The kind of smile, Peggy thought, a guy might get after somebody gave him a really good blowjob. It turned her on directly, like a short spike of electricity.
"Hey, I never said I felt guilty about it."
"Do you?"
"I didn't say I didn't either." He got up from his chair overlooking the parking lot. They were sitting in front of room 214 drinking beer. He was, anyway. She was drinking mineral water and chewing on pieces of carrot. He threw a beer can down off the balcony.
Peggy felt a part of herself resist, wanting to complain at his littering. She hated littering. The waste. The buildup of debris and carelessness. She was about to tell Thom that you had to be a real heel, a real selfish pig if you littered. But she didn't. This moment with him - it was tenative. Fleeting. She'd deal with the imperfection. Pay the price.
When she heard the can hit the side and then bottom of a iron container below her she felt so guilty she wanted to cut a thick line down her quadricep.
Fuck Thom for being better than her.
"Do you want a beer?" Thom asked.
"No."
He opened two Coronas from an open, faded pink cooler at their feet. Stuffed lime slices in the necks. Handed one to her.
She looked up at him, irritated.
His eyes squinted. He looked displeased. Mean even.
"C'mon Peggy. It's hot outside. It's social to drink with a friend. Polite. Civilized."
She shook her head.
"I cut lines up and down my legs. You think I'm worried about being civilized?"
"Yes," he said. He put the beer down between her crossed legs as she sat on her yoga mat. He eased into his chair and seemingly with one motion finished a third of the golden liquid. "If you weren't worried about civilization you'd cut lines on your arms."
He touched her on her wrist, slid a soft finger slowly up the scars on her arm.
"Here. Like before."
A wave of goosebumps erupted from his touch. She pulled away.
She found herself chewing on her bottom lip. It wouldn't be long before the acid tang of blood would burst onto her tongue like wine. Like sadness. Like any other Thursday night.
Fuck it. Thomas was better than sadness.
Drunk was better than bloody.
She took the beer, lifted it to her lips and drank. She didn't stop until it was gone.
She felt herself resisting, pulling backwards, fighting against the tremendous momentum of dopamine and fear and ennui, but the words came out of her mouth anyway:
"Okay. Let's do it. Let's fuck."
