"Where should I start?" He asked as he lit another cigarette, his hand shaking ever so slightly. He sat up in bed, licked his lips. "You taste so good on my lips, by the way," he said soberly. She leaned against him and their lips met in a kiss that deepened quickly. He ran his tongue over and under hers. Her heartbeat quickened and heat pooled between her legs. She felt her mind going blank as it often did whenever they touched, and she was surprised when he pulled away. "No--I want to get this over with so it's not between us. You want to know about me? I'll tell you," he took a pull from his cigarette and then dropped it into the cup. "So like I asked Maddy," he gave her a weak smile, "where should I start?"
"Start wherever you want to start," she said, relaxing and lying her head on his chest.
He leaned over to flick his ash and cleared his throat. "I grew up in Alabama as you know. My momma fussed over me a lot. Cried a lot. No one could blame her though. My daddy shot himself when I was three. I found him in the bathtub with brains leaking out the back of his head."
"Oh my God, Diesel," she said. His hold on her tightened as he continued.
"It's funny how clear I remember it. I lose lots of memories, we all do, but I can't fucking shake that one image. The red water, his pale naked body. His crutches--he lost a leg in Vietnam--lying beside the tub."
"Your father was in Vietnam?"
"Yeah. He was older. A lot older than my mom. They got married when she was fifteen, he was twenty-seven. It wasn't such a big deal back then, and in the south for that matter."
"Do you have many memories of your father from when he was alive?"
"A few. Fuzzy ones. More than anything I remember him lying limp in that bathtub. It doesn't take much for me to tell you how much I hate him. He messed me up bad, I think. Every few years for weeks at a time, I get these bad nightmares where I see him just lying there in the tub. Dead."
"You dreamed about it lately?"
"Shit yeah. In Iraq I saw it every night. Except sometimes it wasn't my dad in the tub, it'd be one of my friends, one of the ones I saw get blown up and shit." He stopped talking and they sat in silence for a moment. She didn't dare rush him. "There was one guy. He wasn't my friend, just in my platoon. He got shot one day while we was on patrol. I was talking to him then pop, he fell to the ground. Bullet tore his head all up. It wasn't clean little red bullet hole like in the movies. It was just, horrifying. I couldn't get the image out of my head for weeks. I was on my patrols in a daze."
"Hmm. What are some methods that you use to cope with stress, what did you do the night your platoon-mate died? Did you talk to someone about it? About how you felt?"
"You're sounding like a shrink," he said, swinging his feet to the floor and sitting with his back to her.
"I'm not trying to, Diesel, I'm just trying to get it all. Be an active listener. This is deep shit and I just, it's hurting me to hear it and I'm sorry if I'm not responding well," she said.
"No," he turned to look at her over his shoulder. "Okay, yeah I know you're trying to be a good listener. Just talking about this stuff gets me all bothered."
"You want to take a break? There's no rush tonight Diesel. You can tell me at your own pace. I just want to know what's hurting you inside, because I see it. That's all. I just want you to be happy, Diesel. You smile and it only seems to exist on the surface. I want you to feel genuinely happy, deep down."