Jazz, Texas

Editor’s Note: The full title of this work is “Jazz, Texas: A Tragedy in Three Acts.” All rights are reserlved by the author Conrad Ilesia (not his real name).

Everyone is a fictional character and all places are make-believe. But enough about you.

Let’s get started.

ACT ONE : MACY (MORE OR LESS)

I. The Bar

A. Recently, More or Less

Saturday. A trio of musicians, all wearing tuxedos, finished a song and began exiting stage left. “Back in ten,” the band leader exclaimed.

I was finishing my first beer of the evening, Real Ale in a can, and Macy was at the bottom of her third glass of white wine.

“Mack’s going to die,” she said, almost short of my hearing.

Beyond the bartender’s area was a mirror. I could see her face in it as she considered her husband’s maybe death .

“We’re all going to die, love,” I replied to the image in the mirror.

“He’s gained thirty pounds in the last four months,”’ she continued as I looked straight ahead at her reflection, her dark eyes, black hair curling, almost wavy, at her shoulders. She is beautiful. I am lucky, seated beside her, the curve of her left breast inches from my right arm.

“The plant has him working crazy hours,” she continues needlessly, “and he decided to coach Adam’s soccer team—again; I told him he shouldn’t. He stopped working out.”

She sighed and looked at me. I kept looking straight ahead at her.

“Work. Soccer practice. Eat. Sleep. That’s his life. Steve, he used to get up at five a.m. and do these crazy-ass workouts. Made me, too, sometimes. Now, he barely gets out the door in time. He hardly talks to me anymore. It’s like he’s just given up,” she concluded. “And he’s started snoring like a bear."

“Not to be indelicate,” I started, looking at the side of her face while she stared straight ahead—

“But,” she offered, looking down, observing her drink.

I finished, “but how’s his life insurance policy? I mean, if you think he’s dying.”

I pictured running my left hand up the side of her bare right leg inside her car, pushing up the hem of her yellow dress after a long night of drinking, feeling the smoothness of her leg, my judgement breaking down, engine turned off.

That was a different time.

Today, she was wearing jeans. She suddenly grabbed both of my hands, forcing us into a face to face position on the bar stools. “Oh, Sammy.” I am formally Steven Samuel Barrios. She can call me anything she wants. I pictured her shadow over me, her eyes looking down at me, saying "Sammy, oh, Sammy, te quiero, te quiero,” while I am on the my knees in our hotel room looking up at her, her shoulders dominating over me.

But that / also / was a different time.

“I’m not worried about him dying, babe,” she said, releasing our hands. She wasn’t yelling but her voice was slightly louder and higher. “I’m worried about him getting too SICK to work,” the word “sick” clearly disgusting her. That Macy frown.

“Incapacitated,” I asked. She turned away from me and looked at us in the mirror.

Slightly louder, “Disabled?”

“I can’t carry him AND Adam.”

The band returned to the stage and started a Norah Jones tune and all I wanted to know was why can’t this be easy.

We had a few more drinks, paid the tab and I walked her to her car, a white BMW, brand new a few years back. We exchanged hugs and I drove home in my orange Chevy truck.

Home, I unlocked the door. It was almost 1 a.m. I walked the hall to my bedroom, stripped down and told Alexa to play some meditation music, throwing my shirt on the floor next to my bed. I could smell the perfume of her goodnight hug stirring from the shirt on the floor, the voices and music of Jazz, Texas, fading.

I dreamed the end of the story.

B. A Few Weeks Later

Monday @ the firm:

A.M. desk work, then court at 1.

Sometimes you are the windshield, sometimes you are the bug. Today I was the bug.

Now it’s 2:15 and I’m stepping out from Judge Johnson’s court room into the Sendera heat. Getting seared again.

I haven’t eaten all day.

I group texted Macy and Cecilia.

Lunch @ 5D??, I asked.

Cecilia texted back she had a ton of things to do at home; Macy didn’t answer.

I ended up at 5D Steakhouse alone with a burnt sirloin (exactly as ordered) and a few bottled beers. Willie and Waylon and the boys were on the juke behind me. I asked for the tab and Macy texted back, “Are you still there.” I had the tab and a swallow left of my Mic Ultra. I had so much work to do (so much work) at the office. I needed to get back and draw up an order from today’s 1:00 court appearance, answer voicemails, e-mails, who knows what else. I needed to go. “No, I have LEFT THE BUILDING lol” was the correct response. Instead:

“Still here. Just ordered another beer. Taking FOR-EVER to get here.”

“On the way,” she responded.

I sighed, let the bartender know I wanted another one and went over to the jukebox, picked out some songs: Things Going On by Lynyrd Skynyrd; God’s Gonna Cut You Down by Johnny Cash; Ain’t Much Left of Me by Blackberry Smoke. I returned to my bar stool, a new beer in front of me. It’s great coming back to cold beer.

Macy joined during Johnny Cash. God’s gonna cut us down. As she positioned herself in the stool beside me, her left breast brushed my right arm. I felt a tingle but ignored it, asked her how she was.

“This fucking coronavirus bullshit, man, where the fuck is everyone?”

There were two barstools to her right leaned up against the counter and a guy down the bar trying to finagle a chicken fried steak that hung over both sides of his plate. He was seated at least six feet away from us. The usual 10 high tops behind us were reduced to maybe 6, half of them empty, two of them with only one occupant.

“Fucking sucks,” she concluded, looking around.

She had on a blue and white striped shirt, open, over a white spaghetti strap blouse. She took the shirt off and put it on the chair back, picked up a menu, fanned herself and said out loud, “Margarita, no orange slice, no salt, easy ice, please,” continuing to fan herself. I was unaware there was a server in hearing distance but I heard from behind me, “anything else,” and I saw Macy shake her head no.

“Mack’s fucked up,” she said, looking at me. I didn’t respond. “I took him to the hospital. He’s acting like he has the fucking rona or something. You know, this comes at a really great fucking time in my life.”

Macy stared at the side of my face while I looked down, considering the sweat on the side of my beer bottle, wondering how the label felt about all this bullshit, sweat dripping down into its crevices. It could not have been happy, listening to us. I felt bad for it. “Well my fall from grace was a sight to see,” Blackberry Smoke started. I didn’t respond to Macy until she startled me by asking, “Doesn’t it?”

“I mean,” I started, turning to look at her now—up from my bottle—but she turned away from me, plunked the menu down on the counter and stared at it. If we were a real couple, this would be the moment I asked, “Honey, is something wrong?” But I had already dreamed the end of the story. She was being dramatic. I honestly did not know that this was a better or worse time than any other time in her life. Could I say that? I’m thinking not. Not is almost always the right answer for me. Next up: bitch about the service.

“The fuck is taking so long? It’s mix, tequila and ice. Shake, plop and drop.” She sighed. The whole world against her. “Fuck.” I could almost see the ensuing Yelp review.

“Babe,” I said. Oh, shit. That slipped. I didn’t mean to say that. She put her left hand on my right leg, both of us looking at the glasses on the bar counter behind the servers’ area. One second, two seconds. She took her hand back.

“Mace,” I said, starting over. “What is going on with Roger? Why did you have to take him to the hospital? What do you mean he’s fucked up?” Roger Maxwell Portela. She called him Mack. Mace and Mack. Cute. High school sweethearts. Well, kinda sorta. She had to get her ya-ya’s out during college. They broke up, got back together. A few times. But, hell, Mack was almost my friend. I put my right hand on her left leg. One second. “Mace.” Two seconds. “Macy?” Three seconds. She removed my hand.

“He knows about us.”

Bartender: “Do you know what you want, ma’am?”

Macy to me: “What did you order, kiddo?”

Me: “Wh—-“

Bartender to me: quizzical look, like, did you forget, old man?

Then she tells Macy what I had, item by item. Macy tells her, “I’ll have the same. But I’m a decent human being. Don’t burn the steak.”

I would like to think the bartender, cute young thing, fake blonde hair, laughed and said “yes ma’am” but all I heard was “yes ma’am.”

Now it was my turn to be dramatic.

Stage whisper, the blood returning to my face, “God damn it, Mace, you can’t just drop something like that on me.”

She shot back, finger in my face, vicious whisper, “Mack’s going to die of his heart, his weight or this fucking covid shit. Give me a fucking break.” She tossed the straw of her drink aside, no salt, and downed roughly half of her margarita. I thought, well, hell, he could die of all three. I downed about half of my new beer, fuck the label’s feelings. She glared at me sideways. Put her left hand on my right leg. One second, two seconds. She removed it and finished the margarita and motioned Abby, our server, probably 20 years old, for another one.

“His insurance is paid up.” She was looking straight ahead. She betrayed no emotion.

“Macy, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t give me that shit. Nobody cares what happens to us, Barrios. Adam is going to be 10, no father and a fucking lunatic alcoholic mother. No chance.” She waved her hands in front of her, like an umpire saying, “Safe!” She repeated, "No chance.”

“Macy, stop that shit. You are not getting a crying session out of me. Mack is going to fight this; he will be fine and you are going to fight it with him. This virus thing is going to pass over us and we will all go over to Jazz and drink and not give a fuck. And you know I worship you. Don’t say stupid shit about yourself. You’re goddamn amazing. Adam is amazing. You run a great household. That whole house is all you.”

She countered, “You really think he will stay married to a whore? We are all going to have a shot together at Jazz? You’ve lost your fucking mind, Steve-o.”

Oh yea. He knows about us. That. Nobody cared what became of me.

II. The Past (First Draft)

Editor: Let’s float backward in time. Conrad is a little drunk. Let’s listen in.

(A. Armadillos)

Dude, this is like six months earlier, you know? Yes, I’ll have one more while I finish this section.

Thing is, I had already been on the patio once, my anxiety slowly fading, like the Beatles on Hey Jude. I was watching a couple of guys with acoustic guitars set up on the far side.

After a few minutes of breathing exercises, I went back inside the bar, re-joined the party, sat between Cecilia at the head of the table to my left, laughing and joking, and Macy to my right. After the fourth beer, I became unconcerned that her husband could easily catch me staring at his wife’s cleavage, legs. Trying to inch my right knee closer to her left thigh.

Then she got up and walked out of the room. My eyes traced the backside of her short black dress until she disappeared behind the wall separating the dining area from the bathroom. I talked to Cecilia. Five minutes. Ten minutes.

Then Macy walked back in. Macy, my friend.

I looked at her as she re-appeared from around the wall and she looked at me. In that moment, eyes locked, the past—all innocent flirtation—ceased.

I wanted her. Finally, at last, I was a man, not just a friend. I could feel it.

I looked to my right, past her husband, anticipating her walking by, all in now, fully vested.

Macy Portela was no longer the laughing girl Cecilia and I hung out with, sneaking in drinks before the end of the day. She was a woman, dead serious femininity, as far away from me as any fantasy would ever be. She touched the back of her husband’s neck and began to sit next to him, between us. He ignored her, engaged in loud conversation with his friend across the table.

She was next to me.

I exhaled / but / I could not inhale. I cupped my hands around my mouth and leaned back, each second pressuring me more urgently to WALK and I’m growing more determined—no—I got this, I can’t leave the table again, but I feel my leg start to bounce and / shhh / breathe, don’t talk, no one notices, you’ll be fine, breathe, calm, short inhale / and / then

her hand on my shoulder

“Are you okay? Do you want to go outside?”

I stand up and start walking and I say, “Yes.”

I’m outside on the patio before I turn around to see if she’s followed me, the breaths coming heavy, like the end of a long run. She joins me a few beats later, touches the side of my shoulder and I exhale.

I say, “Let’s sit at that table.”

We walk though the crowd, taking our seats, facing the music. She is looking at me. She smiles. I relax.

“Oh, thinking about our younger years,” the lead singer starts the next cover. “There was only you and me.”

“Sam,” Macy says. “My husband is waiting.”

“We were young and wild and free.” I put my arm around the back of her chair, her bare shoulders inches from my fingers. I sing along, “Now, nothing can take you away from me.”

Baby you’re all that I want.

Her phone screen lights up. “I have to go back in,” she says. She leans over and kisses the top of my forehead.

We’re in heaven.

B. The Pool

Further on up the road. But not now. Not just yet.

Some weeks later, after the patio, Macy invited me to a pool party at the Portela homestead. The party, like everything else at that time, was canceled before it could happen but she said I could still go if wanted. It would just be us. No more than six people per City ordinance.

Macy. Bikini. I’m all in.

Roger, Macy and I, their living room, sunshine shining outside; them on the couch, me on the side chair. Roger lifts up his vape pen and waves his hand at me. Come. Sit.

I consider my options.

I could hear Adam and two of his friends outside. Macy was on the far end of the couch, near the window, closest to the pool outside. Mack was on the couch and, final answer, I took my seat next to him. You good, he asked, as he switched the pen on and a tiny blue light came up on on top of the device. Roger lighting up actually surprised me but I played it off, settled in next to him as he handed the thing to me, raised his eyebrows and said, “It’s strong.”

Macy to the right, Mack in the middle, me here, my body warming like the vape in my right palm.

Unlike Bill Clinton, I did inhale, perhaps a little too deeply, and started coughing. Cough, cough. As Mace looked out the window at her only son, Roger grabbed the pen in a fake-aggravated move. “Fucking told you,” he said, smiling. Cough, cough.

He offered it to the woman to his right. “Babe?”

Macy continued looking out the window, waved him away with her left hand.

Roger inhaled, turned the pipe off and I watched the tiny blue light fade out.

Houston was leading Colorado 10-7 in the bottom of the seventh and, even though I wasn’t an Astros fan, I felt fine. We watched a few innings and Macy said she was going to get some sun, leaving us for the pool and her kid. Her only son.

My beer runs out and I ask Rog if he wants a Michelob Ultra from the cooler outside, wanting to see Macy laid out. His eyes are closed and he says, no, just grab a couple of Modelos from the fridge, which I do, managing a glimpse of Macy on the chaise outside.

I come back to Mack, sit beside him, split the beers. Watch the rest of the game with him.

Astros win 10-8 and Adam comes busting in,”Dad!”

Rogers says “huh!” like he just woke up, “What’s up, little man?”

“Can you take us home!”

Dad sleepily says, “You are home.”

His son explained that his friends wanted to go to their homes and that he wanted to go with them and Mack said sure, sure, downed the last bit of his Modelo, found his sunglasses and keys and headed out the back door, smiling at me.

I’m alone inside my friends’ house with half a beer.

I walk outside, ostensibly to get another one. Macy has moved into the pool, her back toward me. I root around in the cooler, looking at the back of her wet hair, looking longer than is reasonably necessary.

“You thirsty,” she asks me.

“Yea,” I offer. “Mack drank the last beer.” A lie.

“Sit beside me,” she says.

I walk over in my trunks and tee, sit on the side of the pool and drop my feet in the water.. “Thanks for inviting me,” I say, sighing and exhaling at the same time. “It was a good party.” Another lie.

“Of course,” she says, spilling misdirected sarcasm, bitterness and boredom.

She rubs the side of my leg absentmindedly, like we are more than what we are, looks up at me sideways, “come in,” she says / asks. I take off my shirt and slip in beside her. I gasp. Somewhere between Mack leaving with the kids and my walking outside, she has taken her swimsuit off. She’s naked. She looks at my astonished face and laughs. She grabs me between my legs and squeezes. I turn around to get out. Mack smoking weed and nude Macy grabbing my balls is too much today. Just too much.

“Don’t be a pussy,” she says, laughing, turning her head toward me, as I launch myself from the pool and go to the lounge chair, grabbing my dry tee shirt from the chair. If someone were to search the Urban Dictionary for the definition of “what the fuck,” my face right now is the page they would turn to. She is looking at me from the pool, every hint of playfulness gone. Her wet hair tangled up in brunette, she says, “You’ll never get another chance.”

I consider the possibility that she is telling the truth and wonder how far away her husband and child are, after dropping off the party guests.

I put the tee shirt back down on the lounge chair and stand, needing a decision. I consider the possibility there will be plenty of other chances and, discounting that, walk back to the pool, surrendering. I slip beside her again in the warm summer water and she grabs my hand and puts it between her legs. She turns to face me, tiptoeing to keep her mouth above the water, gaining leverage. My two middle fingers find a home inside of Macy. She kisses me lightly. Then more deeply. Moans louder as I accelerate my two fingers inside her. She gyrates repeatedly until she stops. Then she pushes my hand away, separates from me, moves to the pool wall and leans back against the side of the pool. I start to lean back as well, highly aroused, what is going to happen next shooting through my brain, and she says, “Mack.”

A car door slams.

I get out of the pool, grab the tee and head back inside.

C. The Affair

We had sex six times after the pool. Three times at the Hilton, twice in my office, once in her BMW outside Riverside. Car sex focuses the attention.

First things first.

1. The Car

1:00 Saturday afternoon, working at my office.

Macy texts me, “Hey, did you already eat lunch?”

I had not even started thinking about lunch but now I’m thirsty. Hungry.

I suggested Riverside Pumphouse and she agreed, give me an hour, she said.

I worked and / then/ I sat on the patio at Riverside at 2:00, waiting for her.

She got to the patio at a quarter after two in a yellow sun dress, the hem sitting an inch above her knee.

I had the chicken salad; she had the ribeye, rare. Gross, by the way.

After we ate, we turned our attention solely to alcohol. I continued to order Love Street; she had her fruity purple vodka drink.

She said something funny and I put my hand on her knee, stroked her leg up a little, laughing at her wit, down and then up again quickly, slightly pushing up that yellow hem, then brought my hand back to my own leg, saying, “That’s funny, Mace.”

She didn’t encourage. She didn’t resist. Then / later:

“What ya doin-next, babe,” Drunk Macy asked me, the sun beating down on the over-size umbrella above our wrought-iron table.

“I need to go back to the office,” I said.

She didn’t say anything for a minute.

“You,” I asked.

She waited another minute, squinting at her half-finished drink, while I flashed back to my fingers inside her underneath the still waters of the Portela pool. She said this will be your only only chance.

“I could use a nap,” she said. I imagined her on that couch in her house where her and I and Mack sat getting high before the pool thing. I imagined her slipping out of that yellow sun dress, nothing but bare breasts and no panties, lying down, hands on her abdomen, drifting into dreamland.

A minute passed. She sipped her drink down to the quarter mark and sighed.

Go home, I thought, Macy, take a nap. I’ll work and call it a day. I’ll call it a Saturday.

She stared out past her drink, beyond the patio to the river that the bar was named after and sighed again. You can always barrelhouse, baby, by the riverside.

Wait a sec.

“Do you want to nap at the office,” I ask.

She says nothing.

The waiter came to the table, asked if she wanted another fruity fruit-fruit thing.

“No,” she said, “we’re tabbing out.”

Are we?

“Yes ma’am,” he said and left us.

“You have work to do,” she slurred, high on alcohol and sun.

I felt my chest tighten.

“I do,” I said.

She let another minute go.

“Do you want to crash on the couch while I work,” I broke the silence.

“You shouldn’t drive right now,” I answered myself.

“Fuck you, Barrios,” she said, but it came out fugg-ooo-barry-ooo.

I drove her to my office. I fixed a pillow on the far end of the couch and she laid down. I felt her left breast as I dragged the blanket over her body.

I heard her express v this v

Mmmmm

The feel was nice but the “mmmmmm” was non-comittal.

And I had miles to go before I slept. I turned my back to her and lit up my Mac.

“I’ll watch you work,” was the last thing she said before she started breathing heavily, deep in sleep. Watch me then.

After an hour, I put my glasses on the desk in front of me, rubbed my eyes. It had turned dark outside. Should I keep trying to work? Should I take a break?

I felt Macy’s hands on my shoulders. Touching, almost massaging. Before I could get comfortable, she spoke. But before she spoke, I thought of someone else.

Alicia Garcia. All sexy, five foot three of her. She sold me a cell phone and I got her divorced. My wife caught me hanging around her a couple of times but I was always careful and, while Alicia enjoyed the fancy meals, she made it clear she wasn’t interested in an older, married man.

One day, after my wife left me and left me the house, I awoke earlier than usual on a Sunday morning. I hadn’t been to church since my wife left me, six, seven months ago. Oh, hell, that’s not true. I stopped going years before she left me, even though she kept urging me to go—at the end, not even her church anymore, just A church.

So it was against type this particular, lonely Sunday morning when I went to First Sendera Baptist Church, like a stranger.

Even stranger when the pastor said, “Before we get started with praise and worship, I have to report that First Sendera Church lost a beautiful, wonderful soul early this morning and Heaven has gained an adoring angel. Those of you who knew Alicia Garcia know what a joyful, giving spirit she was. She was only 30 and she loved this body of believers and, sister, we loved you and we will miss you. Pastor,” he continued, looking at his wife seated in the front row, “would you like to say a few words?”

I still have not lost the shock of those words as the hymnal slipped my hands and hit the floor.

As the pastor’s wife began talking about her more, my disbelief faded. A few more traits, where she worked, who her family was, and I made a positive ID. But the shock of those words remain.

“Please be seated,” he said.

I sat down, retrieving the hymnal from the floor; leaned back in my seat, closed my eyes.

“Steve,” Alicia said, holding my hand in the church pew next to me, “let’s go across the street.”

“Barrios,” Macy repeated, digging her fingers into my shoulders, “‘I said, ‘Let’s go across the street.’” I disentangled my hand from Alicia’s and stood. I stood, turned around, put my hands on Macy’s shoulders, facing her now, focusing, and said, “Let’s.”

We drank. As always, I forgot about Alicia. (Until she comes back.)

Brent asks Macy if she wants anything for last call.

We decline.

We stand on the sidewalk outside Haligan’s for a moment and then I hug her goodnight, start walking toward my car.

“Sam,” she said, “where’s my car?”

Where was her car? Oh, yea.

“Come with me,” I said, turning around.

She did. Got in my truck.

I drove her back to Riverside, parked next to her almost-new BMW, giving her another goodbye hug (You can never have too many.) inside the cab of my truck, an awkward twist, told her to be safe.

“I don’t want to go home,” she said.

“Mace,” I said. She needed to go.

She reached over and turned the key to my truck to the off position.

“Mace,” I repeated, “no.”

“At least walk me to my car,” she pouted, pulling the keys out of the ignition, holding them in her hand.

“Mace,” I said, almost laughing, “your car is literally right there.”

“So we’re done,” she asked, her eyes narrowing. This was serious.

No, of course, we were not done. Not like this.

No one cares what time I get home. But Macy has a husband, a kid. Waiting for her.

“No,” I said. We’re not done.

“Good,” she said, the right answer to the wrong question.

Macy got out of my truck, then leaned her torso back in the passenger compartment , door still open, her black hair falling in front of her eyes.

“You coming,” she asked, my truck keys dangling in her left hand.

I exited the driver’s side, closed the door. I went around the back of the truck, and we walked two steps to her car.

She click-clicked her car doors open. Before she could open her door, I went full college sophomore on her, turned her around, pinned her to the side of her door, reaching for her hips, trying to kiss her.

She pushed me away, handed me my keys, said, “Get inside, stupid.”

I did as I was told, walking around the back of her car to the passenger side. Getting inside, I closed the door.

We sat in silence for a moment and then she said, “Your seat scoots back.”

I really wasn’t into this. Our pool stuff could be written off—one time. Mistake. Secondly, her alcohol consumption. Was she going to wake up tomorrow, full of regret and confession? She leaned over, found a lever under the seat between my legs and the seat slid backwards.

“Isn’t that better,” she asked. It was not. A passerby, looking into the passenger window, would only see her face mouthing words. I was hidden, between the front seat area and the back seat area.

I was growing increasingly uncomfortable. I did not find this sexy. She did not want to go home.

“Sammy,” she said.

“Macy,” I asked.

“It also reclines,” she continued.

I looked at her, my verbal protest paralyzed.

“Do I have to do everything,” she asked, not waiting for the answer. She reached over beyond my right thigh and lifted another lever, which sent me backwards, and as she brought her hand back she grabbed my genitals before hauling herself on top of me.

“You like,” she asked me.

Before I could answer, she kissed me. It was forceful. Like a college junior.

I became erect and found my hands on her hips. Yes. I like this.

“Macy,” I said, moving my hands from the back of her body to the front, on her pelvis, pushing her away.

She got off of me but she crouched between my legs and unzipped my pants and began pulling them down. My body did what my body did.

“Macy, no,” I said but her hands were already around the base of my cock and her mouth was on it, her head moving up and down. She took my hand and moved it to the top of her head. My other hand soon joined, voluntarily. The next time I said “Macy” it was followed by a low moan.

Afterward, she said, “You owe me one.”

2. The Hilton (Payback)

She left Mack at home with their kid and checked into Room 209 at four o’clock. I still had at least an hour’s worth of work to go.

She called a mutual friend and masturbated with that person over the phone. Her appetizer.

I got there at 5:15.

She let me in.

The door closed behind me as she approached me, all curves, lipstick and wavy black hair.

“You’re all dressed up today,” she said, lacing her hands around the back of my neck, tiptoeing gratuitously to kiss me.

“I,” I hesitated. I thought about saying (, “You know what I do for a living, right”), but I didn’t.

“I just got out of court,” I said instead.

She started unknotting my tie, said, “You’re always so goddam formal, Barrios.”

I had wanted to relax, maybe shower, watch TV and then act like a real couple fora minute. She had promised me the evening. Her husband would not expect her until after the bars closed. We had time.

As Macy stood, so close to me, my imagination wandered to (Alicia grabbing my balls, kissing me, taking my tie off, unbuttoning my shirt.

After) After feeling me harden, Macy released my crotch, pushed me away and said, “You owe me one.”

She (Macy) took me by the hand and led me to a chair. She had set up the chair in front of a wall mirror.

We stood in front of the chair and / then /

She took her pants off, no panties, and she (Macy) sat in the chair so that I was looking down at her half-naked body, naked from the waist down.

“You owe me one,” she repeated.

I got down on my knees and positioned my head between her legs.

She smiled at herself in the mirror, seeing the back of my head between her legs (slowly opening now), my hands on her knees, following their separation.

A few moments later, she is lifting her behind off the chair and I cannot speak.

I cannot speak but she can. As she is lifting her torso off the chair toward me, her hands gripping each side of the chair, she whispers, “Sammy,” then relaxes and sits back down in the chair. Her chair.

“Oh, Sammy.”

“Let’s go to bed, Mace,” I say afterwards.

She leans over me, kisses the top of my forehead.

“Te quiero,” she says, the shadow of her shoulders on me. “Te quiero.”

ACT TWO : ROGER

III. The Cancer

Roger Maxwell Portela twisted his head to the left and looked out the window of the hospital’s third story waiting room. He had been sitting over there in the corner, wall behind him, window to his left, waiting for an hour, no magazine, no cell phone. The air conditioner noise muted the other low voices in the room. He stared at the clouds now out of his grasp, the sun hidden, doing its work invisibly. Covid 19 shut down any meaningful work. His wife had an affair with his friend. And now this. Stomach cancer. He thought he was tough but when he thought about Adam living without him—or worse—with a fake father, he started tearing up. Or worse even yet, with Barrios, his fake friend. Any inclination to cry for himself evaporated at the thought of Sam. He momentarily saw them (Macy and Sam) together.

At his house.

In their pool.

In her car.

His jaw clenched. He hated that little fuck. A door opened. “Mr. Portela.” He stood. “Dr. Michaels will see you now.”

It was not a good visit. As it turned out, Mack was still dying of cancer. No hero or Christ came to his rescue.

He longed to cry.

But mostly he just stared out of windows.

IV. The Separation

In ordinary times, Mack thought, walking away from the clinic, I would work on my marriage, forgive Macy. Have a revenge affair. Forgive Barrios, maybe even invite him over, rubbing her shame in her face. But these were not ordinary times. I fucking survived Covid only to catch stomach cancer. Fuck. (He gritted his teeth, jaw still clenched.) He was rapidly losing the weight Macy had bitched about him gaining. Fuck her. But mostly fuck Barrios, that rat bastard. I would love to turn my Dolly to him, up against his temple, click off on that fuck.

Mack winced in pain, feeling the disease in his stomach, doubling over by the side of his truck, the vomit refusing to come.

These were not ordinary times.

We’re separated, he thought.

Separated.

He leaned over again beside his truck and this time it came. He threw up.

Roger stepped around it, got in his truck, started the engine. Roger put on his sunglasses, cranked up the AC, the only noise in the cab. Even with the sunglasses, he squinted his eyes: fuck her. She doesn’t deserve Adam. He stared out the window five (ten? / fifteen?) minutes. The sun faded.

As he sat in his truck, he thought about the money he was spending. He was spending as much as he could, hid some and gave away the rest. He would take Adam and leave her with nothing. He had nothing. Barrios, he laughed, gunning the engine for no reason, she is your problem now. You can have the bitch but you can’t have my kid. He revved the engine again before driving away from the doctors’ offices. There would be a six pack of Tecates waiting for him at home. Friday, he would see Adam. Soon, he would have Adam every day. He had to win his case.

Sitting on his couch that night, midway through his fifth beer, which he dropped onto the floor of his apartment, Roger closed his eyes as glass broke beneath his knees. God granted him 75 minutes of peaceful sleep before he felt pain again.

Then, he slept no more, avoiding the glass, groping for his painkillers, before finding his way to his unmade bed, tossing and turning and wincing until the sun arrived and he needed to work.

V. The Offer, Part 1

Friday, 6 p.m.

Macy knocks on the door to Roger’s apartment.

Adam, Macy’s only son, can barely contain himself; he’s so excited to see his father. Macy never imagined she would hate her own kid.

She is knocking again as a stooped Roger slowly opens the door.

Crypt-keeper, she thinks.

Then something happens to her.

Something weird.

Really weird.

She becomes Sunday school Macy.

Adam jets inside to the Xbox in the living room and Roger is slow closing the door. Nothing romantic. Just sick, old and slow. She should not:

“Mack,” she says, the verbal equivalent of sticking an umbrella in the doorway of a rapidly closing door.

He looks at her, uninterested.

“We should be together. We’re ruining Adam.”

Adam is playing Fortnight. He just whooped. Adam is not ruined.

Roger shuffles his decaying feet, cocks his head toward Adam and says, “He’s fine.”

Roger starts to close the door again and Macy steps inside the apartment, forcing Roger to take an unsteady step backwards.

“God damn it, Mack,” she says, whispering loudly, closing the door behind her, glancing over his shoulder toward her son.

Her posh was gone.

“You’re fucking dying.”

She is pointing her finger at him.

“ You’re on your goddam deathbed.”

Accusing him.

She is jabbing the air in front of his face.

“And you’re goddam so fucking prideful. Goddam it.”

She gulps at the air between them.

“Just swallow it!”

It was Roger’s turn to look over his shoulder.

Adam, like he said, was fine.

Macy recalibrated her voice back down to a controlled whisper.

“Swallow your pride,” she said, her eyes welling. She stepped closer to him. Rubbed his left pectoral. Just the way he liked. He still had some muscle there. Not as much. But still. He did not take a step backward.

“Let me take care of you,” she said, the tears coming at last. “Please.”

He took her hand off his chest, stared at her. He had no emotion. Then:

“No.”

“No,” he said. “Macy. No.”

They looked at each other, the sounds of Fortnight filling the apartment.

“You should go, Mace,” he said. “I love you.”

He loves me but I need to go. She tried to maintain eye contact but she lowered her head.

“Yea,” Adam yelled beyond them, his fist pumping the air.

“You got what you wanted, Mace,” Mack said, no hint of malice in his voice.

But she had not. Not anywhere near.

Macy accepted her defeat, did not look into Roger’s eyes, did not acknowledge her only child.

Turning her back on her husband, she walked out of his apartment, closed the door behind her and, standing in the darkened hallway, said, for the last time, “I love you, too, Mack.”

She put her hands in her pockets, felt her car keys. She noticed she wasn’t crying.

Macy Portela drove her white BMW to her and her husband’s and her child’s two-story home. Upstairs now on her bed, alone, she turned her phone off and, lying on top of her lavender comforter, she feel asleep.

She did not cry.

VI. Judgment

The moment she saw him, on the second day of the trial, walk in on his cane, she knew she had won custody of Adam.

Despite that, the smirk on her lawyer’s face as Mack slowly walked past them to sit with his lawyer across the table from them disgusted her. Ten grand was a lot to pay for one little victory.

“All rise,” the bailiff loudly commanded.

It had been a rough two days.

The judge waved the courtroom to be seated.

The parties took their seats across from each other, ready for the court’s pronouncement.

“Mr. Portela,” Judge Travis slowly drawled, settling into his chair, “I think you’re a fine gentleman and I believe you have done a great job as a father. In ordinary times, I would give you all the relief you are requesting. I am not impressed with the caliber of your spouse’s behavior, as I have come to understand it over the past few days we have had the … pleasure…of spending together.”

Macy glared at the judge, who was rifling through some documents in front of him, financial statements, photos of her and her paramour at Riverside, photos of Adam, inventories.

“ I am granting the divorce you requested on the grounds of adultery. And that,” he said, “is unfortunate. I am dividing the assets accumulated during the marriage per your lawyer’s recommendation as contained in Petitioner’s exhibit,” he continued, pausing to look at the paperwork in front of him, shuffling through some more papers, “three. I do find, based on the totality of the circumstances, and taking into account my finding of fault, that this is a just and right division of the accumulated marital property of the parties. There has been no allegation of separate property and I find there is none.”

Macy looked at her husband—his head was down— and then at her lawyer—his smirk was gone. Macy was receiving an interest in the home and the South Padre condo but none of Roger’s retirement and none of his life insurance, per Exhibit Three.

“However, sir,” Judge Travis continued, “when it comes to conservatorship of your minor child, I am unfortunately constrained by the law which states I must rule in the best interest of the child. Mrs. Portela’s attorney has presented clear and convincing evidence that, solely due to your medical condition, awarding you primary custody of the child would prove fundamentally detrimental to your child’s physical, mental or emotional well-being. Not to be indelicate, sir, but this court is of the opinion that the child would more likely be taking care of you than you taking care of him should the court award you primary custody. The parenting plan suggested by Mrs. Portela in Respondent’s exhibit…four…is adopted by the court and made an order of the court.”

The court reporter stopped. The judge stopped. Macy and Mack stopped. Even the lawyers just looked at each other for a moment.

It was over. No one won.

“Who will be drafting the order,” the judge asked.

“Your honor, unless counsel objects,” Roger’s lawyer said, “I will.”

Macy’s lawyer slightly nodded his head.

“Very well,” the judge said, “ we’re adjourned.”

And just like that, Mack and Macy were no longer Mack and Macy.

ACT THREE : STEVE

VII. The Offer, Part 2

I asked Macy to lunch. Macy. Divorced Macy. I wanted to fuck her again. Yes, I wanted to fuck her. It had been a while. Sure, I masturbated to her occasionally since the affair slowed and then, unnoticed, stopped but mostly I wanted to sit next to her, both of us staring straight ahead, not talking, listening to jazz, Joshua Redman. She was free now. She was divorced. She got what she wanted. Now—finally now—we could be together.

But Macy said “no.”

She had a lunchy thing with her kid. That’s cool, maybe tomorrow. No, she says, we can do it after I get out. They start at 11:30, she explains. You eat, I’ll watch, she says. I love it when she watches.

We met at Toppers.

She was over-the-top flirty. Touching my knee, my shoulder, rubbing the back of my neck, laughing at my bullshit jokes, drinking two to my one. Something was up. It was fun but it didn’t feel right.

“Macy,” I said, “I want to talk to you.”

“We are talking,” she said, rubbing my leg. She did not remove her hand. She did not stop looking at my eyes.

“On the patio,” I said.

Her eyes panicked.

The last time we were on the patio I had read to her, one of my short stories, and she told me she had lost a child. The serve, that day so long ago, to my surprise—deep in conversation—had brought tissue out to her. I guess she has seen Macy distressed through the glass partition.

I used that moment to signal “this is serious.” The patio. She hesitated and / then /

“Sure, Sam,” she said.

She led the way. A silence. Not our bar-stool by bar-stool silence. A different silence.

We sat across from each other, drinks in hand.

The patio was part of building. Instead of walls or windows, it was simply open. There were standing fans and overhead fans. It’s South Texas. It’s still hot. Macy is annoyed. Not flirty.

“What is it, Barrios,” she asks, feeling up her Vodka water.

“You know I care about you,” I say.

She nods “of course” silently.

“And Adam,” I say.

She drops her hand off her drink. Her body stiffens.

“Mace,” I say, going for the three pointer, “I love you. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I want to marry you.”

She is flat.

“We can raise Adam together, “ I offer.

She says, without thinking, “No, Sam. “ And all those sluggers went down like lead.

“Can we go back inside,” she asks me.

I nod “of course.”

And this was the moment that Steven Samuel Barrios and Macy Portela were no longer Steve and Mace.

I’m still not over watching her walk back into Toppers, me behind her, all innocent flirtation gone.

VIII . The Funeral

I signed Mack’s book “St. S. Barrios” and stepped into the chapel. Three people knew about me and Macy and one of them was dead. I hugged Macy, the “I’m sorry for your loss” unsaid.

As we broke our embrace, I saw Cecilia on the second row to the left, the friends row.

I took a seat beside Cecilia. Eventually Macy took her place in front of us, her black hair, from behind, at once new and familiar.

There was so much I did not tell Cecilia. I waited until everyone else was crying over Roger to let my tears come. I briefly held Cecilia’s hand but let it go almost as soon as she let me grasp it. We did not comfort each other and her eyes remained dry.

After the ceremony, we sat beside each other looking at the casket, the flowers, the mourners, until she said, “Are you going? I need a ride.”

We drove to Memorial Cemetery in silence. I think. Maybe we chatted.

I missed us. Alcoholics Anonymous. Our group text name. Fuck. I missed us. Before the betrayal, before the sex, before goddam Mack dying. God, I miss us.

I could tell Cecilia anything. Could have.

The priest was walking away.

I didn’t tell her anything.

In the car, we talked about our plans for the upcoming weekend.

IX. The Move

“Hey Barrios,” the text message from Macy read, “gotta tell you something babe.”

It had been four months.

“In court,” I replied. A lie from my bed.

This couldn’t possibly be good.

“Let me know when you’re out.”

No offer of lunch, of drinks. This couldn’t be good.

I got out of bed, showered, got dressed in slacks, shirt and tie. Hell, even some nice shoes for effect. Sitting on the couch in the living room, I texted Macy, “I’m out.”

We met for drinks and, as it turns out, it wasn’t good. With Mack and most of his money gone, a child no longer a small child, sweet sixteen, it seems, turned thirty-one. She had to work, had to carry herself and Adam. Dating wasn’t for her. This being alone thing, she said, had grown on her.

“I have to work,” she repeated, resigned to her low-brow fate. And finish raising the kid, I thought. I also thought about reiterating my offer but—with me—she would still have to work. As I was finding the words to reformulate my offer, she interrupted my thoughts—

“I took a job,” she said.

I mean…good? She was not smiling so I did not smile and I kept my hands to myself.

“I’m moving to Tempe,” she said.

“Temple,” I asked, thinking that’s not so bad.

“Sam,” she said, pausing, “Arizona. Tempe, Arizona.”

There was no use in faking “oh, cool, I’ll see you sometime; I’ll fly up” or any other such nonsense. This was the break up after the break up.

There were no tears. She insisted on paying our last tab and my resistance was gone. I let her.

I hugged her a little too long at the door and then I did feel something, tearing up, letting the evidence of my emotion mark the left side of my face down to my chin, finally releasing her and lying, “I will go see you after you and Adam are settled in,” to which she smiled.

“We would like that,” she said.

A lie for a lie.

X. Jazz, Texas

Saturday, sitting at the bar, checking our text group, Alcoholics Anonymous, every 10 minutes. I could see my face in the bar’s mirror. Fuck, it looked haggard. I’ve aged since the last time we were—I was—here.

This was futile. It had been at least six months since either girl had texted in the group. The last three messages, unanswered, were mine. I had even tried sharing a TikTok video for laughs. Macy was busy and Cecilia had drifted on to another man. A real man. Not someone who betrayed her.

Macy had made fun of me when I suggested (a version of) this scenario—sure, she had said, you and me and Mack having a shot together at Jazz. You’ve lost your fucking mind, Steve-O, Steve-O, Steve.

And then that night at Toppers when it was obvious the threesome had splintered off into a twosome. I was going to see Macy at the Hilton later but, now, right after Macy paid her tab and walked away, Cecilia death-gripped my knee and said, “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“What,” I had asked, cynical innocence. She knew. Seems like everyone knew. Cecilia and I drifted.

Roger couldn’t stop Macy from coming back to me that night and my love for Cecilia did not stop me from giving into Macy’s affair, blurring our lines, cheating everyone, everyone.

“You okay, sir,” the bartender asked. Fuck no, I’m not.

Six Pack Steve. (So far.)

“I’m fine,” I slurred, lazily waving her off. Can’t you see I’m thinking?

Tonight, in Tempe, Arizona, Adam was at a sleepover. Macy was on a Netflix series binge, a few empties on the empty couch seat beside her. She was carrying herself and Adam along just fine.

Me, I’m just a singer in a rock and roll band.

A trio of musicians, all wearing tuxedos, finished a jazz number and began exiting stage left. “Back in ten,” the band leader exclaimed.

I was finishing my sixth beer of the evening, Real Ale in the can.

Mack was dead.

Beyond the bartender’s area was a mirror. I saw her face in it.

“We’re all going to die, love,” I said to the image in the mirror.