Rust

by Michael Ranfone

Anthony came back with a bruise under his jaw and a wound on his arm in gauze that he refused to unwrap. He was thirty, but the bruise made him look older. He spoke about it constantly. Once he said a man with no shoes caught him by the laundromat. Another time he insisted it happened on the edge of the highway, arm dragged down into teeth. Details multiplied until the whole thing sounded rehearsed while I played the caring girlfriend. News stations only said a violent man, disturbed, a drifter. No one mentioned zombies. He did though, every hour.

Boards appeared across the house’s windows without warning. In the afternoons I found the light cut short, wooden slats pressed into place, hammer ringing through me. A circular saw leaned against the siding, still humming with heat. Sawdust made a yellow film across the grass, and the air stank of it.

That first afternoon, I helped. Held the planks. Measured.

He said the bite might change him. If it did, I had to end it. No speeches. One clean motion. He pressed my hand against the back of his head and showed me the place. I listened because the words kept coming, not because I believed. He folded his hands after, small and still, finished with prayer.

I told him he was losing it. Said it sharp, almost amused. He smiled, but the bruise swallowed the smile. The gauze had slipped just enough to show the edges of what was underneath, the surface dark and flaked, the color gone to something old and burnt-in, seemingly weathering there for years instead of days.

By the fifth day he’d only drink water. He kissed the wound. Bent his head and pressed his mouth to the gauze until it dampened. A sound came from his throat when he did it. I didn’t know if it meant sorrow or thanks. That night I started packing a suitcase then stopped. I told myself this was temporary, the same as when he broke his foot and I drove him to work for six weeks.

The sixth night the whole town smelled like water left in a metal bowl. Or whatever comes after rust. I returned from the diner with food wrapped tight and grease leaking through. We sat together at the table, plates cooling between us. When he finally lifted a fork, his other hand covered my wrist, heavy, steady. His voice stayed low. “Alexis, if it gets worse, you have to do it.”

The seventh morning, the radio was talking about cloud cover and traffic. He stood suddenly, moved faster than I had ever seen him, and his mouth clamped on my arm. The grip didn’t loosen. I pulled and felt his jaw grind tighter. My teeth clenched. Iron filled my mouth. The taste of coins, wet cloth, and something that made me afraid to name it.

He bit me. Right where he was bit.

I didn’t pull away. I didn’t fight.

Later I pressed my palm against the marks. Skin lifted, blood gathering in neat beads. A curl of my hair caught in the drops and stayed, the color darkening from strawberry to burnished. He hammered another board across the upstairs window. Each strike landed exact, measured, louder than the weather on the radio.

I remember the smell. Sawdust, sweat, and a sweetness clinging from the diner food. I remember the shape of his teeth in my skin. Blood beads where I pressed. The hammer’s in my hand now, heavier than I thought. He asked me to end it. My arm is hot.