Len

By Erin Staley

I met Len at the grocery store several months ago in the frozen foods section. He was wearing a worn-out canvas jacket that made it seem like he worked in construction or something buff and tumble that required the use of his hands. I found out later that he worked in IT and had gotten the jacket as a hand-me-down from his father who had moved on to cooler, newer looking jackets. Len has a flair for presenting himself in ways that he’s not, something that he’d deny fervently if I ever brought it up.

He opened the freezer door next to where I stood, the rush of cold breeze blowing back the wisps of hair around his face. There was a small balding spot on the crown of his head that he’d tried to cover by combing the hair back, which only made the hair look flat and out of place. He grinned as he grabbed at a package of frozen fries, ogling me as I ogled the frozen pizzas.

“Good choice,” he said as I placed a margherita awkwardly into my basket, pushing the corners down in an attempt to make it fit over the bags of pasta I’d shoved in earlier.

“Thanks.” I laughed.

He turned away from the freezer to face me, one hand draped over the handle of his cart, the other resting on his hip.

“You from around here?” He asked.

I shook my head. “No, I’m a student.”

“Oh, really? What are you studying?”

He inched closer.

“English. But I write.” My face flushed. “Or I want to.”

“Wow.” He leaned forward over his cart, pushing it so that the front wheel hit the toe of my boot and I took a step back. “Anything I would have read?”

Len’s interest in my writing left me feeling light-headed and embarrassed. Not even my parents had expressed so much interest in my work before.

“I mainly write articles for a magazine run out of my school. Opinion pieces. Things like that.”

He nodded as though I were a piece of code he was trying to solve.

“I’d love to read some of your stuff. Can I get your number? We can talk more about it.”

“Yeah,” I agreed, and let the freezer door slam shut.

Ana was skeptical when I told her about Len a few months later. The first thing she asked was how old he was.

“What does his age matter?” I’d asked.

Ana had been the first and only friend I’d made at school. Sometimes I wondered if she considered me a friend at all, we were so different. She never asked to see me outside of the campus setting, and I’m not sure I would have said yes if she had. She spent most weekends partying in someone’s dorm and getting drunk enough to send me audio clips of her slurring her words.

“Hey, girllll,” she said one of those nights, gargling the ‘l’ like she had something stuck in the back of her throat. “I miss you! I’m out right now and I’m not even that drunk–ow!”

A baritone chuckle cut over her.

“But I guess you’re at home, talking to yourself, which I guess is like your charm or whatever.” A stifled laugh. “But also kind of pathetic? Anyway, no one here even knows who you are. It’s like you don’t even exist or anything! Isn’t that crazy? Maybe you’re my own little hallucination!” The message trailed off in a fit of high-pitched screams and giggles.

We never spoke about it afterwards.

“I don’t know, I just think a random old guy flirting with a twenty-one-year-old is kind of creepy, but if you’re happy…” She trailed off, letting her eyes drift back to her laptop before jolting back up to look at me like a piece of suspiciously old meat. “I’ve never even seen you talk to a guy before, let alone be interested in one, so I guess I’m just a bit concerned is all.”

I watched her from across the table as she slurped from her iced coffee, her face a mixture of disgust and pity, and felt a grating in my stomach. Everything about her got on my nerves. She had never asked to read anything I wrote, had never expressed any interest in me, or my well-being until now that I was happy.

“You’re kind of a bitch.” I spat.

She looked up at me, prying her jaw open in some semblance of shock. My hands shook. I had never called anyone a bitch before.

After a moment of tense silence where I had to convince myself I wasn’t going to throw up, she closed her jaw and pursed her lips into a thin line.

“I’m sorry you feel that way,” she said. Then she packed her bag, scraped her chair over the tile floor, and left me sitting in the cafe with a glass of melting ice glaring at me in her place.

When I told Len later what had happened, he agreed with me, saying, “You were right to call her a bitch. I mean, she’s never even met me. What does she know?”

His phone buzzed.

“Shit,” he said.

“What is it?”

“It’s just work,” he spat, getting up from the couch where we were sitting to go to the kitchen, throwing cupboards open and closed to pour himself a glass of his own concoction. Len’s Liquor, he called it, but really it was a bunch of nearly empty liquor bottles mixed into one. I thought it was disgusting, but I would never tell him that.

“Did something happen?”

“God,” he said, slamming his glass onto the counter, “You don’t always need to know everything.”

“Sorry,” I said weakly, and waited for him to finish off his glass. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he gulped it down. “Did you read the article I sent you?”

He unscrewed the cap of the bottle and let it ping across the counter.

“Not your best work, babe,” he answered, already pouring himself more of his sour-tasting cocktail. “I read the article before yours though. By what’s-her-name.

“Suzannah?”

Suzannah was a senior writer and editor, and much prettier than I was. I wondered if he had looked at the staff photos on the website and felt myself folding deeper into the arm of the couch. We had only been together for several months and I was constantly preparing myself for the moment he’d learn everything he needed to know about me and leave me for another girl. Someone smarter, prettier, thinner than me.

“That was good writing,” he continued. I listened to his footsteps creak across the wooden floor as he made his way back to the couch. He threw himself down next to me with his drink in hand, letting some of the amber-coloured liquid spill onto the upholstery. “They should publish more of her work, don’t you think? Not all of the crap they usually put out.”

I wanted to tell him they already published her in every issue, and that Suzannah was largely responsible for all of that “crap,” but bit my lip instead.

“Yeah,” I said. “She’s pretty good.”

I worried that the shaking in my voice would give me away, but Len didn’t seem to notice as he set the glass down on the table, a ring forming under it, and leaned over me. My back pressed uncomfortably into the arm of the couch. I twisted, which resulted in me pinning my arm behind me. Len’s breath was sour as he lowered his face to mine. He closed his eyes. I winced. His mouth felt grainy, like sandpaper, and his tongue was slug-like as it circled mine. I pressed my free hand against his chest in an attempt to keep him at some distance, but he grabbed my wrist and held it against the side table behind me until I felt a sharp pain in my elbow.

Sitting back on his heels, he reached for my waist to remove my shirt, scraping his nails against my skin. I closed my eyes and let him.

I got home after dark, throwing my keys onto the nearest table. I walked into my living room, or what counted as both a living room and bedroom, kicked off my shoes, and dug my toes into the carpet. The space was dimly illuminated by the open window, and I could hear the sounds of the city as they wafted through. Drunk students, angry cab drivers, and catty women trying to relive their glory days were all out in droves. I walked over and closed the window, throwing myself into a muffled sort of silence.

The apartment was a mess. The bed in the corner was unmade and covered in clothes I had strewn over it that morning. My desk was plastered with loose pages and scribbled notes I hadn’t bothered to organize, and the kitchen sink was overflowing with dirty dishes.

Closing my eyes, I let myself collapse onto the floor and pressed my cheek against the carpet. The threads bristled against my cheek, but I didn’t move. I liked the floor. I liked laying on it like this. I couldn’t see anything from the floor, couldn’t stare at the messes I’d made, or the walls I’d never filled. When I moved in, I thought I would cover the walls with pictures of all the friends I would make, but it had been over two years and the walls were still stark and angry. And I had just ditched my only friend.

The carpet smelled musty, and I considered opening the window again, but I couldn’t force myself to stand back up. I wondered if this is what people smelled when they were near me. I should get some perfume, I thought, but I didn’t know what kind. I had seen a bottle of orris butter perfume at the mall last week on sale for over a hundred dollars. I’d stared at it for nearly fifteen minutes trying to figure out what that was. I wondered if Len would like me more if I smelled like orris butter.

I flipped onto my back and took my phone from my pocket. The brightness hurt my eyes and I had to squint at the screen, watching the colours merge together in little blobs until my eyes adjusted. I opened my messages, clicked on Len’s name, and started typing.

i know you think im dumb but have u ever considered that ur a fucking douchebag who– I pressed the backspace button until I had erased it all and let my head fall against the floor. The thump of it echoed throughout the empty apartment.

the other day i read about a man in the news who was stabbed 3 times in the street and his body left in a dumpster and i wish it had been you. I clicked send and threw my phone. It rolled twice before landing face up just out of reach. I stared at it until the screen lit up.

I groaned, slapping the palms of my hands repeatedly against my head until I felt the low thumping of a migraine beginning. I rolled over and squirmed my way to the phone, already feeling my heart bursting against my chest.

I turned the phone on. There was a single message from Len.

Ok.