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Makima couldn’t sleep. She simply couldn’t. For her whole life.
For most of it, it wasn’t an issue. Aside from the boredom:
The world shuts off late at night. Just like television stations sign off.
Makima would go outside. Or stay in, television still on. She would stand before an array of colors arranged in patterns. The colors were static. So were the sounds. Underground water pumps or outdoor condensing units; an incessant sine wave tone or a looping list of muzak. No one but her. Nothing but oscillations and oscillations and oscillations.
Makima had to pretend to sleep. Sometimes. When others were around. In bed or on a couch or on the floor. On her side or on her back. Straight with arms over chest, or curled inward, head tucked towards knees. Waiting and listening. Breathing the way sleepers breathe. Listening for the way sleepers breathe.
And eventually she would be granted silent freedoms. Makima could stand in front of a window. Or stand in front of a bed. Or stand in front of a mirror. And watch, listen, and think. Silently. Listening to her own silent voice in thoughts and thoughts and thoughts.
Kishibe could sleep, or couldn’t. He knew Makima didn’t. When they were partners, that wasn’t an issue. Single bed hotel rooms are cheaper and more available. The funny looks from reception are something to talk and tease about.
Whether he could or couldn’t sleep was never an issue. With him, the world didn’t shut off. Because he wouldn’t ever sign off.
Late evenings he would leave. Makima could go or wouldn’t. Either way, Kishibe went where people were. And wherever people were, Kishibe wasn’t bored. Kishibe drank wherever. Bars, obviously. Nightclubs, too. Dives. Diners, which sold bottles of beer. Outside, can of malt liquor in hand. And people came to him.
It happened with a wayward glance. Or a deliberate one. A drink. An offer to buy a drink. Looked at him funny. Shoulders touched. He looked at his girl. (Or hers; or she at him). “Devil hunter?” “Public safety?” Free shots, or hooks. Free from inhibitions. Kick back; hook back. Glasses and teeth slamming down on counter tops and trashcans.
This was when his hair was darker and his scars fresher.
“Last call don’t mean shit.” He didn’t have to go home. He could stay here. Until he couldn’t. But he could always find company. Find home for fifteen minutes at a time.
Makima was gone by then. Last call. But she’d stand by the window. Keeping the show on. The TV went off after sign off. And he’d start looking.
She saw the women he found, and he always found one. And in every one, she always found herself. (But she was always looking, and she never wouldn’t). And sometimes she could see Kishibe with the women, and sometimes she couldn’t. It was never really an issue. Because he always came back:
Spent. Spunk. Drained. Drunk.
Kishibe went past her. Stripped down do the skin — everything else in a plastic bag, to be thrown into the maw of a washing machine tomorrow. Into a shower. Scrubbing. Brushing and flossing. Mouthwashing. He knew she could smell it all; and she always would.
Kishibe went past her. Slipped into the sheets, and covering himself. Makima stood over the bed.
Kishibe’s eyes held the color, noise, and anger of the night. Eyes alive; body spent. While they were open, they held her. He said, out loud,
“Do whatever you want,
I’m fucking done.
Watch your stupid movies,
Just keep the T.V. down.
Go outside and do whatever
The hell you like to do out there,
Be careful, obviously, but
Close the goddamn door,
Don’t let the draft in. And
Don’t slam it, please. And
For God’s sake lock it this time.
And
If you’re gonna lie in bed, again,
With me, for whatever reason
You do, I don’t know, I don’t care,
Just don’t hog the goddamn sheets.
Goodnight.” And his eyes shut.
He always slept on his side. Curled inward. Head tucked towards knees. Breathing and dreaming. Breathing the way certain sleepers breathe, when breathing against a bosom. And whether she was inside the covers beside him, or outside and standing over him:
She would pull the sheets up, covering him whole, up to the very top of his neck.
And then she would mount the bed, one knee and then the other, straddling his knees, through the sheets, and lay her palms flat, on either side of his pillow, and hold herself up, not by him, but the bedding around him, that covers him, just at the amnion, to come forward, and to crane her neck close to his neck, and liken herself to yolk, and see with her own eyes, and her mind's eye, too, what he saw behind his closed lids, because he never signed off, he just dreamt of the feverish night, just before.
And through his eyes she saw others peer at her. Glowering. Darting down. Sizing up. Through his lips she felt lips on her own. Teeth, too. And blood. Another's, or his, fresh from a split lip. His teeth sank into skin and his tongue—
His tongue.
The taste of everything. Seeing taste. Teeth, tongues, blood, and throats. Running along earlobes and over salty skin creases, prodding inward to valleys and deltas. Penetrating. Curling. Penetrating. Running flat over gooseflesh, running flat over areolae, running flat over stubble. Dry from all the running. Panting. Penetrating. Chasing. Running and running and running. Coming. Coming. Coming.
While he lay, eyes closed, breathing, she straddled the sheets encasing him. And she said, silently,
“Whenever you cease to breathe
In the way those who die tend to do,
If I am there, and I would like to be,
I'll wait ‘till we're alone, like we are,
Here, and listen a while to the
Steady silence of you, at
Rest in the womb of your final solitude.
And I'll tell you what I'll do then.
I'll crawl inside, through your mouth. Yes,
Past your lips and teeth, over your tongue, and down your throat.
You will taste all of me, as I taste
The inside of you, as I penetrate
Down, running down your warm
Throat until I reach the center of
You. And there I'll dissolve into
All of you. All of me. Into every capillary.
Gone, as you would be, unfathomably inside of you.
And then. You would be. And I would be. With you. Running, again. Tasting, again. Breathing and beating. Punching, hooking, and looking. Eternally. No more last calls. No more signing off. And I and you will never sleep, and we will never be bored, and—”
She stopped suddenly:
He had – suddenly – stopped breathing. His wide open eyes held her, again.
She was on top of him, now. Pressing on his chest, which didn't breathe.
Makima was breathing. She thought herself still. As still as him. But why, then, did her face draw to his open mouth, coming closer and coming closer and coming closer…