Vince stands at the window and watches Nancy cross the street.
If she looks back, he thinks, we'll be okay. Her dark hair
brushes across her shoulders as she moves; it drops like a veil
over her face as she leans down to unlock her door, but she
doesn't look back.
He closes the blinds and walks into the kitchen. There are
several liquor bottles, from the night before, on the counter,
but he doesn't remember many people being at the party. There was
a girl; he is sure of that. He remembers the way her blond hair
grazed his stomach and thighs, and the look on Nancy's face when
she opened the door.
Vince pours a cup of coffee and takes a drink. The coffee is
cold. He pours what is left from each of the bottles into the
cup, stirs it with his finger, and sits down at the kitchen
table. There is a half-smoked cigarette in the ashtray and he
picks it up, blows the ashes off the filter, and puts it in his
mouth. He looks around for a match but can't find one. Instead,
Vince walks to the stove, and turns on the gas. As he leans over
to light the end of the cigarette, his face stings. His eyes
sizzle; he leaps back.
"Oh, fuck," he says. His shirt is burning and the material melts
against his chest. Vince smacks at the flames and runs to the
sink to spray himself with the hose. The cool water runs in
rivulets between his fingers. Vince tries to pull the wet
material away [from his skin], but the pain is incredible. The
air has the peppery smell of burnt hair, and it makes him choke.
Like a band-aid, he thinks, quick and easy. He yanks against the
wet material, and the skin on his chest peels away from his body.
Vince screams <snip>and the room spins around him. His
stomach cramps and he leans over the sink to let go, but nothing
comes up. A moment later his legs give out and he falls back on
the linoleum floor. When he wakes, the phone is ringing. The sun
has gone down, and the only light is the glow of the streetlight
pushing through the kitchen window. As Vince tries to sit up, the
pain sings across his chest.
"Shit," he mutters, sobbing.
The ringing stops as Vince braces one hand against the
refrigerator and forces himself to stand. The pain is worse than
anything he's ever felt; red and purple lights blossom in front
of his eyes as he stands. Vince reaches for the chair and sits
down, resting his head on his hands until it passes. The phone
rings again. This time, Vince gets up and answers the phone.
"Hello?" His voice is shaky.
"Vince? It's Nick. Where are you? We go on in half an hour."
"You're going to have to get Josh to play. I fucked myself up
pretty bad tonight."
"What?"
"I burned myself. Fuck, man, it hurts bad." Vince looks down at
his chest. The skin is wrinkled and waxy. Burned fabric is stuck
to him in places, and he can read the words "Tommy Boy'" above
his left nipple where the metal button branded his skin. "I think
I need to go to the hospital. Can you get over here?"
"Where's Nancy?" Nick asks. "Can't she take you?"
"Nancy left. I don't think she's coming back."
Nick is quiet. Vince can hear the crowd in the background. "It's
not like that this time," Vince says. In the background someone
is laughing."Nick?"
Nick sighs. "I can't believe you did this again, man." His voice
is soft. "What's wrong with you?"
Vince's head throbs and he moves back to the table. "No," he
says
"This was an accident. I swear to God. I was trying to light a
cigarette off the stove, and I must've leaned too close. My whole
fucking shirt went up." Vince coughs, and his chest throbs with
the movement. "I need to get to the hospital."
"So drive yourself."
Vince slams his fist against the table. "She took the fucking
car, Man!"
"Then call an ambulance," Nick says. "We're not doing this again.
You're on your own."
The line goes dead.
After Vince hangs up the phone he turns back to the table and
sees the pack of matches on top of the refrigerator.
He stares at them for a long time.