Saying Nothing
Rated R for language and sexual references.



There was nothing Taylor Reese hated more than inane chatter.

In fact, he hated small talk of any description – that infernally irritating social dance that was a part of not only his existence, but also his livelihood.

All around him there were people making the right noises; the right things to say in order to impress or to not get the back of their head blown off; saying the right words just to re-affirm that they were King Shit or sitting at King Shit’s right hand. Then everyone else had to either pretend to be afraid or just be afraid.

Kiss ass, say something flattering about their wife’s dress but for GOD’s sake don’t look at her cleavage for too long or the complement would be construed as lechery and lead to an air-conditioned skull anyway.

It was all around him.

Fortunately, he’d developed a strategy over the years which had almost excused him from the game – he said nothing ;well, very little, anyway. Other than to agree, acknowledge or to clarify what he was being given, Taylor offered no words, no opinions, nothing. He’d even perfected a deadpan look which had earned him the luxury of being left alone. Everyone just thought of him as the boy who got things done, no questions asked, the hard man with no opinion and no real ambition, since his origins ruled out any possibility of ascent, anyway. In short, he was threatless so, he was left alone.

Not so fortunately, this luxury had not extended to his social life. The women he met did not understand such things and they drove him to distraction with their endless need to fill silences, to quiz him, solicit his opinion on everything – their clothes, whether their asses were too big, whether or not they kissed well. Thing is, these were matters upon which he hadno opinion whatsoever. He only knew what he liked, not why he liked it.

He didn’t know why he hated it when he had to sit opposite a girl in the booth of some diner and talk when all he really wanted to do was listen, but not about the amount of time she spent getting ready or how many times her girlfriend called to say she’d fought with her boyfriend. He felt uncomfortable showering and getting dressed to go meet them, not knowing why the shirt he’d chosen didn’t feel quite right. He hated standing at the bar, waiting, tugging at his damp, scratchy collar and trying to look relaxed when she walked into the place, mouth in motion before she’d even reached him.

Remarks about his size, the star around his neck, the bulging muscles in his sleeves or the bulk in his pants, all embarrassed him and got in the way of having a real conversation, until the inevitable, ritualistic, accidental brush of her hip against his crotch ; the come-on. Either back at her place or in his van it was the same. Clichés and choreography, predictable sex and the final stream of meaningless, empty complements before she finally dressed and left.

Then, the silence. This wasn’t the kind of quiet he enjoyed, though. It was devoid of any satisfaction. There was no joy. It wasn’t like with Jeannie.

Jeannie had walked into his life a year ago, wandered in from the rain with wet hair and a dripping coat, put herself by the window and ordered a cappuccino, then cradled the cup as she drank and smiled at him almost every time she set it in the saucer again. Her voice as she addressed the waiter had been soft and musical and for some reason he was compelled to hear more of it, so he wandered over to the bar and hovered close to her booth until he thought of something, anything to say.

“Did you forget your umbrella?”

There it was. He said something with little meaning. He could do it too, if he had to, but she flushed and looked very self conscious, averting her eyes and dropping them to her oozing, squelching shoes. For a moment, he felt guilty for embarrassing her.

“I think I left it at the airport.”

Her tone was sheepish, apologetic, even and so, he felt worse and anxious to set things right.

“Can I get you anything?” That was much better.

“You could point me in the direction of a place to stay.”

Again, her voice was quiet and she stopped right there. She didn’t go on with further explanations about where she’d come from, where she was going or how she came to be here, soaking wet. She didn’t tell him that he was a big boy, either, so he offered her a ride to the motel if the rain didn’t stop.

It didn’t stop and so he took her there, carried her bags and paused, waiting for something but he didn’t know what. She knew, though. She smiled and took his hand, kissing it as she thanked him for being kind. She didn’t launch into a speech about chivalry or being hit on.

When Jeannie looked at him, she smiled, softly. There was knowledge in that smile, sufficient to make him relax. The dancing shoes were off and there was no need of performance or propriety. She merely asked him if he wanted to make love to her and he had said yes and their sex was slow and quiet and sublime. He’d known that she liked his body just from the expression in her eyes when she touched it, the gasp of admiration as her fingers found his erection and he knew he’d satisfied her from the grateful breath she’d shuddered out as her hips trembled beneath his.

For hours, they lay together in silence, sometimes sleeping, sometimes stroking and for one more time that night, fucking with wordless enthusiasm.

He’d spent the whole of the next day with her, sprawling with his head in her lap and telling her of his contempt for those around him and for the life he’d chosen for himself and throughout all of that, she stroked his skin and asked him just two questions – could he get out and what was he waiting for?

She’d only needed an answer to the first and completely let him off the hook for the second but it was a question he was still asking himself. What was he waiting for?

When she left, there was no idle ‘call me sometime.’ Jeannie had boarded her train in her still-damp shoes and had handed him two cards with her phone number on them. The second was in case he lost the first, so he knew she meant for him to call. “When you’ve made a decision.” She’d whispered that to him as she kissed his cheek and then she was gone.

A year on and Marbles was dead, Chris was dead. He sat in his van, still nursing the sickening pain in his shoulder and thumbing the tattered card in his good hand, turning it over and over as he waited for Matty to finish his showdown with his father. Finally, he flicked his cigarette out through the window and reached for his cell phone. He’d made his decision.

END

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