Read by Sabina Cameron
The list was tucked into the pocket of his jeans. That small pocket, the triangular one located just above the regular pocket on the right. The one just large enough to carry a little change. A condom. A note.
A list.
A list.
There were two styles of writing on the list, one blocky in all capitals, the other leaning to the right with elegant loops and perfectly crossed T's. Some of the writing was in ink. Some in pencil. The words were faded in the folds, where their fingers had opened and closed the paper, again and again, checking and rechecking.
The list contained the obligatory:
1. Airplane (written in block letters, and then in the cursive hand) Lavatory, tight fit, uncomfortable, smelled funny.
And below the writing, a check mark. In red.
2. Movies: Balcony seat, floor sticky, not as exciting as expected. Another red check mark.
3. Boat: Sailboat, gentle, quiet, nice. Check.
4. Restaurant: Salvador's, under the table, laughed at waiter's confusion, excellent. Check.
5. Driving: Miata, frantic, switched lanes often, bumped head on steering wheel, scary. Check.
And then there were the more unusual places, the more adventurous places. Because it was the adventure that made it all worthwhile.
6. Hurricane: Rita in Texas, category five, came on like a freight train, pounded all night, frightening, thrilling. Check.
7. Museum: Metropolitan Museum of Art, near Krasner's Night Creatures, bit lip to keep quiet. Check.
8. Amusement park: The Wonder Wheel, Coney Island, went around and around and around. Check.
9. Church: St. Patrick's, caught in act, most assuredly going to hell. Will try new tactic. No check mark.
10. Sky Rise rooftop.
He remembered the first time he'd been in a tall building. His father had business downtown and took him along. The elevator sped up 23 floors and he watched in awe as the city shrank below him. That was when he was a boy, when he played with cars and trucks and mud. In time he learned to play with girls. Then specifically this girl, with her dark hair and her sense of adventure.
"Windy," she said when they stepped out onto the roof. She huddled against him and rubbed her arms.
"We could leave our clothes on," he suggested.
"The rules," she said, clicking her tongue twice. He nodded. Yes, the rules. Rule one: completely naked. Rule two: complete the act. Check.
The night was clear and the moon was new. He'd secured a key by bribing a friend whose brother knew someone who worked security at an apartment building in the city. He tucked the key into the back pocket of his jeans. The jeans with the list. The jeans she pulled off him and left haphazard among the rest of their clothing.
He turned his back to the wind to shield her from its force and surprising chill. Her long hair whipped about her head and shoulders, and he tried to hold it down with his hands, out of her face, but she shook it free and laughed. Then her mouth was on his and they were a tangle of arms and legs. Number ten was closer to being marked with the red check of completion.
It bothered him that this would have been the last on their list if it hadn't been for getting caught in the church. If this was the last, they could move to Phase Two, creating lists for cities abroad. He looked forward to The Eiffel Tower. The Arc de Triomphe. The Louvre. The Tower of London. The Coliseum. St. Peter's in Rome.
But then he entered her and his thoughts scattered to the wind like a million birds taking flight and the night sky spiraled above them and his heart was a bright red light beating, on and off, on and off.
It was a powerful gust that caused him to stumble. His toe scraped on the stucco nubs of the roof and he cried out, his weight falling toward her, his eyes wide, his arms struggling to hold her legs and her weight. Neither realized how close their adventure had taken them to the side until the stumble lurched them over the edge where gravity took over and pulled them toward the pavement below.
The chalk outlines would last a week. Then the spring rain would come and wash the chalk away, leaving only smudges and bits of white between the crevices of concrete and stone.
Once when he was younger, he wondered what his last thoughts would be. Would his life flash before his eyes? Would he think of his mother? Of heaven? So when the moment actually came, that split second moment before his body struck concrete, he was surprised to find his only thought was of the list tucked into the pocket of his jeans atop the high rise apartment complex in the middle of the city, and how numbers nine and ten would forever be left unchecked.
--
Numbers Nine and Ten by Amy Nichols was read by Sabina Cameron at the Liars' League Sex & Death event on Tuesday 10 July 2007.
Amy Nichols lives in Phoenix, Arizona. She'd rather live where there are trees and seasons. Her stories will appear this year in the Say Goodnight to Illiteracy Anthology, and the fall issue of NANO Fiction. She placed third in the 2004 3-Day Novel Contest. Her mother calls her stories "different."
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