By the Nose

It’s going on, what, five months, since Ashley and Lance stopped answering my texts. They forgot to block me online, so I’ve seen all the photos of the ultrasounds and Ashley’s belly that he’s been sharing and all the unbroken paragraphs she’s posted to Facebook, the ones you got to scroll and scroll and scroll some more to find out exactly how blessed they are. Her last post ended with, “Truly, this is a sign from God.”

Speaking of signs, last week I saw ’em walking down the aisle at the grocery store. I’ve heard how pregnant women have a glow, but Ashley’s was the only one I ever seen that cast shadows. Nobody else seemed to notice it, even if I had to squint. As soon as she noticed me, though, her sparkle curdled quick. Above me the fluorescent lights crackled and popped. When I looked down the aisle again, Ashley and Lance had vanished.

The night I’d met ’em at the rodeo, the wind was hot and gritty, the clouds crowding in like drunks waiting for anybody to start running their mouth. That morning, Tracy had dumped me for reasons I won’t get into, so I went stag.

Every-damn-thing reeked and I must’ve looked lonesome ’cause an old-timer sidled up. “Nothing sadder than a steer,” he slurred, his breath worse than the manure down in the arena. “Imagine getting cursed while you’re still sucking on the teat.”

“I’ll pass on that, hoss.” My second Coors tallboy chilled my hand, same as it did during our last cookout when I was manning the grill and heard Tracy joke, “God bless Clay, but sometimes he’s simpler than a light switch.”

“Ignoring little things ain’t simple, just easier.” She and her girlfriends gave me a look, but I ignored them, asking, “Who wants cheese?”

“Them assholes let buckin’ bulls mature into their spite,” the geezer was waving at the arena, some of his dip spit sprinkling my forearm. “If a cowboy gets hung up or trampled, some in the crowd will gasp or yell, but most hold their breath and make a wish. You can always tell who’s wishing the cowboy ill from how they spit.”

“You don’t say.”

“Once they see he’s alright, well, they’ll clap and cheer or laugh at the clowns, forgetting all about the most important part.”

I twisted off the pull-tab, flicked it away, and finished my beer. When I felt him staring, I said, “Yeah, what’s that?”

“A bull’s no different than a man. Wants goddamn nothing and nobody on his back.” He slapped my knee, looking real proud of himself.

People around us shot him looks, but a few bleachers down, this brunette winked at me. I nodded back. Then I crumpled my empty can, smacked his shoulder hard enough to make him spit out his chew, and left.

Next up was a high-marked bull, so the concession stands were dead. On the buzzer, I chugged my new frosty and went for a piss. I was halfway done when this one fuck walked to the far end of the trough and weren’t the least bit subtle about peeking. I chuckled and shook off a couple extra times, ’cause why not?

An hour later at a bar down the highway, wouldn’t you know it, up walked that Peeping Tom and the brunette who’d winked at me, her holding two longnecks. She was probably in her late thirties, but as soon as she said—“Don’t I know you?”— her golden eyes cut through the smoke and neon. “I’m Ashley,” she handed me a bottle, “and this is Lance.” He sipped his beer and nodded. “What’s your name, honey?” she asked.

“It’s Clay,” I took a swig. She blinked slowly and everything around us went blurry. Like I could look wherever I wanted, but I only wanted to stare at her. And for as long as I did, her soft voice drowned out the godawful jukebox, these two chicks screeching over some pretty boy, and the shit-talkers at the pool table behind us.

After a little bit, her fella said: “Son, me and Ashley don’t mean to spook you, but we’re wondering if we could ask you something.”

For the first time, I took a real good look at him. His eyes were grayer than my baby blues, but we favored each other, down to the dimples and cleft chin. He could be my sad-sack uncle, easy, or me if I was a loser.

“Shoot.”

“You may not believe this, son—”

“My pa’s been good and dead.”

Lance tried starting over, “Only a real man would admit this.”

“Don’t he like suspense?” I said.

“She needs something I can’t give…” he trailed off after Ashley tapped her ring on the tabletop.

“Forget about him for right now,” she traced her nails across my forearm, “it can take Lance forever to get started, and half the time he forgets to finish.” She leaned in close, rubbing my thigh under the table. “Trust me, you’ll walk away happy, and Lance and me will clean up any mess we make.” The more she talked, the simpler everything seemed, so when she asked for a ride back to their motel, I looked down and my keys were already in my hand.

“See you in a few,” Lance said, pouring backwash from our bottles into his.

I won’t lie, that first night was off-putting. While Ashley and me went at it, Lance kept grinning. Sometimes he faded into the wallpaper, like I’d look around and he was nowhere, and other times he was right there, stinking up the room with a cigar, his hard-on in one hand and his phone in the other, hyping me up like a football coach.

Over the next few weeks, he recorded me and Ashley rutting every which way. She told me to do the filthiest things to her while saying the rudest shit about him. Once she started clawing my back and whispering, “I love this, Clay,” I didn’t pay mind to much else, not till I’d been dumped all over again. As much as I hate to admit it, maybe I hadn’t heard exactly what Ashley had been saying, and, worst of all, maybe Tracy had been right.

Alls I know is, these days I can’t keep it up after Lance’s shit-eating grin pops into my head, and it always does at some point. Some girls promise me it’s alright when we both know that’s a lie. Pity or slammed doors, it don’t matter. If Lance was only pretending to be a clown, I can guess what that makes me.

Bio: Michael Kiggins (he/him) lives in Nashville, Tennessee. His debut novel And the Train Kept Moving was published by Running Wild Press in September 2023. His fiction has appeared in Stanchion Zine, Susurrus, Passengers Journal, andelsewhere. You can find him on Bluesky (@michaelkiggins.bsky.social) and read more of his work at www.heavytomorrow.com.