“PUNCH D’PLUME”

Miranda and I were on the outs. It was the same shit over and over. Lift the fucking toilet seat. All you do is drink beer and watch those stupid games.

Yeah but those stupid games were paying the bills. Until they weren’t, that is.

See since March I was on a run. Major run. College basketball was my wheelhouse. Round ball. No joke. People saw me. Italiano. Short. Stocky.

You play soccer?

All the time, I ain’t gonna lie. But honestly, I hated it. Who wants to sit on their couch and watch a couple of hours to see one fucking goal.

Basketball.

132-126.

Now that’s a fucking score.

Anyway, my run. It ended around June. College done. NBA over. I moved over to baseball for a bit. Played the ponies, even though everything my grandfather taught me—never stuck in this big noggin of mine.

I couldn’t tell a closer from a speedball. A mudder from a father. It was all French to me.

Oh yeah, Miranda.

The French Dude.

You see, I’m smart. So I’d been noticing signs. Not big ones. She wasn’t dumb enough to leave her phone out, or when she did it was locked down with some random passcode. Not her birthday. Not mine. Our anniversary? I hadn’t even a clue.

But little shit.

The stuff a guy like me picks up on.

She went to get her nails done on a Tuesday night. That Asian place next to that other Asian place. Happy ending joint masquerading as Wonderful Day Spa. The spot Jimmy and I used to get our rocks off every Friday after quitting time. But back then, it had another name. Splendid Day Spa.

Something like that.

I only remember because it reminded me of the fake sugar.

But back to Tuesday. Miranda’s getting her nails done. She comes back late. Like she was buzzed but she wasn’t drinking. Her breath smelled like wintergreen Tic-Tacs, no alcohol in sight.

But I mean—like she was on cloud nine. She had her nails all designed. Cosmic blue, she called it. They always have names like that shit. Can’t just be green. It’s goblin green. Tropical punch.

And wait’ll I get my hands on that French dude. More like punch d’plume, some shit.

But the nails done, all vacation nice, sparkly and shiny. Her hair down and luxurious. No, luminous is the word. But not up in one of those half-assed buns.

I tell her, Miranda, remember when I used to tug on it. She’d ride me cowgirl-style. We’d go at it until we’d pass out from exhaustion. Fall asleep to Sportscenter on repeat. Miranda cooing in my ear. Wet kisses in the morning.

So Friday, I finish up at the bridge. Jimmy’s pushing me for Happy Hour which normally’s a no-brainer. Two dollar drafts at Rhythm and Brews. Usually some second-rate cover band which didn’t matter to me. Because when you’re shit-faced, don’t matter who’s playing Wrong Way or Jesse’s Girl, shit’s still gonna rip.

But I tell him no.

Call it intuition maybe. Like I’m a soothseer or something.

But really.

I was just tired. Back was begging for help. My knees needed another shot of cortisone. So I took a raincheck.

Headed home.

That’s when I saw him.

Pierre.

No, really.

I ain’t even being facetious.

That’s his name.

Pierre the French guy.

He’s a painter.

And no, not the beret-wearing type. He paints houses. Exterior stuff. Works for an outfit called Smithie’s Home Improvements.

I saw him hop into their work truck and fly down the block like he just left a body.

When I got into the apartment, Miranda’s all hey baby and how was your day, like I’m some kind of numbnut.

But I play it straight. Pull a six of Schlitz out of the fridge. Fix her up one of those Chamomile Lemon teas she likes.

Even gave her a foot massage.

But now.

Where am I, you ask?

I’m parked outside this busted-up ranch on Clifton. Pierre’s perched up on a ladder painting shingles something that looks like cosmic blue.

He’ll probably get more than a punch d’plume then I’ll go home and fix Miranda a nice bath. Candles. The works.

Even get in there with her.

I got tickets on my phone for St. Lucia. One week. Just the two of us.

The White Sox landed big for me last night.

And I hate baseball.

But anyway.

Lady luck’s in sight and she’s fair game.

BIO: Jesse Binger is a fiction writer from New Jersey. His debut novel The Penitent Hours is currently on submission. His work appears in or is forthcoming at Rock and a Hard Place, Cowboy Jamboree, Bending Genres, Punk Noir, Stanchion, Roi Faineant and elsewhere. His story "Carmelita" appears in Literary Garage's Warren Zevon-inspired anthology BAD INTENTIONS.

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