HAL NIEDZVIECKI
The following is a short selection from the piece originally published on pages 54-65 of Issue 25.2.
THE SEXOGRAPHER
by
Hal Niedzviecki
Turner can’t feel it.
– I can’t feel it. Let me, I need to –
No – put that away, she laughs. No –
Her name is Selma. She has orange curly hair, freckles.
Hey, she says, what are you doing?
It’s just, he says – he thrusts in and out. It’s just, he pants, on your face.
My face –
When you, cum.
My face?
Yes.
No. Why?
Because I can’t – I can’t feel it.
The flash. Her lip folds against her front teeth.
He stands in the middle of the room. Parking-lot light seeps through the orange motel curtains. The photos, blown up, show Selma’s orgasm. Freckles splayed across like bird tracks in the snow. You can’t fake it, he thinks.
He doesn’t love her.
This isn’t about love.
He goes home to his wife.
The dentist called, Sarah says.
Oh . . . Okay, he says. He works his fingers over the remote. Channels jump.
We have an appointment. Next week.
Okay, he says. Okay.
Next week. On Thursday. Is that okay?
Sure, he says. Fine. On Thursday. Great, fine.
Because you missed that last one, remember?
I know I just – He switches off the TV. Puts the remote on the coffee table. He gets up, wraps his arms around her. It’s okay, he says. I just forgot, that last time. I was busy.
He kisses her. He wants her more now. Now that the project has begun. She’ll be the last, of course, the hardest, the most worthwhile.
In the end, she’ll understand.
She won’t understand.
They live in a small apartment. Cold in the winter, hot in the summer.
He’s between jobs.
It doesn’t matter. Has enough money saved up, for now, for a time.
Rent is cheap. And he got a grant four months ago, for a project he won’t complete.
They’re probably hoping I’ll never do it, he says to Ollie. Better that way. That way they don’t have to stand up for whatever it is you come up with.
Then why give it to you at all? Ollie says.
They have to give it to someone. Turner puts a finger in his beer. Swirls it around. Anyway, I’m working on something else. He sucks on the tip. Waits for Ollie to say something.
Ollie raises his eyebrows, the beer bottle to his lips. It’s Wednesday night. Ollie waits, works as a security guard at an art gallery, watches, waits.
We’re twenty-nine years old, Turner thinks.
Can’t talk about it, he says.
Ollie puts his beer down on the bar, burps.
Before he started the project, it seemed impossible, distant, perfect.
It’s begun, he thinks, checking the film in the camera.
He always figured he’d be able to pinpoint the right moment. When the time came.
How did things get so blurry?