Earl was sitting on the toilet in the only functioning bathroom in his house, elbows propped on his thighs, staring intently at his thumb. He was shitting, so his navy work pants were curled around his right ankle only. This required him to first untie and remove his left shoe, and his sock occasionally got wet, especially if he were in a public restroom, but he'd long ago decided it was more comfortable than leaving both legs bound and accepted the consequences graciously.

"Earl!" his wife shouted through the door. "What the hell are you doing in there?"

"I'm shitting, Dear."

"Watch your goddamn mouth."

"Yes, Dear."

"And hurry up. I have to put my face on."

"Yes, Dear."

She paused for a moment.

"Did you have Mexican for lunch again?"

He nodded guiltily. She couldn't see this, but his silence was answer enough.

"Dammit, Earl. Goddammit. Why can't you eat a salad like a normal person?"

"I'll light a match before I leave," he offered.

"Damn right, you will. And use the spray freshener. I bought a new one. It's supposed to smell like a kiwi tree."

Earl thought about mentioning that kiwis grew on vines, but decided against it.

As her feet slapped out of the bedroom and down the hallway, he returned to examining his thumb. It was covered in axle grease, but that wasn't what interested him. A thorn protruded from the tip of it, comically large and speckled. Like a dalmatians toenail, he thought, then realized that their nails likely weren't spotted. He'd received the thorn from the mysterious plant he'd found on his porch just minutes ago. He puzzled back over the scene, twirling his thumb back and forth. He hadn't actually touched the plant. He was clear on that. He'd extended his hand toward the leathery, yellow leaves – in part because they reminded him of old bananas, but also thinking there might be a note attached that would explain its presence – and suddenly the thorn was in him. His hand was still a foot away when he felt the sting. He started to wonder why a plant would spit a thorn at him, and how it could do so without making any noise, but his stomach was dancing and he rushed inside.

He was done relieving himself and his curiosity was waning, so he reached for the thorn with his left hand, fingers pinched together like a crab claw. The thorn wriggled in deeper.

"Ow," he said, brow creased.

"What?!" his wife yelled from the kitchen.

Earl had no idea how she'd heard him. He hadn't been loud. But he'd long ago accepted the Darlene had powers beyond his understanding. She knew things, especially in relation to him. He often suspected she could read his mind.

"Nothing, Dear!" he bellowed, then flinched.

He was always spoke too loudly or too softly and it bothered Darlene to no end.

(As a boy, he spoke with a near-shout at all times; as such, he was never invited to spend the night at someone's house more than once. Later, as a big, shy, bumbling teenager, he mumbled responses no one understood and then smiled to himself. Sometime between his teen years and adulthood the two phases merged into something decidedly worse. When asked a direct question he'd mumble a response, then, when politely asked to repeat himself, bark the words back out and scare the person off. But try as he might, he could never remember to control his voice until the words had already escaped his mouth. As such he found immense relief in yes-or-no questions – those could be answered with a nod or a shake of the head – and was at his most comfortable when smiling vaguely and saying nothing at all.)

"Don't shout at me, Earl!"

"Sorry, Dear!" Earl yelled back, flinched again.

He needed to finish up before Darlene became too impatient. Ignoring the grime on his thumb, he went at the thorn with his teeth. The thorn, sensing danger, disappeared beneath his skin. Earl frowned at the droplet of blood it left behind, then shrugged, blotted the blood on the backside of a hand towel, wiped up, flushed the toilet, pulled his leg back through his pants, slipped his left shoe back on, retied the laces, washed his hands and left the bathroom to inform Darlene he was through. He took three steps down the hallway, paused, then turned back to light a match and use the spray freshener.

While Darlene was busy in the bathroom, Earl wandered into the kitchen, removed his work shirt and scrubbed the remaining grease from his hands and forearms with laundry detergent. The little red window above the kitchen sink overlooked the porch. Drying his arms with paper towels, he glanced through it and noticed the thorn spitting plant had changed. Drastically. Where before it'd been yellow and healthy and exotic looking, it was now a muddy brown color, leaves drooping like cooked spaghetti. It looked three weeks dead.

He couldn't say how long he stood there contemplating the abrupt change, but he was still at it when Darlene was finished getting made up.

"Where's your shirt, Earl?"

Earl pointed to the chair it was draped over.

"Well, go put something on. And use some deodorant while you're at it. You smell awful."

"Yes, Dear."

He started off toward their bedroom instinctively, but stopped himself.

"Honey, do you know where that plant came from?"

"What plant?"

"The one on the porch."

She stood on her toes and peered out the window. She was too petite to do so flat footed.

"I don't know where that came from, but it's dead. Put it in the trash."

Earl almost mentioned that it had spit a thorn into his thumb, and that the thorn had wiggled into his skin when he'd tried to remove it, but decided against it. He walked to the front door.

"Put a damn shirt on first. Jesus, Earl. Think of the neighbors."

"Yes, Dear."

He wandered back to the bedroom, found a clean t-shirt in his top drawer and threw it on. By the time he was standing on the porch again, the mysterious plant was even darker, almost black now, so wilted and sad looking that Earl felt bad for it.

"Sleep well, little guy," Earl whispered.

He gingerly placed the plant on top of the garbage pile by the curb, the crowning star on some rotten Christmas tree. Three leaves fell to the ground. When Earl bent and touched one, it separated like ash and dissipated into the wind.

. . .

The next morning Earl woke at exactly 5:45 am. He'd never once needed an alarm. He woke at that time everyday regardless of how much he'd slept the night before. While they were dating, Darlene joked that he must be part robot. After they married, she decided she hated it. You shake the whole damn bed when you roll out of it, she'd say, and it always wakes me up. Can't you be more careful?

Not that it mattered anymore. She'd gotten rid of their king size bed a year into their marriage, replaced it with two singles that now stood on opposite sides of the room. Earl sometimes rolled in his sleep, and with her so small and him so big, she was afraid he'd crush her. Earl understood her concerns and didn't complain, but sleeping by himself in a bed that barely contained him made him feel slightly empty.

He wandered to the bathroom, striving for quiet steps and failing, pissed and showered. As he was shaving he noticed that the spot on his thumb was no longer red like the night before. The skin had healed over, but there was a greenish circle where the thorn had jabbed him.

"Huh," he said.

"What?" his wife croaked.

He glanced over his shoulder. Darlene's covers were wrapped tightly around her, like a cocoon. Her thin black hair was all over the place and she was violently blinking the sleep out of her eyes. Her face was mostly a nose with lips, eyes and cheeks hiding somewhere behind it. She wasn't pretty even in the best of times, and right now she looked just shy of horrible, but Earl didn't mind. He was not a picky man.

"Nothing, Dear. Go back to sleep. Get some rest."

She mumbled something incomprehensible and rolled over. Her shoulder blades poked out past her night gown, arched toward the notches of her spine like scraps of a carapace. Earl noticed, not for the first time, how everything about her was sharp. Her body and mind and tongue were all harsh, relentless. In contrast nearly everything about him was round, steady and forgiving. Well, opposites attract, he thought, then smiled sadly to himself.

That day at the auto shop was nothing extraordinary. He worked on brakes, was frowned at whenever he mentioned the cost of a repair job to a customer and smiled but said very little to his co-workers. Just before his break a woman with dreadlocks, piercings, tattoos and one painted fingernail (purple) accused him of stealing the Minor Threat CDs out of her glove compartment. She did so with fists on her hips, hellfire in her eyes.

Earl shook his head and mumbled, "Sorry, Miss, but I don't even know what that is."

"Then why did you take them?"

"But ... I didn't?"

"Look, buddy. All I know is that I had three CDs in that glove compartment when I dropped the car off yesterday, and when I picked it up this morning they were gone. I asked that guy over there," she pointed at Phil, the assistant manager, "who worked on my car, and he said 'Earl did.' Judging from your little plastic name tag," which she flicked with a long fingernail, "that's you. So where are my fucking CDs?"

Earl looked over at Phil, who shrugged apologetically.

"I don't have them," Earl said, suddenly too loud, though it was hard to tell through the white noise of the shop – a major reason he enjoyed working there. "I really don't even know what you're talking about. But if you'd like to speak with the owner he will be in later today. I could –"

"Oh, never mind. Fuck it. Keep the damn things. Whatever. Hopefully you'll get fucked in the ass by some guy named Karma or something."

"What?" Earl said, but she wasn't listening anymore. She stormed off toward her car, and Earl noticed that she was barefoot.

Earl looked back at his co-worker. Phil shrugged again and Earl shrugged back.

Despite that little run-in, Earl's lunch break was surprisingly pleasant. He couldn't say why. He was in the cramped, stuffy break room, like always, eating a trio of enchiladas from the Mexican restaurant next door, flipping through magazines strewn across the scuffed table with the half-dead thirteen-inch TV buzzing mindlessly in the corner. It was nothing out of the ordinary, but it seemed more peaceful than usual.

When he returned home later that afternoon the mystery was solved.

"Why didn't you answer your phone?" Darlene demanded as he walked through the front door. Her hair was in curlers.

Earl blinked at her, then pulled his cell-phone out of his pocket. He flipped it open. It was blank.

"I guess I forgot to charge the batteries."

"Well, why'd you do that?"

"Why did I forget to charge it?"

She crossed her arms and made her 'stupid question' face.

Earl thought about it.

"I don't remember."

"Goddammit, Earl."

"Sorry, Dear."

"I was calling to tell you that the sink is stopped up again. What is wrong with that damn thing?"

He knew there was nothing wrong with it, but said, "I'll take a look at it."

"Well, make it quick. My sisters are coming over for dinner and you're going to need to clean up. You're filthy."

"Yes, Dear."

"I'm going to the store to pick up some more wine. Be done before I get back."

"Yes, Dear."

Twenty minutes later, down on his back, working beneath the sink he could barely fit under with a miniature flashlight clenched between his teeth, Earl frowned to himself. The drain was clogged because Darlene treated it like a garbage disposal, but this happened once a month. Nothing new. He frowned because he was in for a bad night. Darlene's sisters were bigger, meaner versions of Darlene, and once they'd guzzled a couple bottles of wine they would all sit in the kitchen and bad mouth the world for hours. In time Darlene would turn their collective tongues toward Earl and they'd rip into him until they grew bored with it, or found someone else to belittle. He was usually locked in the bedroom by then, pretending to read, but their shrilly voices jabbed right through the house's thin walls. Lying in bed, staring at the ceiling with an open book across his belly, listening to his wife and sisters-in-law laugh about how big and stupid he was – it was the only time he wished that there was a TV in the bedroom.

He pulled the wad of apple peels and cigarette butts out of the pipe, screwed everything back together, then walked drearily to the back of the house to wash up.

Dinner went as expected. Darlene didn't cook, so they ordered take-out Chinese. The sisters (Eve, Rebbecca and Kathy) were pleasant enough throughout the meal, but Earl could feel their eyes scouring him as they ate their sesame chicken in tiny, meticulous bites. Eve clucked non-discreetly when some sweet and sour sauce dripped onto the front his plaid button-up shirt, and Kathy rolled her eyes as he wiped the sauce off with his pinky finger and slipped it into his mouth. Darlene was still glaring at him in intervals for not shaving again before their company arrived (his stubble came in fast and was already showing again by this hour); she'd said, just before the doorbell rang, that it made him look homeless and he was going to embarrass her in front of her sisters. He'd apologized, but it hadn't helped.

When they were finished eating, Earl gathered up everyone's plates and glasses to do the dishes. Rebbecca, the oldest and meanest of them, grabbed his wrist when he reached for her silverware.

"What's wrong with your thumb?" she said.

Earl resisted the impulse to rip his hand from her grip and looked down. The green circle from earlier that morning had grown. It was the size of a quarter.

"I'm not sure," he said honestly.

Rebbecca leaned forward, her eyes a few inches from the back of his hand.

"It isn't paint. Looks almost like a grass stain."

"Let me see," Kathy demanded.

Rebbecca passed his hand to her, and she frowned over it as well. She then passed it to Eve, who wrinkled her nose at it, then finally Darlene took a look.

She shook her head and said, "I guess I gotta teach him how to wash his hands properly now."

The sisters giggled and Darlene shot Earl a venomous look. Earl looked down at her apologetically to no affect, then did the dishes while the girls threw back the first bottle of wine. As he was towel drying the plates, Eve put some music on in the living room. Earl didn't know who the singer was. She played an acoustic guitar and mostly sang about how she hated the men in her life, but no longer needed them because she was so strong. Earl didn't like her songs very much. They made him feel like even more of an outsider.

An hour later he was in his too-small bed, pointer finger masquerading as a bookmark between the pages of 'The Grapes of Wrath'. The CD had stopped spinning twenty minutes ago and the sisters were thoroughly intoxicated now. Rebbecca had just finished complaining about her boss when Eve broke in and asked what, exactly, was going on with Earl's thumb. That opened the floodgates. Darlene tore into him, sparing him no privacy. She bickered about how he always ate Mexican food for lunch and then loosed a shit storm that stunk up the entire house when he got off work; how he was only getting fatter, despite her attempts to trim him down, and that he didn't even have the decency to be ashamed of it; she groaned about his inability to properly fix a sink, about how much coaxing it took to get him to do yard work; she apologized for his appearance at dinner tonight, swearing up and down that she did the best she could with him. All throughout it, her sisters said they didn't know how she put up with him, that the big oaf didn't appreciate her and would be nothing without her. Darlene wallowed in her temporary martyr status. She was a happy, enthusiastic victim. She even offered to open another bottle of wine, their third, which the sisters accepted with "Why not?"s and "Of Course!"s.

At some point during his hazing, Earl rolled over on his side, the bed springs complaining beneath him. He gazed numbly out the back window. The oak tree in the backyard was dimly lit by the porch light. It stood tall and firm, ancient and imposing and beautiful. While he stared at it, something happened – the women's words drifted off to somewhere cold and distant, Antarctica perhaps, and the tree beckoned him, curled a knotted branch toward itself like an enormous finger, urged him to sit and read beneath the protection of its leaves. Earl stumbled from the bed, opened the window and climbed out into the backyard. The grass was cool and wet beneath his feet, but the feeling wasn't unpleasant. He didn't even mind when he sat, back against the bark, and the moisture soaked into his underwear.

He could not hear the women's voices at all now. He exhaled deeply and smiled to himself, curled his legs beneath him, Indian style, and continued where he'd left off in the story. He enjoyed reading about the Preacher, Jim Casey. He wasn't a character Earl particularly identified with, but he liked to think that they might have been friends, were Jim not just a fictional person invented by a dead man.

He was so peaceful out there, absorbed in his book and content for the first time in weeks, that he lost track of the time. He didn't look up from his novel until he heard Darlene approaching, the grass crunching beneath her slippers, the sound obnoxiously bright in the silence of the night.

"What," she said, "in God's name is wrong with you?"

Her long, skeletal arms were folded beneath her tiny breasts and he could smell the alcohol on her. Her chocolate-colored eyes weren't entirely focused and her beak-like nose pointed down at him like an extra finger. She was not much taller standing than he was seated. Her nightgown might have been a pillowcase.

"I came in the room to find it empty," she continued, her wine soaked tongue stretching the words out comically, "with the window open, curtains flapping in the damn wind, and you out here."

"It was nice out?" Earl tried.

"Oh. Okay. So that's reason enough to sit outside in just your goddamn underwear, reading a fucking book in the middle of the night?"

Earl looked at her helplessly. He couldn't explain exactly why he'd come out here. He couldn't find the words.

"I want you to sleep on the couch tonight. I want you to sleep out there and think about getting your shit together, about starting to act like a man, a real man, not some big, stupid asshole who can't think straight. Do you have any idea what this is like for me? Being embarrassed of you all the damn time?"

"Sorry, Dear. Really. I didn't mean anything by it."

"Just get inside before someone sees you, Earl. Sometimes I wonder why I ever ..."

She shook her head, turned sharply and stomped back inside. Earl stood to follow, but his right leg had fallen asleep. He rubbed it until some of the feeling returned, then limped into the house through the creaky side door. He curled up on the couch, only then regretting that the grass had been damp as a change of underwear was back in the room with Darlene. He attempted to continue reading, but could no longer concentrate. So he shut off all the lights and struggled to find a comfortable sleeping position. There wasn't one and he knew it – he was too damn big for the couch. Eventually, he settled on fetal position. Once his eyes adjusted to the dark, he stared at the blank television across the room. He imagined sitcoms about people with marital problems that all worked out in the end. He tried to think of a theme song, or how the intro would look, but nothing came to mind.

It was another hour before he fell asleep.

. . .

The next morning at exactly 5:45 Earl crept into the bedroom, collected his work uniform and slipped out on tippy-toes. He didn't want to risk more of Darlene's tongue, especially if she had a hangover, so he skipped his shower and shave, pissed in the backyard and dressed in the living room. As he was pouring milk into his bowl of health cereal that tasted like garden mulch (Darlene had forbidden him his Cap'n Crunch), he noticed his hand. The green mark had expanded. It now covered most of his thumb, down past the knuckle. He frowned at it for a moment, walked over to the sink, stuck his thumb into the box of detergent and scrubbed at it with a dish towel. Nothing happened. He went at it again, vigorously, to the point where his shoulder ached and his skin felt like it might come off, but the stain was no lighter than before. Not a shade.

When Earl finally sat down to his breakfast, frowning, wondering what was happening to him, his cereal was a mushy blob of nastiness. He choked it down and left the house.

Work that day was routine. He fixed cars and said next to nothing. Darlene called him during his lunch break, but their conversation was clipped and over with quickly. After nights like the one before, their interactions were one extreme or the other: far too long (lots of yelling from Darlene; interjected apologies from Earl), or cold, mechanical exchanges that ended before an argument could develop. He preferred the latter, though it was only a matter of time before the former broke out.

But at the end of the day, just before it was time to leave, something out of the ordinary happened. As Earl was hunched over his station, alone (Phil had to duck out early again), cleaning his tools and doing inventory, he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned and saw the woman from the day before, the angry one with the dreadlocks. She was dressed in a wrinkled tank top that appeared homemade and a long flowing skirt. Her right arm was down at her side. It was sleeved in tattoos. The left one was behind her back.

"Hey," she said. "Earl, right?"

Earl nodded suspiciously.

She revealed what she'd been hiding. It was a small stack of CDs, which she spread like an oriental fan. They all said "Minor Threat' on them.

"They were on the dresser in my apartment, under my coat. I took a couple things out of my car before I brought it in and totally forgot. So I want to apologize for yelling at you yesterday. That was a shitty thing to do, and I was just being a douche because I've had a bad week. You were the nearest target."

"It's okay."

"Well, I still feel shitty about it, so I'd like to make it up to you. Wanna get some coffee? I know a nice place not far from here." When Earl didn't say anything – just stood there, smiling vaguely – she added, "On me."

Earl looked back at his bench, scratching his head.

"I still have to finish closing up."

"I'll help."

And she did. Earl was too stunned to stop her. He numbly told her where to hang tools while he cleared away the last of his mess. She didn't fuss about the grease, which surprised him. Darlene didn't like anything that could stain or blemish to touch her skin. She ate even finger foods like baby carrots and grapes with a fork. He'd forgotten that not all women were that way.

Once everything was in order, he washed his hands in the knee-high sink on the back wall more thoroughly than usual. He handed her the soap when he was done and she followed suit. While she rubbed the lopsided bar up and down her arms, Earl's mind raced, searching desperately for a way to beg off, or to explain this to Darlene so she wouldn't murder him. Nothing came to mind. He entertained the idea of simply running away, of pushing this strange woman to the ground, hightailing it to the parking lot and driving off before she could tackle him. She might jump onto the back of his car and smash the rear windshield with her claws, but he'd turn sharply at the first intersection, accelerator flat against the floor. Among screeching tires and jets of smoke she would lose her grip and roll off into the street, and cars would slam their brakes to avoid hitting her. He might hear her scream then, an inhuman roar that sounded like four different voice boxes combined – one of them an animal's – and he'd look back to see her panting, her shoulders rising and falling heavily, her eyes a cherry red, glowing like charcoals. Her lips would peel back to reveal pointed teeth, dripping with blood and foamy drool, and she'd start chanting and doing elaborate hand gestures. He'd have to turn as soon as possible in case she –

"So," she said, drying her hands with a paper towel. "Ready to go?"

"Okay."

"Great." She shouldered the bag she'd set on the floor. "You mind driving? I walked. I live just ten blocks that way. Try not to drive when I can help it. Every little bit helps, you know?"

Earl didn't know what she was talking about.

"I don't mind."

As they walked over to the car, she said, "I'm Jane, by the way. But everyone calls me Limbs."

Limbs?

"I'm Earl."

"Yeah," Limbs said. "I think we've established that."

Earl blushed. After unlocking the door, he climbed into his faded black Nissan and reached across the passenger seat to pop the lock. His fingers were tingly when he put them back on the steering wheel. When Limbs sat down, she was looking at him, grinning. The sun was reflecting off her nose ring and the glare made her difficult to look at. She smelled vaguely of soil and wood chips and perfume. Earl liked the smell.

"What's a big guy like you doing driving a little thing like this?"

It was a good question. Earl dwarfed the vehicle. His seat was as far back as it would possibly go and he was still hunched. He'd owned the car for years, but it still looked like something he'd borrowed out of necessity. It made him feel slightly monstrous.

"My wife wanted a small car. She says the big ones make her feel silly."

"Seems like you would be the higher priority in this case."

Earl didn't know how to respond to that, so he turned the key.

As they were rolling down the highway at exactly the speed limit, Limbs said, "No radio?"

"You can turn it on if you'd like."

"Nah. The regular stations just play bullshit."

Earl started to ask if there were irregular stations, but decided against it.

"Whoa!" she said suddenly. "You into gardening?"

Earl almost turned his head, but remembered to keep his eyes on the road. The abrupt, senseless question and his momentary inability to form a response made him realize exactly how nervous he was. Two drips of sweat trickled from his armpit, down his left side.

"What?" he eventually said.

"You're thumb. It's green."

Earl glanced down at it. The mark had spread since breakfast and now rested on the second knuckle. The end of it, where the stain met the normal skin, was scalpel straight. Earl knew that it would spread no further, though he couldn't say how.

"I got one, too," Limbs said. She wiggled her thumb in his face. And sure enough it was entirely green, though brighter and more artificial looking than his. "Thought I was the only one."

Earl started to ask whether a mysterious plant had spit at her as well, but she didn't give him a chance. He was glad it worked out that way.

"I got mine done a few years back. Probably my most painful tattoo. When did you get yours?"

"Recently?"

Limbs waited for him to elaborate. When he didn't, she said, "Well, I'm into plants. Probably a little too much. I grow and maintain gardens as a hobby – got 'em all over my apartment, to my ass-wipe-of-a-landlord's dismay – so I figured a green thumb, a literal one, would be fun. You into plants too?"

"I don't know," Earl said honestly. He'd never thought about them with any depth He knew they existed and that sometimes he ate them, but noticed them very little beyond that.

"Well, why did you get that done then?"

Earl shrugged.

Limbs, realizing that was all the explanation she was going to get, laughed and drummed her hands on the dash board. The sudden noise startled Earl.

"That's great," she said, and then she laughed again. "No fucking reason at all. Ha! Oh, turn here."

The coffee shop was small, but busy. It smelled good. Punk music was spilling from hidden speakers, too quiet to be annoying or interesting. People dressed similarly to Limbs were scattered about, and most of them, employees included, greeted her by name, though some called her Jane. The wall to Earl's left was covered in paintings. One was a series of lumpy brown and black smears. Earl wondered if someone had dragged a black bean burrito down the canvas. Another canvas, two feet to the right, was entirely white except for three vomit colored circles in the bottom corner. Next to that was a painting of a woman stabbing a bloody heart with scissors, and across her forehead were the words "Fuck Love". Earl didn't understand why they were considered art, or what was attractive about them, but he rarely did. Small tables littered the room and on the back wall there was a long red couch. People with mohawks and piercings and torn clothing were pecking away at very clean looking laptops. The contrast was confusing.

"The usual?" said the redheaded girl behind the counter as they approached. She wasn't pretty, but something about her face made Earl want to stare at her. It might have been the width of her mouth, or the way her freckles clustered tightly on the apples of her cheeks, or her wispy eyebrows.

"The usual," Limbs confirmed.

The redhead turned to Earl and smiled brightly. Her eyelashes were nearly invisible, like fishing wire.

"And what can I get for you, big fella?"

"Coffee?" Earl ventured.

She smiled wider and her lips spread open revealing lots of tiny, perfectly straight teeth. "What kind? We got about twenty varieties," she said, throwing a freckled thumb over her shoulder toward the chalkboard on the back wall. The chalkboard was huge and a bunch of beverages Earl had never heard of were written across it in stark, angular cursive. Someone had drawn flowers along the edges with colored chalk.

Earl read over the menu for a moment, then turned to Limbs for help. She laughed at how lost he looked.

"Just give him another one of mine," she said to the redhead. Then to him: "Don't worry. It's good."

"Sure," Earl said, relieved.

Moments later they were given their drinks. The coffee came in small porcelain cups, bone white, which rested on little saucers. They carried them carefully and sat at an empty table near the window. The other patrons glanced up at Earl as he passed, but tried to appear as though they hadn't. He was still dressed in his work clothes (navy slacks and a short sleeve button up the same color, both stained and faded), and he felt foreign. After he was comfortably seated, he pulled his shoulders in and hunched forward, as if trying to shrink himself. And then his stomach rolled over.

"Is there a bathroom here?" he said, calmly as he could.

"Yeah. Over by the counter, to the right."

Earl stood and waddled to the appointed door. The bathroom was unisex, which made him uncomfortable, but there was nothing to be done for it. He entered, locked the door, double checked the handle to make sure it wouldn't open, then removed his left shoe, pulled his leg from his pants and got down to business. He was grateful for the coffee grinder just beyond the door. He'd eaten Mexican for lunch again and that brand of food never, ever left him quietly. A few sweaty minutes later he was done and from habit peered around for some matches. There were none. He shrugged, slid his leg back through his pants and underwear, down into his shoe. His sock was damp, but he paid it no mind.

"Better?" Limbs asked over the rim of her coffee cup as he sat down again.

Earl nodded. He tried his coffee. To his surprise, it was good. He normally didn't care for the stuff.

"So are you growing a beard there?"

Earl thought about it, then shook his head.

"Well, what's all this?" Limbs said.

She touched his chin. Earl flinched before he could catch himself.

"I didn't have time to shave today," he said quickly, not wanting to offend her. "It grows in fast."

"Why not?"

"What?"

"Why didn't you have time to shave?" she clarified. "Did you wake up late?"

Earl shook his head. Her train of thought was difficult for him to follow.

"I never wake up late."

"Well?"

Often when people questioned Earl directly, he felt they were searching for flaws in him – prying for tiny openings, perhaps in his eye sockets or beneath his fingernails, where their words could wriggle in and devour him from the inside out, like acid. But Limbs' questions didn't feel like that. She spoke plainly, almost bluntly, and she seemed genuinely interested in the answer. But not for an ulterior motive or something malicious. She asked simply because she was curious. So Earl told her the truth.

"I had to sleep on the couch."

"You have an argument with the old lady?"

"Not exactly."

"What then?"

He took another sip of his coffee. The cup and saucer felt like playthings in his big hands. He gingerly set them back down and said, bracing for the worst, "Last night, while Darlene and her sisters were in the kitchen drinking, I crept into the backyard and read a book under the oak tree."

"So?"

Earl paused. That wasn't the response he'd been expecting.

"Well, I wasn't wearing anything."

Limbs smiled, eyebrows raised.

"You were naked?"

"No!" Earl said, too loud. Limbs jumped a little and the other customers looked up from their laptops, their faces ghoulish in the light of their screens. When nothing interesting happened beyond the outburst, they went back to typing and idly chatting and scoffing.

"No," Earl continued, at a more regular volume. "I didn't mean that. I was wearing underwear. I wasn't naked."

Limbs shrugged and sipped more of her coffee. "Then who cares? Hell, who cares even if you were naked? People need to lighten up about all that stuff. Fuckers."

Earl didn't know what to say to that. It was a point of view he'd genuinely never considered.

"So that's it? She made you sleep on the couch because you read a book outside in your underwear?"

Earl blushed.

"Yeah."

"Were you supposed to be in there with them, and you just bailed? Is that why she was mad?"

Earl shook his head. The idea of chatting over wine with Darlene and her sisters was horrifying. He squirmed before he could catch himself.

"Well, why was she so worried about it?"

"Well, we have neighbors, and Darlene says I'm not as fit as I used to be, and I should –"

"Wait. Whoa. What the fuck?"

Earl looked down into his coffee. He didn't know what he'd said that'd caused such a response, and Limbs' outbursts made him uneasy.

"Are you saying your wife calls you fat?"

Earl was starting to regret his honesty.

"Only sometimes," he mumbled.

"That's fucked." She sounded truly outraged, and as she shook her head her dreadlocks wiggled back and forth stiffly. They reminded Earl of the old mop at the shop. "Dude, Earl, you're not fat. You're big, pretty huge actually, but you're not fat."

"What's the difference?" Earl said, and instantly wished he could take the words back when he saw the look on Limbs' face.

"Jesus! That is really fucked! I can't believe she talks to you like that! I mean, I'm sure she's great and all, but people shouldn't talk to the people they love that way. There's enough fucking body image propaganda plastered all over the outside world as it is. You don't need it in your own home, too. And believe me, I know all about it. My ex-boyfriend, Eric, whom I broke up with just last week, called me a fat ass just before we split. Fucking asshole. Just because I've got a little of this." She stood up, pulled her tank top up to her breasts and grabbed the soft mound of her belly. She shook the flesh for emphasis, sat back down. "Because I don't have a fucking six pack, you can talk shit about how I look? Fuck you, man. That's such bullshit."

Earl was glad he was sitting. Seeing her stomach like that, close enough that he could've reached across the table and touched it, ran his thumb along the curves of it, maybe even flicked her bellybutton ring ... he was semi-erect before he knew what was happening.

"Sorry," Limbs continued, sounding not at all like she meant it. "That's a pet peeve of mine. A pretty fucking big one, actually. Makes me want to punch the shit out of something. Or someone. Eric, probably."

She still looked angry, so Earl asked her something he'd been wondering in hopes of distracting her. And himself.

"Why do people call you Limbs?"

She laughed. And like that her anger was gone, popped like a soap bubble.

"My full name is Jane Delimbs. People used to call me Delimbs as a teenager, and at some point the D and the E were dropped. Late high school, actually." She laughed again. "I had it coming. I was an artiste in the worst way. You know, super moody and tragic and emotional and all that crap. And the only thing I painted at the time was body parts. Mouths, arms, legs, breasts, penises, thighs, whatever. I painted every piece of the human body until I was bored to death of the shtick, but always one body part at a time. Never a whole figure. So Limbs seemed a fitting nickname to my peers, or whatever you want to call them, and lucky me, the tag stuck." She shrugged. "I don't even notice it anymore."

She drank the rest of her coffee in a mighty gulp. Earl continued to sip his. Then Limbs slapped the table with both hands. Earl didn't flinch this time. He was growing accustomed to her suddenness.

"I have a proposition for you."

"Okay," Earl said, when she didn't elaborate.

"How do you feel about a one night stand?"

Earl choked on his coffee. Some of it dribbled onto his shirt front.

"What?"

"Look, if you're faithful to your wife and find the idea horrendous, I understand. Hell, even if you find me repulsive and would rather stick your dick into a cactus or something, that's cool. Fair enough. But I've had a shit week, and I think a good old-fashioned balling would do me good. Kinda help me get over Eric being such an asshole. So whaddya think?"

Earl was stunned. He couldn't form a response, because he didn't fully believe he'd heard her correctly. She took his silence to mean something else.

"It's cool. Forget I asked. But if you wouldn't mind dropping me –"

"No!" Earl said. The entire room looked up again. He sighed, shook his head. He had no idea why he was doing this, was startled that he could even entertain the thought of something so risky, but the words came out before he could second guess them. "No. Let me figure something out. I mean, if you're sure you ... um ..."

"Look, just tell the old lady that you're going to have some drinks with a guy from work. Say he inherited some money from a dead uncle he never knew and he wants to go celebrate."

"Oh," Earl said. "Okay. That's good. Yeah."

He stood from the table and stepped out the front door. His hands were sweating as he fumbled for his cell-phone. What am I doing? She's going to find out. She'll know. I don't know how, but she'll know I'm lying. He pressed and held the number one key on his phone, the speed dial for Darlene. She's going to find out, then she's going to kill me. She's going to make me sleep on the couch for weeks. And when I let down my guard, maybe twelve days days later, she's going to stab me in the back eighty-six times. Her sisters are going to keep handing her more weapons to stab me with, swords and Chinese stars and battle axes and –

"Earl?" Darlene snapped. "Why aren't you home? Are you still at the shop?"

"Hi, Dear. Yeah. I just closed up. Had to finish up some things. Extra stuff. But Phil, the guy from work – you remember, Phil? – he just got some money."

"What?"

"I mean, his dead uncle sent him some money."

"How does a dead person send someone money?"

"No, no," Earl said, and he almost dropped the phone, his hands were so sweaty. He was staring at the ground intensely. If he caught sight of Limbs, even the smallest piece of her, a foot or a finger, he'd break. He'd run home and confess all he'd considered doing and beg forgiveness until his throat was sore. He took a deep breath. "Phil's uncle died recently. Phil never knew him, but the guy left him some money. Phil asked me to have some drinks with him. To celebrate. His new money. That he just got."

"Well, where are you going to be?" Darlene demanded, sounding unsure. "Does Phil live near –"

"I don't know, Dear. I really don't know the details. I'll call you later, though."

He snapped the phone shut. He was equal parts amazed and terrified at what he'd just done. Darlene was going to be furious that he'd cut her off like that. He hoped, prayed, that she wouldn't call him back for a while. He glanced over at Limbs through the storefront window. She cocked her eyebrows questioningly. Earl smiled sheepishly, his cheeks flushing. She grinned at his bashfulness, said some goodbyes to the people in the coffee shop, shouldered her bag and met him on the street.

As they walked back to Earl's car, side by side, her skirt flapping in the wind, she said, "So everything's cool?"

"I think so."

"Good. And sorry for being so blunt back there, but I hate pretense. If we're clear from the start that this is just a one night stand, no strings attached ... Wait. We are clear on that, right?"

Earl nodded.

"Good. Because this won't go any further. You're married and I have no interest in a relationship. Nothing personal. But if we understand the rules from the outset, then we can enjoy this for what it is. Maybe go watch a movie, grab some dinner – I know a good place – then head back to my apartment and fuck each other's brains out. Come tomorrow, we'll go our separate ways, say hello if we bump into each other on the street, or not, and that will be the end of it. No need for the 'I'll call you sometime' bullshit, or worrying about each other's feelings. Is that alright with you? A solid enough plan?"

Earl didn't trust himself to speak, so he nodded, and they climbed into his little car and drove toward the movie theater.

. . .

The movie they saw was foreign, German or Austrian. Or was it Italian? Earl couldn't remember, so he settled on 'European'. Limbs gave him some background info on the director while they were in line for popcorn and drinks, which Earl forgot immediately. He did his best to look interested, though, and Limbs seemed satisfied. She bought their food, actually insisted, which Earl found strange, and then they found their seats. Earl asked if they could sit in the back. People couldn't see over him and complained if he sat anywhere else. Limbs said the back was fine.

The movie was slow paced, subtitled, and depressing. It was about a woman named Annabelle and her hard life running a farm. Her father and husband died of pneumonia in their first winter together, just three months after her marriage. She was left to tend the land with her seven year old daughter, a bastard from a teenage tryst that Annabelle refused to regret or repent for. Much of the movie involved the Annabelle battling hardships and standing tall against adversity, then crying herself to sleep once she was alone. In the end, some villagers, drunk after a neighbors birthday celebration, marched up to the farm in the middle of the night and forced their way into the house, where they raped and killed her. The daughter watched the entire incident through a crack in her mother's armoire, her favorite hiding place. The music was serene and beautiful during the brutal scene and it made Earl want to cry. Then the credits rolled up.

Limbs loved the movie. She was enthusiastic on the way out, her cheeks still wet, saying it felt so real, not at all dramatized, and she believed every word of it, no matter that it was likely fiction. Earl disliked it for the same reasons, but lied and said it was a nice film.

When they pushed through the revolving doors onto the sidewalk it was just after seven and still light out. Earl always expected it to be nighttime when he left a theater, no matter the time he went in. He wasn't sure why. The restaurant Limbs mentioned earlier was not far, just eight blocks, so she suggested they walk. Earl agreed. She directed him down unfamiliar streets and Earl wondered how, having lived here all his life, he'd never seen them. Three separate people greeted her as they passed. Earl imagined what it must be like to be so known, to see familiar faces even when you weren't expecting to, and for those faces to have happy expressions on them. He doubted he'd like it very much, all that attention, but he envied her a little just the same.

“Oh, I forgot to ask,” Limbs said. “Do you mind vegetarian?”

“I guess not,” Earl said.

“I take it you're not one yourself.”

Earl shook his head.

“Right. Well, don't worry, this place is great. Best veggie burgers in town. They're good even to people that eat the meat version. And I help them out on Sundays during their open mic nights, just washing dishes or busing tables or whatever, so they give me a discount.”

“Okay,” Earl said.

Five minutes later they were seated in a booth near the back, Earl's sweaty back sticking to the vinyl. The staff obviously thought well of Limbs. Half of them hugged her en route to their stations, or flicked at her dreads playfully, or commented on one of her new tattoos. She was equally affectionate to all of them, and the amount that everyone touched each other surprised Earl. He'd never seen people so comfortable with physical contact. The restaurant was dimly lit, with red and white candles and ridiculously tall menus on each of the tables. The room smelled like cinnamon and was oddly calm for the amount of people inside (there was only one available table now that they'd been seated). Artwork peppered the walls here as well, but it was more to Earl's liking. He didn't understand these pieces any more than the ones in the coffee shop, but the colors and shapes were prettier.

While they were waiting for someone to take their order, Limbs said, “You didn't like the movie very much, did you?”

Earl paused to get his thoughts in order.

“You've been even more quiet and hunched up since we left the theater," she continued, "and that's saying something.”

“It's not that I didn't like it,” Earl said eventually. “It was just so sad. It made me wish people were different.”

The explanation sounded childish and inadequate to Earl, but Limbs nodded.

“I think that's what the director was trying to get across. That people are generally mean, hateful creatures. But even though that's the case, it doesn't mean you have to give up and be shitty like everyone else. You might be resented for elevating yourself – you might even meet a bad end the way Annabelle did – but that doesn't take away from the fact that you didn't sink the way most people eventually do.”

“I was thinking those kind of things on the way here. I like the movie more, now that I've thought it over. But I don't think I will watch it again.”

Limbs laughed and patted the top of his big hand. He didn't jerk away this time, just blushed and smiled a little.

The waiter came soon after, a short fat guy with a shaved head and a beard. His name was Ray and he was wearing a faded black shirt with the sleeves torn off, and his earlobes were spread wide with black, gaping rings. Earl thought he looked like a pirate. Limbs jumped from her seat as Ray approached and threw her arms around him. After some rapid fire smalltalk (he'd apparently been on leave for two weeks, recovering from a surgery of some kind) she introduced him to Earl. Ray recognized him.

“You worked on my car last year!” Ray said. He had a heavy lisp. “A beat up old Chevy sedan." Thedan. "Been purring like a kitten ever since, man.” Thince. To Limbs: “I didn't have quite enough for the job, so he fixed the books and cut like a third off the price. Nice guy.” Nithe.

Limbs smiled at Earl brightly, her eyes twinkling. In truth, Earl had only given him the discount as a way to avoid a scene or a problem. It wasn't administered out of the goodness of his heart; it was the simplest way to make him leave. But with Limbs looking at him the way she was, he wished he'd done it just to be nice.

"And it looks like you weren't the only one with the green thumb idea," Ray said, looking down at Earl's hand. Lookth.

"I know, right?" Limbs said. "I figured I was being witty and original. Guess that's what I get for being cocky. His looks more natural, too."

“Yep," Ray said. "Makes yours look like you just melted crayons over it." Crayonth.

"Oh, fuck you," Limbs laughed, and slapped Ray's belly with the back of her hand.

Ray grinned and took a miniature notebook out of his apron.

"Well, what can I get you guys?” Guyth.

They both ordered a veggie burger platter with fries and a salad, and Earl, feeling suddenly brave, added a side of onion rings. Darlene wasn't here to scold him, so why not? Limbs ordered a beer with her meal and Earl had a Coke. The food arrived shortly after – they'd obviously put Limbs ahead of the other customers, who were still waiting when she and Earl were served and were none too happy about it – and it was delicious. All of it. Earl struggled to keep from wolfing it down. He might have gone so far as to say it outranked a real burger.

While they ate, they talked. Limbs told him about her college years, her brief stint as a substitute teacher, how she'd never been in a relationship longer than a year. Later she confessed that she was getting into classical music, movie soundtracks and stuff, but was reluctant to let her punk friends know and felt stupid for her reluctance.

She asked Earl about his family and he answered her truthfully. He only had two living relatives that were not in-laws. One was his Aunt Gettys who lived in a condo in Florida. They had very little contact with each other, but she sent him a Christmas card every year with a check for exactly seven dollars inside. Earl never cashed the checks, but he didn't throw them out either. Seventeen years' worth were stacked in the bottom of his sock drawer. Limbs asked if the number seven was significant. Earl told her that it wasn't and she laughed. He also had an uncle in Montana, but he hadn't spoken to him since he was five and in truth didn't know whether the man was still alive. His name was Bill, but Earl's father had always called him Rivet. Earl never found out why.

After the onion rings and burgers were gone and they were working on their fries, Limbs asked if he'd had any brothers or sisters. Earl said no, he was an only child, and then went on to explain how his parents had died in a car accident on the way to his high school graduation ceremony. They'd been sitting at a red light when a drunk behind the wheel of a semi-truck rammed into the side of them. His mother died on impact, crushed in her seat, and his father passed away in the ambulance ten minutes later due to internal bleeding. Just seconds before Earl's name was called to receive his diploma, his senior English teacher whispered the grim news in his ear. He burst into tears as he crossed the stage. Everyone laughed at him, thinking he was upset about high school being over with, or that he was overwhelmed with pride. But he walked right past the principle without even reaching for his sheepskin, on through the side door of the auditorium and walked home. He curled up on the floor of his bedroom and stared at nothing until the police came, hours later.

Not knowing what to do with himself, just out of high school and suddenly alone, he got a job at Ted's Body and Repair Shop and rented a shitty apartment within walking distance. Ted was the father of Rob, Earl's only high school friend, and Ted took Earl on at his son's insistence. Earl and Rob worked together there for two years, then Rob moved away with his girlfriend of three weeks. No warning. One morning Earl received a phone call from Rob who excitedly blurted that he'd eloped, that he was in Vegas and was moving to California with his new wife and would stay in touch. Earl never heard from him again. He stayed on at the shop, not knowing where else to go. That was twenty years ago. Limbs asked if Earl ever wished he'd chosen a different job, maybe went to college. Earl shrugged, said he'd gotten good at his job over the years and it was nice to be good at something.

Earl had been careful not to mention his wife, or how he met her, and Limbs had been circumspect enough not to ask. But he found it easy to talk to Limbs. She didn't judge him, so he let the words roll out unguarded. And he noticed, when she'd left to go to the bathroom and say hello to everyone in the kitchen, that he'd neither mumbled nor shouted throughout the meal. He'd spoken evenly, almost clearly.

“So you're thirty-eight?” Limbs said later. Her eyes were still a little watery from his story. “I'd placed you as younger. Maybe thirty, thirty-two.”

“How old are you?” Earl ventured, then remembered that women didn't like that question. Limbs didn't seem to notice.

“You've got me by eleven years, big guy.”

Earl counted backwards on his fingers and Limbs laughed, thinking it was a joke. It hadn't been, but Earl played it off as well as he could.

When they requested the check half an hour later, Ray shook his head.

"I owe you one, dude," Ray said. "More than one, actually. So it's on me."

Earl didn't know what to do. The sudden kindness threw him off. He smiled vaguely and looked between Limbs and Ray for some kind of hint. After an awkward silence, he managed, "Thanks. Thank you. That's ... thanks."

"Sure thing," Ray said.

Limbs stood and hugged Ray again, nice and long, actually shook him back and forth, then asked him to call her sometime. Ray mentioned that a band Earl had never heard of would be playing in a couple days and she agreed to go with him. Earl found his feet, shook Ray's hand and said it was nice to meet him again, then Earl and Limbs walked back to the movie theater parking lot.

As they were driving down the highway, a thin fog drifted over from the harbor and painted the buildings and streets in a gray wash the color of old oatmeal. Earl was intensely nervous. Limbs was directing them back to her apartment, and when they got there they'd probably have sex. His heart flapped against his ribs like a landlocked fish. He noticed that he was starting to smell pretty ripe, which only made him sweat more.

He'd never considered cheating on Darlene before now. Not to say he didn't undress women with his eyes, or that he didn't masturbate to the image of nearly every female he had more than a moment's contact with, but he'd never considered going through with anything. It had all been imaginary, a distraction, a way to get off, escapism. But within seconds of a woman propositioning him with sex he'd agreed to it. The immediacy of his decision startled him. He wondered if he'd have been so quick to agree years ago when he and Darlene had been happier, or at least argued less; he wondered if he'd have even agreed at all. But he didn't like where that train of thought was taking him, so he stuffed it into the back of his mind and concentrated on the road.

Sooner than he would have liked they were climbing the steps of Limbs' apartment building.

 

 

End of Part One