In the Middle

He leaves the light on and pads down the hallway, noticing the walls for the first time. They are covered with dusty frames, pictures of people he doesn’t recognize. As he looks closer he realizes that they are all the same face; the same family, yes, but also, somehow, the exact same face. The same face on all the little babies, fat with clenched fists like balls of dough, and the same face under every greasy comb-over, above each too-tight tie and under every teased cloud of hair.

He’s wearing pajama pants that droop in the seat, as pajama pants always do on him, because he’s very thin. He takes a few steps, closer to the living room, where he senses someone waiting. It’s an old house, not kept up, bitter dust in his nostrils and crawling, shadowy corners. He must be dreaming, he thinks. That’s always the proper explanation for the unexplainable. He’s so cold though; he must be awake. He couldn’t possibly sleep through this much cold. But since he woke up in a strange bed in a strange house, he doesn’t know where any of his sweatshirts are. So he’s vulnerable, shivering and clasping his hands over his thin arms. The living room is very dimly lit by a bluish glow coming through the window.

She is sitting on the couch, her chin in her hand, looking out the window with one of those I’m-here-but-I’m-not looks on her face. She has that look a lot. He knows her; she’s from his media art class.

Hello, professor, she says without looking at him. He sits on the couch next to her. It’s scratchy, a shredded material that feels about a thousand years old, as brittle as burnt paper.

What are we doing here, he asks her. Where are we?

She looks at him then, turns her face away from the window and toward his. It’s as if she’s wearing the moonlight; her face is still glowing with it, even in shadow.

We’re in limbo, she says. In the middle of everything.

Oh, he says. So it is a dream.

She snorts, not a laugh but more a sound of mockery, and turns back toward the window. Her wrist is lying next to him, and on that wrist is a braided cord with a silver tag dangling from it. He remembers the brush of something cold and metal against his arm as he wrapped them around his naked torso in the hallway, he looks at his own wrist. A matching bracelet, a silver tag.

Are we dead? He asks. He fears annoying her. He feels as though she could get up and walk out the door without warning, and he wouldn’t know whether to follow her or not. So he treads carefully.

Dead? She says, dreamily. Everyone is dead. We’re more alive than most people.

Wait, he says. Wait. You’re in my class?

Yes.

And you made that collage with all the family photos that have the same face?

Yeah, she says. She turns back to him, smiling now. You remembered? I wasn’t sure you liked it, she says.

Oh. Well, I didn’t, really.

She drops the smile. Glances down at his skinny, bare chest. He drapes his arms over it, trying to look casual. He looks back toward the hallway, at the parade of photos.

Oh, she says. Bored. I put those up. I thought it needed…something. And she turns away from him again, sighs and gets up. Heads somewhere that looks like a dark kitchen. He follows her.

Is this your house?

She’s standing in the bright yellow light of the open refrigerator, her face and eyes burned into focus. She takes out a block of cheddar cheese and begins to slice some on the counter.

It’s everyone’s house, she says. Not mine, not yours. But it’s ours.

He is starting to get annoyed with her indifference.

Then where is everyone else?

She stops cutting, holds out a slice of cheese to him. She’s chewing and doesn’t meet his eyes. Because he doesn’t know how not to be polite, he takes it. When he brings it to his mouth it’s nothing but dust. It crumbles and disappears in his fingers. But I’m not really here, he says. And you are. I can’t even eat this cheese.

Yeah, she says, putting the cheese back. She takes out a beer and cracks it open against the counter. That’s how I was at the beginning. You get better.

Better at what?

At dealing, she says. She takes a long swallow from the beer, hands it to him. It’s warm and the bottle feels gritty. When he tips it back nothing comes out. It’s empty.

He gives it back to her and she takes another sip. Wipes her mouth with her fingers.

Well, she says. Are you going to get dressed? Her eyes are on the waistband of his thin plaid pajama bottoms. He’s aware of the little trail of dark hair that disappears into them.

I don’t have any clothes here, he says.

She laughs, and he feels like a child. Like she’s the teacher and he’s the student. And he’s fallen into one of her bizarre art projects. It must be a dream, still.

She steps closer to him and reaches her arms around his neck. She leans into him and feels her breasts through her gauzy tank top. She’s not wearing a bra. When she pulls away he feels warm all over, and notices that his arms are covered in a dark fabric. He feels it and runs his hands over his chest. It’s a flannel shirt, buttoned and tucked into pants that look like something he’d wear. But they’re not his, not exactly.

Thanks, he says, because he can’t stop being polite.