A. S. Field: Anatomy of Desire

She was startled by heat and by lack of air; he threw off the dirty blanket from his battered body, which carried the smell of long months and endless slow years in its coarsely woven, fluffed material. She had almost fallen asleep again, her long hair clinging damply to her sleep-deprived face, when she heard the roar of an engine very close to the house; perhaps it was already standing here on the corner. She became alert and cautious, she did not move, did not make a sound, only listened, did the night passenger continue driving?

The noise of the engine stopped, the car was still rolling, the small gravel crunched under the tires as the stone rubbed on the coarse sand, then a muffled noise, it hits something, then a leaden silence, which she only let out in fear, her held breath broken, barely rising, leaving her startled chest with a flicker.

She sneaks with almost weightless steps, where she retreats to sleep at night, up the wooden stairs from the basement, carefully avoiding the creaky steps that only she knows, wearing down the botch since childhood, which is a miracle that it is still standing and can bear her weight. She creeps barefoot to the door, her sweating palm clutching the rifle; her hands and stomach still tremble from it, even though she has used it several times in recent years; in a forced murderous way.

There is no noise or rustle from outside, so she waits for a long time, her thin little body, her bare chest under his gray T-shirt leaning against the wooden door, her left hand gripping the doorknob, searching for courage somewhere hidden deep in her rumbling stomach. She carefully lifts the crossbar, revealing the house to the starry sky, where the bright moon illuminates the landscape, making visible the piece of darkness that stands silently at the corner of the house, its headlight breaking the saltpeter pattern of the fading plaster.

She sees a man, his body leaning over the steering wheel, his head tilted to one side, his arms hanging down; he might be dead. She hopes that's it. A dead man doesn't need help, just bury him in the back with the others and there's no problem; but if he's alive, she can't refuse him the medicine; she's bound by an oath that's worthless in this world, yet she, the only doctor in the area, still sticks to it.

She feels annoyed, he has a pulse; barely a pulse, but still a chance. But for what, life, or rather the slow agonizing death that they call existence these days? Since the Collapse, there's been no meaning to anything. Everyone is floundering like seaweed washed ashore in the wind. They dry up, wither, starve, kill. They lie down and rise regardless of the time of day; in the heat of the day, and in the cool night they toss and turn, sleepless, stinking from their own evaporation, like hungry, fateless animals waiting for the axe to strike.

*****

It took all her strength to drag the helpless body into the house, she tied his hands to the table leg, his feet to the bed, and now, like Jesus lifted from the cross, he lay before her, sprawled on the floor, the man, his striped shirt bloody on his chest, open at the neck, clinging to the skin, which bewitched her gaze. She buttoned and smoothed the canvas, saw no injury; reached down, felt his back, her thin fingers running along his spine, ice-cold with terror in the summer heat.

She cuts open the frayed, torn trousers, but even on the muscular, work-worn legs she only finds traces of long-healed cuts, leaving only the head, on which there is a large bulge at the back, a bleeding wound, from which warm blood leaks, leaving clotted lumps on the messy-cut hair and the strong, sun-kissed neck.

*****

She watches his slowly regain consciousness, his eyes squinting open, his consciousness a slow flickering, barely flickering candle flame at the edge of his mind. He turns his head away from the shuttered window, while she crouches in the chair, a safe distance away, her rifle lying on the table, ready; from there she watches the tied, wet cloth as she cleans the man.

She thinks his head hurts from the blow that other people have dealt him, from whom he fled, or who left him there for dead. He lay all night in a fainting sleep, and she stood guard in case he was pursued; she dozed off and on, sitting on the hard chair, once dropping her rifle, guarding herself, not the fugitive who had invaded her life unwelcome, and now blinked here in the shaded daylight.

She changes the bandage, gives him water to drink, wipes the vomit off his chin and beard; concussion.

*****

She drove into the scene with the car, smoothed the tire tracks leading to the house with a tree branch, burned the bloody, torn rags, covered the sunburned skin with ointment, and banished the gray eyes to the basement; dragged him down with his hands and feet tied, helped him to bed, then untied his ropes and locked the door, and fed him once a day.

Her hand often strayed to her shoulder at the nape of her neck, where the parched, cracked lip touched it, while she bent over to bandage the wound, an unexpected, calculated or desperate attack burning in her skin like gratitude the torturous desire that would not let her sleep or eat, but only make her wait, lying powerless in the dark cellar, while she chewed his nails up there.

*****

The kiss burned her shoulder like a branding iron; she couldn't help but think about it any more.

She couldn't help but think about the snow-white teeth flashing from his beard, the serious, gray gaze, deep in which the complete hopelessness of a life that was no longer good for anything looked back into his disillusioned, sea-blue eyes.

She had never thought that skin tanned by the sun, or a collarbone protruding from a shirt that had slipped aside, could be so attractive; that a strong, wide, sweat-shining neck could so attract her attention, force her mind under its influence; it would tingle her fingers, which yearned for the sunburned, taut skin above the bulging chest, like a thirsty desert wanderer after a single sip of water that quenches itself, always wanting more and more.

*****

He sits stiffly, with his back to her, while she cleans and bandages her wound, and can barely hide herself. She feels that her rapid breathing, her trembling fingers are all traitors, revealing her will, which will not let her rest.

Finally he turns to her; the infinite deep gray eyes burn her like his lips her shoulder, while her thin hand smooths the sparse beard, down his neck to his collarbone, and the sunburned skin on his chest gives goosebumps as the strong, hot male palm lingers on her thigh.

THE END

[Inspired by "The Rover" with Guy Pearce 2014]