The night sky was clear but starless, light creeping up from the ground in all directions.  Ben’s cell phone rang, and he pulled it out and talked to Loni.  He told her an old friend had stopped by the restaurant and they’d been catching up.  He told her he’d be home soon.
   Serge recognized the miles between his situation and Ben’s, namely Ben’s belief in some sort of plan or second chance.  It made it possible for Ben to avoid being swallowed by the life he’d lost, the family he’d written off.  It wasn’t a bad thing.  Serge spoke out loud.  “He’s not a bad guy.”
   “Who?” Ben asked.  “What are you talking about?”
   “Come on,” Serge said.  “A couple hours of skating, then we get some doughnuts and coffee.  I’ve got a lot of time to kill.”
   Ben pulled out his phone and held up his hands in surrender.  “Do what you want.  I’m calling a fucking cab.”
   When Ben turned his back on him, Serge felt a blade carve the length of his spine, laying open his raw core.  His heart dug in, angry and pained, strong legs and a motor mouth urging him to skate, run, or fight.  He punched Ben square in the back as he dialed the phone.  His friend let out a gagging sound, dropped the phone and went down to his knees.
   Serge turned Ben over and straddled him.  He grabbed the front of his shirt and drew back to hit him.  Ben closed his eyes and covered his face with his hands.
   “Goddammit,” Ben said, “you’re a fucking asshole.  I should have never come out here with you.”
   Serge had meant to hit him.  He had meant to throw the first of many punches.  But something buckled inside of him.  A table collapsed, a calendar slid down a wall, rows of bright medicine boxes fell to the floor––and the legs on his heart turned to liquid.  The bloody organ shut its mouth and curled into a helpless ball.  Serge let go of Ben’s shirt.  He felt his balance sway to the left, and then he fell onto the asphalt.
   He understood what was happening.  His mother had told him about her dreams, and his father had told him about the month of April.  He didn’t expect any help from Ben.  He knew exactly what Ben would do, and that was to run away.  He was already pushing himself away from Serge with his elbows.
   There was really only one thing to worry about, but Serge believed the guitar would be okay.  At least he’d written Gabriella’s name on it.  Tamara would figure it out.
   His eyes met Ben’s.  Ben slid himself over to his cell phone.  He picked it up, appeared to think about using it, then slipped it into his jacket pocket.
   “You would have ended up dead anyway,” Ben said.  “This is not my fault.”
   Serge’s heart stood again and allowed him to take a full breath.  Before Ben could climb to his feet, Serge took him back down to the pavement.  He pressed his forearm into Ben’s windpipe, pried the phone out of his fingers and flipped it open.  He held the phone to Ben’s face.
   “Call,” he said.
   “Fuck you,” Ben said.  “You want an ambulance, call your own self.”
   Serge wrapped his fingers around the phone and punched Ben in the face.  “Your fucking kids,” he said.  “Call them, god dammit.  You piece of shit.”
   Ben sucked in his cheeks and spit in Serge’s face.  Serge punched him again.  “Call.”  Ben laughed with disdain and fury.  “Fuck you.”  Serge punched again and again, until the pain cut across his jaw one last time and froze his left arm.  The next thing he felt was a kick to the back of his head, even though no one was there.  He let go of Ben’s shirt, made a move to place the phone to the bartender’s ear and then dropped the phone and fell to the ground.
   He could hear Ben talking.  “You’re a fucking asshole.  You were always an asshole.”  The tone of his voice became shrill, then thick, then muted while a warm blanket of ice settled over Serge.  It was clear and soft and smooth, and he was far beneath the surface of it, where people skated while an electric organ played.  There were hockey jerseys, knit hats and scarves in every color, and the sharp, silver blades dotting the ice beneath them, carving eights and arcs and long, straight lines as they vied for his attention.



_{Dallas Hudgens is the author of the novels Drive Like Hell and Season of Gene. Click here to read some of his other work on Fanzine.}