Billy and I met in a code-crunching sweatshop, "light years ago on another planet," he'd say. When those jobs got outsourced, we were relieved to be unemployed. I liked working with my hands and the way paint smelled when I popped the lid off the can and Billy enjoyed the detail work. We'd been painting houses together for a couple of years. But his wife had been nagging him to get a better job, so now he was a programmer again and we were wrapping up our business arrangements.
Lucinda served us noodles with canned tuna and melted cheese for dinner, which he assured her was "super yummy comfort food." I said it was "50s retro" and she rolled her eyes and looked away. We didn't get along that well. But I would never let Billy know what I really thought about the missus. He couldn't see she had a mean streak, since almost everything amused him, even or especially Lucinda.
"Hon, look how great Lennie looks in his designer shirt," she needled. "I wish you'd wear something besides those old rags."
"Love me, love my shirts." He laughed and nuzzled her hair.
After we put down a pair of brews with the noodles and some tokes of weed, Billy stood up and flung open the front door. The house was on an unpaved road on the flanks of Sonoma Mountain. "You can just about hear the stars tonight," he announced.
"Shut the door, sweetie," Lucinda said. "It's too drafty."
"A walk'll do us good," he replied cheerily and disappeared into the shadows.
I jumped up to follow and Lucinda huffed along behind, slamming the door.
It was a balmy, cloudless night. Billy was up on the gravel road, head tilted skyward, naming constellations. The moon had not risen but the red planet hung low and brilliant over the top of the hill. It was much more distinct here than in town where I lived.
"Isn't it fantastic?" Billy exclaimed. "We won't see Mars this close ever again."
"It looks the same as last night," Lucinda said.
We walked downhill and our shadows stretched and wobbled faintly yards before us.
"There we go," Billy laughed. "Three long shadows cast by Mars."
Lucinda snorted. "It's the street lights."
"It's poetic license," I said. "Billy, you renewed that license, didn't you?"
"Nah, spaced it out, man. I be operating without a license."
We went on clowning in that vein, while Lucinda fell silent.
Back inside the house Billy re-lit the pipe and opened another bottle. Lucinda insisted that we listen to her favorite CD by "another more famous Lucinda," she said, suddenly husky voiced. These were torch songs with distracting lyrics I'd not heard before, something about love me forever in just three days, or was it three hours. At least she had good taste in music.
In fact, she isn't half bad looking, I was thinking, just as Billy sank back into the easy-rocker, smiled beatifically and nodded off. Lucinda leaned toward me and her breasts plumped up in the low-cut blouse. She had a narrow waist and full hips.
"Lennie, whatever happened to your girlfriend," she murmured.
"Let's not go there," I said.
"I'm sorry. I didn't realize it was still a sore spot." She clapped one hand over her heart.
"It's a private spot," I cautioned.
"I see." Her eyes were moist and sympathetic.
By then Billy's snores were competing with the music. "Some nights I have to sleep on the couch," Lucinda complained.
Maybe I should have left right then. But she began to clear the dinner table and I felt obliged to help. We were in the brightly-lit kitchen scraping and rinsing plates together, which seemed hilarious to her, I'll never know why. Suddenly anything I said was funny. When she boogied back into the living room I followed as if pulled by invisible threads.
Billy was flat out copping Zs, head lolling to one side, a picture of innocence. Wake up, man, I pleaded silently. No, that's a lie. The truth is that Lucinda now had my full attention.
She danced around the rocker three times then undulated toward me, arms weaving the air, Nothing wrong with dancing, I told myself.
She brushed against me in passing, I took her arm and whirled her close, away, closer. When the beat subsided I took her in my arms for a slow dance, and I heard both Lucindas crooning about oceans of love.
That's when I pulled her tightly to me, and for one long moment she seemed to swell into my embrace. Then she jumped back and hissed, "What are you doing?" Her eyes glittered.
I got out of there as fast as I could. No apology. I bolted. She set me up, I know it. Just like I know for a fact we were drunk and stoned. These are not excuses. I never liked Lucinda much and Billy was the best of friends. She told him something, I know that too. Because he doesn't talk to me anymore unless he has to and when he does he's cordial but cool. And there's nothing I can say to undo that night and put things back the way they were.
I'd feel the same way if he'd come on to my woman. I'd feel betrayed.
And if he were to slap my back over a beer and say, hey old buddy, let's forgive and forget, I might have to tell him, not for a light year, pal, not on this planet.
Jo-Anne Rosen is a book and website designer living in Petaluma, California. Her longer stories have been published in Other Voices, The Florida Review, and A Room of One's Own; flash fiction and short-shorts in Bust Out and Roman Candles (now off line).