Atheists Who Kneel and Pray Read online

  David played Mark Lanegan as we drove. Heat blasted from the vents until the interior of the car felt hot and crackly like a toaster. I pulled off my scarf and David cracked his window.

  “It’s hot,” he said, but he didn’t turn the heat down.

  I could see the beads of sweat dot above his lip. At the next light, he shrugged off his coat. At the junction between 4thth and Union, I slid off my boots and socks. We didn’t speak, we undressed. The soundtrack played as we tossed our fabric in the backseat, damp from the heat of our bodies. I took off my leather jacket next, and his long sleeve black shirt followed. He was shirtless. Just his black jeans and boots remained. The car smelled of sweat and cigarettes. “Cold Molly” started to play and I tore off my sweater. It was so hot I felt like I was going to throw up. But, we were playing a game of dare.

  Outside, a group of people burst from the doors of a nightclub, their breath snaked from their mouths in hazy, white clouds. I wondered briefly who they were, where they lived, and who’d sleep with whom at the end of the night. Inside the car, David’s head moved up and down with the music. I closed my eyes and leaned my head back against the seat. I was sitting in my bra now, my bare feet propped on the dash, toes wiggling. We were in Florida, Hawaii, Bali. We were not in Seattle in the dead of the coldest winter in twenty years. David pulled off one boot, and then the other, a cigarette balanced between his lips. His boots went flying past my head into the backseat. They were heavy with yellow stitching: Doc Martens. I laughed, but the music swallowed it, a vortex of beat and vocals. And then suddenly we were racing to take off our pants. The light was red as we struggled: lifting hips, yanking the thick wavy denim, chins bumping into the dash. When the car moved forward, our skin stuck to the leather. It was a sauna. A cleansing. I could barely stand it, but I didn’t want it to end. I didn’t know where he was driving us, and I didn’t care. For once. He pulled into a spot on the street. We’re in Fremont, I thought. I stared at the two of us: stripped naked to our underwear, sweating in an old Honda Accord, our pale skin illuminated by the neon lights of the storefronts. David was still wearing his socks, his thighs lean muscle and soft hair. His briefs were pink. As soon as he put the car in park, I was on him. An awkward business, crossing over from seat to lap. I straddled him and felt the stickiness of our bodies, the suction of sweat and skin. Outside of the car, people walked by: pink fur, North Face, scarves that covered their chins, hands deep in pockets. They were in Seattle, cold and frigid, but in this car, we were hot and sweaty—wet in all the right places. David’s fingers were inside of me, working my body into a white-hot explosion. His car windows were not tinted. We were a spectacle. A woman in a pink lace bra squirming on top of a man whose face was buried in her neck. I reached for him and took him in my hand. He felt good. I wanted to feel more of him, but there was a sharp rapping on the window—knuckles against glass. We looked up and two guys were staring, laughing. They waved and gave us a thumbs up, their goofy, drunk smiles rearranging their boring faces. David wrapped his arms around me and laughed into my neck. The spell was broken, and I was no longer hot.

  “It’s cold in here,” I said.

  He ran a hand up the goose bumps on my arms.

  “Let’s go somewhere to get warm then,” he suggested.

  I crossed over, back to my own seat. We had to fish our clothes from the backseat one item at a time. He handed me my jeans, I handed him his shirt. It went like that until we were dressed. And then the Honda was back on the road driving quickly toward another unknown destination. What a strange way to get naked with someone, I thought.

  I slept terribly the week after I saw David’s show at The Crocodile. My apartment was too warm, and most nights I woke up covered in sweat. When I cracked a window, it would get unbearably cold and leave me shivering under the covers wishing for another body to warm me. Too cold to sleep, too hot to sleep. I was unsettled. It was David. He crossed my mind even when I didn’t want him to—like when I walked to work the next day slouched over with heavy bags underneath my eyes, him being the reason. And when I clocked in at the computer and forgot my server number because I was wondering if he’d show up later that day. He didn’t. In fact, I didn’t see him until two weeks after Christmas. I’d almost forgotten to care when one day there he was, sitting at the bar with a shit-eating grin on his face. How often do we lie to ourselves and say we don’t care about something when we do?

  “Hey, Yara?” he said. “Want to get tacos when your shift is done?”

  Who said no to tacos? Not me.

  “No,” I said. “I’m busy tonight.”

  “Okay, good. I’ll just wait here until you’re done then.”

  “I have a date,” I told him. And it was true, one of the regulars, an accountant, was taking me out for a drink after my shift.

  “He’s picking me up from here. Ah, here he is…” I pretended to be more excited than I was.

  David swiveled around on his stool to watch as Brian walked through the door and waved to me.

  “Hey you.” I glanced sideways at David, who didn’t seem perturbed at all. He was studying Brian with mild interest. “I thought I was meeting you after work.”

  Brian was on the shorter side, stocky. He wore his hair spiked up in the front and gelled flat in the back. It reminded me of how the boys in high school used to wear their hair.

  “I thought I’d come in for a drink and walk over with you,” he said.

  “A gentleman,” David mouthed to me, nodding in approval. I ignored him and smiled at Brian.

  “Great. What can I get for you?”

  “A beer and that appetizer you told me to get last time.”

  “Sure,” I said, watching David warily. I put in Brian’s order and ran back to the kitchen to grab a rack of clean glasses. When I came back, Brian had moved stools to sit next to David and they were engaged in a lively conversation.

  “Yara,” David said, “Brian and I went to the same high school. Three years apart. Isn’t that crazy?”

  “So crazy,” I said between my teeth.

  I tried to ignore them for the next thirty minutes, and they ignored me, laughing and clapping each other on the back like they were best friends.

  It made my stomach roll to watch them.

  When my shift was over, and I’d closed down the bar, David and Brian were standing outside talking while Brian smoked.

  “Ready?” Brian asked when he saw me. He tossed his cigarette into the gutter and kicked back from the wall he was leaning against to come stand next to me.

  “Yeah,” I said, eyeing David who looked smug.

  Brian glanced back at him. “Oh, I hope you don’t mind. I asked David to come with us. Since you’re already friends…” I waved his comment away and smiled sweetly. Brian took a phone call and walked a step ahead of us.

  “Not at all. Lovely of you to join us, David.” And when he was close enough I whispered, “Psycho motherfucker,” under my breath.

  “I’ve never fucked a mother!” David said, cheerfully. “Though I’ve always wanted to.”

  “What are you even getting at?” I hissed. “This is stalkery.”

  “Yara, I’m disappointed. Brian’s a nice guy but, man, I had that haircut in tenth grade. And an accountant? What’s a girl like you doing having drinks with an accountant?”

  “Shut up,” I hissed. Brian had just hung up the phone and was turning back to us.

  “Sorry, guys,” Brian said. “Work, work, work—right?”

  David gave him a thumbs up.

  “So how do you two know each other?” he asked, looking from me to David. Too many questions, Brian. What are you, a fucking shrink?

  “Well,” David said before I could answer. “I’m in love with Yara, have been for a while now, but she won’t date me.”

  “He’s joking,” I said to Brian. “He’s bloody mental.” I didn’t know why I cared—I didn’t even like him. A car drove by and someone yelled something out the window.

 
David shrugged while Brian laughed awkwardly. The guys bounced back into conversation while I walked beside them silently fuming. But why was I mad? I glared at David and it was like he could feel me doing it. He turned and winked at me. Winked!

  Fuck you, David Lisey.

  The bar we were headed to was on Capitol Hill. I’d been once before and had gotten too drunk to walk home. The bartender recognized me as soon as I walked in.

  “The drunk British girl!” he said, slamming his fist on the bar. “Best kisser!”

  I pressed my lips together trying not to smile. According to my work colleagues who I’d come here with, I’d leaned across the bar and kissed him on the mouth when he made the best Old Fashioned I’d ever tasted.

  David looked at me in surprise.

  “What? Shut up,” I snapped. “I’m not always uptight.”

  He narrowed his eyes and nodded real slow, a small smile touching his lips.

  “Hey, British girl,” the bartender called. “You wearing your boots?”

  I lifted a foot and waved it in the air.

  “That’s right,” he said. “Those boots were made for dancing.”

  David’s mouth made a little “o” like he was getting ready to ask me a question.

  “Where is Brian?” I asked before he could get the words out. “Are we not supposed to be on a date?”

  “He’s over there, I think,” David said. “Talking to some girl.” I peered past his shoulder and sure enough, my date was picking up some half naked blonde near the door.

  “This is your fault,” I said, jabbing a finger at David.

  He held up his hands in mock surrender. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Lying sack of shit!” I said. “You made my date fall in love with you and then told him you’re in love with me! He backed down for you!”

  “Oh come on, Yara. Maybe he wasn’t that into you.”

  He was standing sideways to face me, his forearm resting on the bar.

  “He’s been coming in three times a week for two months. He asks me out every single time.”

  David made a face and then shook his head sadly. “Sounds kind of stalkerish, if you ask me.”

  “Yeah? Takes one to know one.”

  “What are you drinking, British girl?” the bartender asked.

  “Your most expensive bourbon on the rocks, because this douchebag is paying,” I said.

  David nodded seriously and pulled out his credit card. “Same for me. And dude, stop hitting on my girl. The boots are mine.”

  The bartender eyed David with a frown. “You with this guy, British girl? Or is he hassling you?”

  I glanced at David and sighed. “Unfortunately he’s my date for the night, but I’ll let you know if I need another kiss.” He winked at me and moved away to make our drinks.

  We stood at the bar like that for two hours, right up until they closed. At one point Brian came over to tell us he was leaving (with the half naked girl) but we blew him off, too engrossed in our conversation.

  “Have you ever had your heart broken?” I asked. “Like really just mauled and destroyed in the worst possible way.” I leaned my elbows on the bar and turned my head to look at him. I’d been waiting for an answer to this question since our last conversation.

  He looked perplexed. “By a woman?”

  “Yes, by a woman,” I laughed. “Or hey, by a man. Whatever.”

  He shook his head. “No, I guess not. I’m usually the one to do the breaking up. When it stops feeling right, you know? I don’t want to lead her on.” He swiveled his chair from side to side, his tone light.

  “That’s your problem,” I told him. “Take Bukowski, for example. He didn’t only write about his poor broken heart, but he was a bit of a mad man always on the verge of suicide and madness. He lived enough to get hurt and then he channeled it into his art.”

  “Are you saying my songs lack madness?” David smiled.

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying.” I shrugged.

  His smile didn’t falter; in fact, he looked like he was really considering what I said.

  “Is that what you do?” he asked. “Bring the madness?”

  I shrugged.

  “It’s not an easy thing to get your heart broken. You have to really love someone,” he said.

  That was true—if it wasn’t in their possession, they couldn’t break it.

  “Have you ever really been in love then?” I asked.

  “Puppy love.” He nodded. “The wound is shallow but present.”

  I liked that so much I repeated it to myself: shallow but present.

  I’d dated a handful of artists—not by choice—it just happened that way. Some of their hearts broke when I chose to move on and leave the state; others were as indifferent as I was. But the ones who did love me were always confused when I told them I was leaving.

  “What about me?” they’d say. “Us?”

  And then I’d have to explain that we’d always been temporary. I was a gypsy. It wasn’t about them, not my arrival to a place or my leaving of it, but they didn’t understand that. I’d warned them all beforehand, before their feelings got involved, that the minute I landed in one place I was already on my way out. I think they all thought they could make me fall in love with them and stay in one place.

  “Don’t you want American citizenship?” a painter from Chicago had asked me. “If you marry me you can stay forever.”

  That sent me running sooner rather than later. I didn’t want to stay anywhere forever. The said painter had gone on to paint a series of portraits called Leaving, which were displayed in various galleries across the US. All of them were of a blonde woman’s back as she walked away from cities across the US. I heard that he received six figures for each of them and eventually opened his own gallery. I never contacted him, I thought it would be tacky, but I was happy for his success.

  “So what do you say, Yara? A real date, not some shitty bar.”

  “And then what?” I asked.

  “Another date, if it goes well. Maybe some hot sex on the beach.”

  “There is no beach here.”

  “Aha! You’re interested though; otherwise, you would have shut me down.”

  The painter had been an older man with a teenage daughter. On weekends we’d pick her up from her mother’s house and take her to the mall where she’d choose expensive sneakers and backpacks, and her father would pay for them, a look of guilt on his face. It’s the same thing I would have done to my father had I known him and had he been willing. When I left, I had just been one of his heartbreaks, not his first. The first was powerful; it changed you. My own had been so devastating, altering the way I looked at men and love. And it wasn’t something that just wore off with time, returning you to your previous state of belief. Once you lost your faith, it was gone.

  David walked me home when the bar closed. He didn’t ask to come up and I made no move to invite him.

  “I’ll see you, Yara,” he said.

  I nodded because I didn’t know what to say. I’d actually enjoyed myself, but wasn’t ready to admit it.

  David came to The Jane a few days later, scruff on his face, a baseball cap covering his hair. He was distracted, glancing at his phone every few minutes. I watched him stare out the window and stare at the TV all in the same minute, not committed to either of them. He smiled at me once, while I was carrying a tray of food to a table. The tray rested on my shoulder, the plates clinking softly together with my steps. But I was used to David’s smiles and this one didn’t reach his eyes. I served the dishes, casting a worried glance over my shoulder at him. There was something wrong. I didn’t have time to talk to him during the lunch rush, and when I finally made my way over to where he’d been sitting, he was gone, a twenty dollar bill on the bar and a note written on the back of the check I had given him. He’d written down his number and asked me to go to the art museum with him.

  Meet me there tomorrow, it said. I know you have th
e day off, I asked your manager. 10:00. Let the heart breaking commence.

  An art museum, he knew the way to my heart. I crumpled up the receipt and threw it in the trash, but later I fished it out and stuck it in my purse. It seemed significant somehow that this boy was pursuing my company in such a relentless way. I know you have the day off, I asked your manager.

  I sighed. I would go. I could try to tell myself that I wouldn’t and that I didn’t care a thing about David Lisey’s attention, but it just wasn’t true. I had daddy issues just like everyone else, and the pursuit of the heart was something that appealed to me. When the people who were supposed to like you didn’t—it made male attention a requirement.

  Sometimes I searched for my mother on the internet. I didn’t even know my father’s name to look for him, but my mother had a Facebook page and some of her albums were open to the public. I wouldn’t dare friend request her. I didn’t want her to know I cared. Her profile was set to private, but every so often she changed her profile picture, and I would study it for hours, saving it to my phone and then deleting it. Saving it again. Was it me or her? Why had she decided not to mother me? Did she love me? I’d never know because I’d never ask. That was the thing about pride, it shortsighted our hearts. Her profile pictures were of her alone, smiling—standing in front of some pub or a national landmark. Sometimes she posed with a brown mottled cat that only had one eye. I’d zoom in on that cat and its disfigured eye—wonder what it had that I hadn’t. My mother hated animals—I’d once seen her kick a dog.

  “Anything that’s not a human is a rodent,” she’d told me once. “And some humans are rodents too,” she’d added.

  At the time I’d wondered if she was talking about me. She often referred to children as parasites. Seeing her embracing an animal, look at it with sincere fondness—I told myself the cat belonged to a neighbor or a friend—that she was only posting it for appearances’ sake—like those people who wore fur and pretended to like animals. But I wasn’t sure. Maybe she’d changed. That hurt worse than her just being the way she was. That she’d become the type of person who hugged cats close to her chest but had never hugged her daughter. I pushed it all away—I was so good at that. Compartmentalizing was the key to success.