The Stain

He leaned the guitar against the couch upon which lay a pile of clean clothes his roommate had planned to get around to folding two days and five loads before. The guitar set on the floor over a stain, red wine, that a former girlfriend had left. Tom chuckled as he remembered a line from the old 10CC song "I'm not in love." He crooned it softly: "It hides a messy stain just lying there."

Where was that girl now? Spilling red wine on another guy's carpets by now, probably several. Or not. She mostly dated musicians, and few of those she could pick up at a club were likely to care about such a trifle.

They had fought over the stain. Actually, like most serious fights, it wasn't about the stain at all. In the late night hush of his apartment, he thought about that quiet evening. A few friends had come over to listen to a demo tape filled with potential cuts for his next project, another in a string of well-crafted commercial failures. He was a bit nervous showing his new work, but all had gone well and everyone else was in a good mood. His girlfriend had been sipping the wine at the moment her friend said something apparently so funny that the girlfriend could not help but tumble a few drops upon the white shag. Tom had suspected that she was a little drunk, but said nothing. But when she made no move to clean it up, he could not hide his resentment.

He rushed a hand towel and glass of water to the spot and had to kneel between his girlfriend and her friend. "What are you doing down there?" she asked. The question had in it the tone he heard when popular girls in high school made fun of the class nerd.

"Cleaning up your mess," Tom said, trying not to sound as indignant as he felt.

"What's the big deal?" she asked. Before he could answer, she said, "I swear, Tom, you are so anal."

The remark had the effect her knee would have had against the side of his head. He stopped so abruptly, he spilled some of the water. As he hurriedly tried to mop up the water, he heard the friend of his girlfriend stifle a giggle.

"It's not very damn funny," he said, not looking up. The room become quiet except for the sound of his guitar on tape in the background. He stood, looked at them both and turned to return the towel and glass to the kitchen.

"Lighten up, eh?" The girlfriend's friend said. "It's a little wine in a crummy apartment, for Pete's sake."

Tom stopped for a second and then continued to the kitchen. He set the glass in the sink carefully and rinsed the dish towel. After squeezing out the water, he folded the towel into a half inch strip and lay it neatly at the edge of the sink. Then he walked over to the stereo and pretended to listen to the tape. But the tape ended and the people in the room watched to see why he hadn't turned it over or asked for comments about it. He grabbed Herbie Hancock's Dis Is Da Drum and started it in the player. Then he ignored his surprised guests as he got a beer from the refrigerator.

He started to walk over to his girlfriend and her friend, now sitting on the couch. He sat in a chair near her and listened patiently for their conversation to come to a lull. He intended to apologize, blame it all on being nervous about the new album.

Just as he sensed an opening, the girlfriend pulled out a cigarette from the case she kept on the table between the couch and chair. They had had an agreement that she would smoke outside, and so he figured she'd get up and walk to the patio. He leaned forward in the chair as if to get up and go with her, but she didn't move. So quickly it seemed one motion, she lit the cigarette and blew a long heavy plume of smoke above her head as she laughed at another of her friend's pseudo-witty remarks.

Tom's shocked stare at her stopped both women from laughing. They looked at him indignantly, his girlfriend's expression a parody of his own.

"What?" she said rather than asked.

After a moment, Tom answered slowly. "We had an agreement."

"Screw that. It's my apartment too. I live here too you know. I don't make you to eat outside or play your fucking guitar on the patio."

This was a fight, Tom knew, and he didn't want to have it now in front of their friends. Especially with her friend gazing at him with gloating eyes. He said nothing for a long while. He just looked at her. When she became uncomfortable, she said "What?" again, this time louder.

"It's not the same thing and you know it," he seemed to whisper.

"Right," she snapped as she got to her feet. She stood there a moment, daring him with her eyes to do something, anything. He sat there helplessly.

Then she smiled. She took a brief sip of her wine glass and then poured the contents on the floor at her feet.

Tom stared at the wet, red spot on the carpet so long, he did not notice that she had left with her friend until someone tapped him on the shoulder and said, "I think we're gonna cut out of here." Then he stood and said goodbye to his guests as if he'd been snapped out of a hypnotic trance. He smiled and shook hands, hugged a couple of people he barely knew. Suddenly he was alone in the apartment with Herbie Hancock seeming louder than ever.

The next day he made up with the girlfriend, but they would break up not long after this. They parted amicably, like dormmates at the beginning of the summer.

Now he looked over at the guitar and shook his head. "I'm not in love, no, no," he sang in a faint and careful voice.

He undressed and got in on his side of the bed, gingerly trying to keep from waking the thin woman with short black hair sleeping beside him. He set his alarm and lay on his back. The woman rolled over and nuzzled her chin over his shoulder. He kissed the top of her head and stroked her bare shoulder.

"How come you don't come to bed with me any more?" she asked. Her voice drifted away from him. The question sounded like an accusation in a dream.

Tom waited until he heard her heavy breathing before he sang in a whisper, "Just because."

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