U Is for Undertow

shit.”
    “I told you. I have work to do.”
    “That is such a lie. You don’t have work . That’s ridiculous. Writing stuff down is not work .”
    “What do you know? You barely made it out of ninth grade.”
    “You’re a real asshole, you know that?”
    “Fine. I’m an asshole. So what?”
    She pulled her legs up under her and got on her hands and knees, crawling across the bed. “What if Creed finds out about us? You think he won’t come after you?”
    “You said you had an open relationship.”
    She reached for him, her tone of voice teasing. “But you don’t know if it’s true or not. I might have made it up.”
    Abruptly, he sat. “Jesus, don’t say that.”
    She smiled. “Why, are you nervous what he’ll do if I tell?” She held him from behind, her arms around his neck. He tried to shrug her off and she laughed, grasping him tightly as though prepared to ride piggyback. He pushed himself up, using the bed for leverage. She locked her legs around his waist and the weight of her pulled him off balance. He stumbled sideways and they tumbled to the floor. Anger fanned up in him like a gas fire. She hung on like a demon, nails cutting into his chest. He elbowed her sharply, trying to break her grip. In retaliation, she grabbed his hair and yanked so hard his head snapped back. He turned over and shoved upward, dragging her with him. He managed to make it to his feet. She had his head in the crook of her elbow and he was choking for air. He leaned forward, trying to toss her off. She grunted and tucked a leg around his. His knee buckled and he fell again. He was far stronger than she, but she had the advantage of tenacity and the clumsiness of her hold. He couldn’t get purchase and she used his momentary faltering to seize him anew. He heaved himself sideways, shaking her off, and then she was on the floor under him and he had his hands around her throat. He choked her, not even aware of what he was doing until he saw the look on her face. There was triumph in her eyes. She was an adrenaline junkie and she’d tripped him into a rage as inflammatory as desire. He felt her shudder and he released her. She turned on her side, hands at her throat. Both of them were breathing hard. She moaned once and it dawned on him she’d reached orgasm.
    He stared at her for a moment, fascinated. What kind of creature was she that violence served as an aphrodisiac? Killing her would be the ultimate turn-on from her point of view, and what did that make him? Not another word passed between them. She dressed quickly. She wept and her hands shook as she struggled to fasten her skirt. He sat on the bed stupefied, his head in his hands.
    When she was gone he sat down at his desk, where he rolled a sheet of paper into his typewriter. He wrote for four hours, took a break, and then wrote for another two. Words poured out of him. He could feel sentences form in his head, almost faster than he could type. It was like taking dictation. Paragraphs lined up and passed through his body onto the paper in front of him. No thought. No analysis. No hesitation. He wrote about Mona. He wrote about his mother’s death. He wrote about his weak father and his own loneliness. He wrote about what it felt like to be shut away upstairs while the rest of the family enjoyed the comforts of home. He wrote about being a fat boy and what it felt like to run seven miles in the rain. He wrote without once thinking of Mr. Snow.
    At 10:00 he stopped. He went downstairs and out into the chill night air. The property overlooked the ocean and he could see the sheen of moonlight on water as far as the islands. He was exhausted and energized. He thought he’d never sleep again, but he did. In the morning he read what he’d done. Some of it was awkward and inadvertently comical. Some of it was mawkish and maudlin. It mattered not. He knew what it felt like to work from the heart and he was hooked. Even if it took him years to get back to that flow, he knew it was worth every failed attempt and every misbegotten word.

    At eight, he brushed his teeth, showered, dressed, and rode his scooter to Walker’s house, taking the bridle paths that wound up the hill. He had to cross a public road only once, and even then there was no traffic. Walker had just gotten up and he was sitting in his kitchen in his boxer shorts, hair rumpled, his face embossed with wrinkles from his bedsheet.
    Jon let himself in as he usually did. He poured himself a cup of