Naked Guy Katharine Monger “Hey. Look. It’s Naked Guy.” We were crouched around the table with the short leg, my wallet wedged between it and the bar floor. Over Jason’s shoulder, in line with the point of my nose, Naked Guy stood behind his second-story apartment window across the street. The overhead light paled the shadows that would otherwise accentuate any muscles in his arms. As he stretched them above his head, his chest billowed in a slight curve, taut in the high wind of a yawn. He began pulling mindlessly at his dick. “Did I tell you about the time?” “He blew a load?” “It was impressive.” Vlad, the bartender, limped over and clasped Jason on the shoulder. “Announcement?” Jason laughed. “Not tonight, my man. Not tonight.” “Thank Jesus,” Chris said as he texted to his overseas girlfriend. We didn’t know which sea, exactly—but she liked rock climbing, he’d said once, “so she’s hot.” We’d pointed out he was afraid of heights, preferred high rises to high tops, and couldn’t do a standard push-up to save his mother. “It’s motivation,” he said, “to get me in shape.” A pinch on my arm. Manny was smiling, crosseyed, inspecting a black hair between his fingers. “You’re basically a dude.”
“The hormones. I’m falling apart.” Jason let out a great laugh, slapped the bartender on the ass. “Make me something, something like, pure moonshine.” “I can do that,” Vlad said. My beer was flat. Seemingly out of the ceiling, Anna’s face leaned down, kissed my forehead. Before I could respond she was bouncing away to the bar. I wanted her girlfriend, tightly crosslegged and cross-armed in her stool, to glare at me, to start something. But her attention was on Anna, who was leaning precariously over the bar, calling out for a sugary shot like the college kid she never was. “Why’s she play you?” Manny asked, chugging the rest of my beer. “Ugh. Let me buy you something strong. Not from Vlad.” “No, that’s okay.” “Aw, Naked Guy! Come back!” Jason’s hands clapped in the air. My wallet slipped, slid across the floor. Manny slapped his arm across the table to stop the bottles. Across the street, the apartment was dark. “He’ll be back,” Anna called out in an Austrian accent. I could see the pattern of her bra under the red bar lights. Black stripes. “Manny?” “Yes, Jason.” “How’s Bradley?” Chris snorted. “Bradley was okay,” Manny said. 8
