A work of fiction where a true identity comes to light that offers the sage advice — avoid being a collector…
by: Jesse Binger
The dish sails over my head, crashing to the floor, splintering into hundreds of tiny pieces. Briana stands before me, another one in her hand. Glossier. A wedding gift. The good china.
“Test me,” all she says.
I cower. For a moment I rack my brain. There’s a million things it could be, I’m not gonna lie. Her bridesmaid. Sarah. We haven’t stopped since the wedding. Slowed down. Even broke it off for a while.
But there were other detours. The type of work I do delivers me to various cities. Most come with waiting arms. A clean bed to bounce on. A new identity for a few nights.
“It’s not what you think,” I say because that’s what people say. Men say. That’s the type of retort I learned from old movies. The unshaven protagonist. Right before reaching for the cigarette. I’ll never smoke (can’t stand the smell.)
But there’s more. Worse.
“I know,” she says. Lets the words hang. That last one. It takes on a deep guttural growl. A voice I never even knew hid inside her.
Twelve years together but how well do you ever know someone?
I take two steps back. One hand reaching for the wall. To steady myself? Protect myself? I’m not so sure.
She’s holding a bag. One of those flimsy plastic ones. The ones they used to give out at the supermarkets before they became so eco-conscious. Don’t even know where she dug it up. Clear, some dark writing on it but I can’t make out the words. Too far, no reading glasses.
But she’s reaching inside now. Pulling something out. I put my hands up like instinct. Ready for another wild pitch. End of career Steve Carlton.
But instead she just holds it out.
A wallet.
Not mine.
She opens it. That little plastic insert weaving out like it’s taunting me.
That man. The night in Philly. Conference, I told her because, well, that’s what guys like me do. Sales was always a good cover.
But now, there are two thoughts in my head. The first one.
“It’s really not what you think.”
Bullshit bravado again. Like I’m reciting from memory. How many times can one man fail?
Now she’s holding out her phone. Some website. News. The cluttered display of a local paper.
Squinting but can just make it out.
Dead body in an alley. Suspect at large.
That suspect is—
“You, Sam. Do I even know you?”
My second thought. She got there first.
Samuel Carrington. 46. Pharma Sales Rep. Married. Two kids.
It’s all been designed. Cleanly. Undetectable.
“I can explain.”
It’s called digging a ditch. One — something I should have done that night.
Two — where I’ve landed myself. A couple more feet and—
“Bri. Baby. I can explain everything.”
There again. Movie cliches. Bedroom eyes.
But by then Claus is barking from the living room couch. Sirens are blaring and I hear the hard footsteps that only mean one thing.
Pounding on the door.
“You called them?” I ask.
She shakes her head.
“Bri,” I scream.
The wallet is snakeskin. I remember the feel of it on my fingers. Soft and cool like I always wanted to be. Instead of what I’ve become.
Johnny always told me, don’t be a collector.
“Would it make it better,” I pause, “If you knew…why.”
You have a job and you do it. And that’s that. Johnny never gave a shit.
Then why should I?
I hear the smash of the front door coming off its hinges. Claus is growling like he knows what’s coming.
And maybe I do too.
“Baby,” I whisper.
But she can’t even look at me. Her head drops. That silky chestnut hair all I can see.
Same hair I’d run my fingers through.
Soft and cool.
Jesse Binger is a fiction writer from New Jersey. His debut novel The Penitent Hours is currently on submission. His work appears in or is forthcoming at Rock and a Hard Place, Cowboy Jamboree, Bending Genres, Punk Noir, Stanchion and elsewhere. Find him at jessebinger.com, X: @jessebinger and BlueSky: @jessebinger.bsky.
