Anton Chigurh’s milk bottle

You look at the cast on his arm and swallow a denial. Clearly he is hurt, that’s why he’s asking for your help. Clearly he is hurt, that’s why you obey without thinking twice. You just want to be good at your job, that’s all.

You sink to your knees in front of him, setting down the empty bottle out of the way to your left. The wood is harsher than the linoleum beneath bone, but it doesn’t hurry your movements. When he puts the polished end of a red boot on your thigh you carefully take it by the heel and pull it off.

He sighs in content, the sound taking you off guard. You look up at him, still looking unerringly at you. A flush crawls up your neck. You turn back to his other foot and ease the boot off, setting them both neatly to the side. When you’re done you stare at his socked feet, the toes wriggling in plain gray cotton.

“What are you doing with your life?”

You flinch. Can’t help it. His voice is so deep it catches you off guard. You look back up to him with a million words on your tongue. None come out.

He repeats himself, patient to the point of concern. “What are you doing with your life?”

“Not much, sir. I mean, I work.” You struggle around your words, “I—I provide a service.”

He nods slightly. He seems entirely uninterested in what you have to say, and you’d think that was the case if it weren’t for the questions. Somehow you knew he wouldn’t be asking them if it was true. He’s never struck you as the type to dally on what didn’t intrigue him, even if only just in passing.

“What service do you provide?”

“I deliver things.”

He blinks, “That’s not what you’re doing now,” he says, quiet as death. “You’re kneeling. How did you get here?”

It’s a simple thing. It shouldn’t be so hard to answer.

“Because…” you lick your lips, finding steel in your voice. “Because you asked me to.”

“No,” he smiles faintly, but it’s not a real smile. Not the kind that fills you with any semblance of comfort. “I asked if you would take off my boots. And you did. I asked you, what are you doing with your life—does that question make sense to you?”

You shake your head. Your hands are clammy, wet as they grip the front of your pants. The blush is irrefutable now. It tracks up your neck, around to your face and all the way up to your ears. Red with some form of shame.

“No, I suppose it wouldn’t.”

He seems frustrated. Almost. But also, not. It’s an odd intersection, and you’re there kneeling watching the gears turn in his head. Slow and steady. And you want to leave. You want to get out. But you can’t move.

“I can leave,” you offer quietly.

He hums, nearly laughing. “You won’t. I didn’t say you could go.”

You breathe out shakily then, audibly so. He tracks the movement of it lazily in your throat, bobbing with baited breath. His eyes are sharper when they meet yours. More hooded.

“I told you not to turn your back on me, is this not as vulnerable?” He pokes you with the toe of a foot. “It’s not in your nature, yet you do it anyways.”

You sit there for a while, staring at him and feeling seen in a way you never have before, like his eyes are stripping back layers of your skin to look at the bone. Like he’s watching you under a microscope, seeing what you’re made of.

Then he stands. You stare at him, forgetting to move back until he is so close your nose nearly knocks a thigh.

You fall back. He watches, smiling again. It makes the blood inside you curdle.

He walks away, stopping only when he is in the doorway to turn to you. Still on the ground.

“Back to work.” He says. “I will see you tomorrow.”

You do see him tomorrow. It’s nothing odd that he’d say that. You see him every day. But your feet drag through your route as you approach the last house on the street, because you’ve seen him out front. Waiting on his porch.

Waiting for you.

You’ve felt him watching the whole time you deliver to neighbors. You feel his eyes as you start the truck and round it to his mailbox, turning off the ignition and climbing out.

You won’t go inside today. You’ve told yourself this since you left the afternoon prior. You won’t. It’s not professional. You could get in a lot of trouble. Could get fired if you’re late returning your vehicle again. Someone oughta notice eventually.

He is standing next to the vacant rocking chair when you approach with no boots on and in another pair of the same gray socks. His milk bottle isn’t in sight. You don’t meet his eyes until he says, “Come.”

He means inside. You stop just shy of the steps.

It takes you a full minute to get the words out even though you practiced them endlessly the night before in your bed, doing that instead of sleeping. Surely he could see in your face how much you needed to do this.

“I’m not allowed to come inside, sir. I shouldn’t have before. And I’m sorry for misleading you like that.”

He walks inside, opens the door. “Come.”

You shake your head minutely.

He blinks, then with a bit more force, “Come.”

The tone scares you in some deep, innately primal way.

Your legs move before you can tell them not to. It’s like you’re in a trance. You take off your shoes when you enter like you’ve done before. He waits. Then you follow him deeper into the lifeless home.

Pulls out the same chair and sits. You hover in a haze. Watching him.

He gestures to the fridge, “You’re here to do a job. Do it.”

You do your job, quicker than before. You can leave after. He can’t keep you. It’d be illegal for him to. You could report him.

Somehow it doesn’t appear like he’s worried about that possibility. Maybe because you’ve given him too much slack. When you’re done you stand in front of him.

I’m going to leave now.

Words you don’t say. You think he can see them in your eyes. You think maybe he’s stealing them from your head.

“Sit.”

That’s… not what you expected. You stand entirely too still for a moment and try to process the words, but you don’t want to make him repeat himself like you did before.

There’s only one other chair and it’s too close to him. You reach for it anyways when you feel something on your ankle. The toe of his foot hooks around it, stopping you in your tracks.

You look to him for guidance. He smiles, gentle and foreign. It doesn’t calm you in any sort of way.

“On the floor.”

You really, really shouldn’t. But you do.

This time you sit criss cross, feeling like a child. It’s easier on your joints, but it’s just as heavy on your pride. His, though, seems to be glowing, if only in amusement. Like he’s testing something out for fun.

You pick at the fabric of your sleeve, still not looking at him. The silence stretches on and it makes you feel sick.

“Have you thought about the question I asked you?”

“Which one?” You bite your lip, “I just mean—no offense, sir, but you ask a lot of questions.”

“I have only asked one important question. What are you doing with your life?”

Apparently your prior answers didn’t appease him, but it leaves you entirely blank. What else are you supposed to say to something like that? He doesn’t care about your feelings or your failures. What’s the point of asking when he wants a specific answer you’re not privy to? Anxious tears well in your eyes unbidden at being caught again. Caught in this trap you’ve let yourself be led into.

“You’re a bit simple, aren’t you? Like a dog… “He says it so casually it almost doesn’t register, as though he’s commenting on the weather.

You balk. It’s real but it’s also performative. You should be offended by what he’s saying. “I’m not—“ your voice is wet, you gulp through it. “I’m not a dog.”

He pulls in a long, deep breath. You get the feeling he anticipated this answer but isn’t impressed by it.

“You’re sitting on my floor because I told you to. When I tell you to come, you do. Is that not what a dog does?”

He seems genuinely curious. He seems genuinely gentle, but you know it’s not in his nature to be. There’s nothing gentle or curious about what he’s saying, it’s only mean.

You look at him and can’t hide the tears this time. He sees them, you watch the observation register in some way on his face, and then he’s reaching out. A broad, calloused palm ghosts across your cheek, skirting through your hair displaced by taking on and off the hat in the humidity. He pushes it back, petting ever so softly.