Dead Politician Society

Chapter 6: Matthew

“This Clare girl,” Matthew said as he poured himself a glass of red wine. “She’s ignorant, rude, and I don’t understand what she wants from my class.”

“You’re just pissed at your boss for telling you what to do.” Ethan took a swig of Corona without looking away from the European football highlights. “Most places, that’s what a boss is supposed to do.”

Matthew took a large gulp of wine. Swallowed. Took another. Like his morning coffee, his evening wine moved through his veins and improved the way the world looked. It didn’t kill the rage—not instantly, anyway—but it went to work on numbing it. Still, the question stayed. “She’s not like the other students. I can’t figure out why this class? Administration knows it’s a closed selection process. Shirley knows that too. So how did Clare get past the gate?”

“Stop worrying about it. She’s one person. One student. Don’t let her be the pea under your mattress that spoils your whole night’s sleep.”

Of course Ethan's literary reference would come from a fairy tale. Matthew cursed the housing market that had forced him to take a roommate-slash-tenant to keep up with his taxes and mortgage. Even for this crumbling three-bedroom house in the Beach.

“It’s the way she looks around at things,” Matthew said as he pumped the air out of the wine, “like nothing is good enough for her.”

Ethan grabbed a couple of Pringles from the tube on the floor beside the couch. “Is she also suspiciously good-looking? She could be one of Charlie’s Angels.”

“No.” Matthew glowered. “She’s a skinny plain brunette in jeans and sneakers.”

“Sounds like a cover. Is one of your students a drug dealer?”

“She’s not a cop.” Matthew glared at Ethan’s argyle dress socks resting on the glass coffee table. His glass coffee table. “And she’s certainly no angel.”

A commercial interrupted the sports highlights. Ethan turned from the ten-year-old projection TV to look at Matthew. “Finish your wine. Pour another. Then forget Clare. It’s your class; your rules. Want to order Chinese?”

“Can’t. I have to shower and change into someone suspiciously good-looking.”

“Someone new?”

“No. Just Annabel. She’s been hinting that she wants the relationship talk. I figure the better I look, the less likely she is to storm out of the bar instead of inviting me back to her place anyway when I say I’m still not ready to commit.”

Ethan shook his head. “You’re lucky you’re not dating my sister.”

“I treat women well.” Matthew wasn’t about to take relationship advice from a bank teller who only ever scored plain women. “Until I fall in love, I don’t see why I should commit to one. It’s not fair on them or me.”

“What about when a woman falls in love with you anyway? Like Annabel is in serious danger of doing.”

Matthew contemplated this. The truth was he thought they deserved what they got, but it would sound too self-flagellating to say that he had no respect for anyone with such poor taste. Besides, that wasn’t quite what he meant. He saw himself as a character in a Gordon Lightfoot or Leonard Cohen song—a train that was clearly in transit, moving through the station. Maybe that’s why he liked to play their music during sex.

“Or those little freshettes,” Ethan said, “barely off the bus from the farm they grew up on.”

This, Matthew felt confident about. “I’m a good education for them.”

“Yeah. Like the Big Bad Wolf was for Red Riding Hood.”

Matthew snorted his last mouthful of wine. “Good one. I even eat them, like the story says. But I’m equal opportunity—I let them eat me too.”

“You’re never getting anywhere near my sister.”