Chapter 2: The Piss Interrogation
The stale beer scent from The Rust Nail’s backroom had clung to Elias for two days. It was in the fibers of his jacket, a phantom in his nostrils every time he leaned over to restock glasses. He’d replayed the scene by the sink on a loop—the shocking heat, Me’s laughing face, his own frozen fascination. It felt less like a memory and more like a fingerprint burned into his mind, altering its landscape.
Me, however, moved through the world as if it were a museum designed for her exclusive amusement. She taught her yoga classes with serene, fluid authority, her green hair tied back in a neat braid. She smiled at bankers and students alike, all of them oblivious to the woman who’d pinned their bartender against a sink and marked him with a uniquely intimate truth.
Tonight, she needed air that didn’t smell of incense and effort. Slipping out the bar’s fire exit into the alley, she leaned against the cold brick wall, lighting a clove cigarette. The alley was a dank artery between two louder streets, a repository for broken bottles and whispered deals. The familiar, public stench of old urine wafted from a nearby drain—a bland, anonymous smell she found curiously dull.
A shadow detached itself from the deeper darkness near the dumpsters.
“Meera Kapoor?”
The voice was flat, professional. Me didn’t startle. She took a slow drag, the ember casting a brief glow on the woman approaching her. Late thirties, sharp haircut, a practical jacket over a posture that screamed ‘cop’ even without the badge currently being held up.
“It’s just Me,” she exhaled, smoke weaving into the misty air.
“Detective Isabella Rossi.” The badge was put away. “Got a minute?”
“For the law? Always.” Me’s smile was easy, but her eyes were assessing. “What’s the crime? Loitering with intent to breathe?”
“I’m following up on some reports. Unusual disturbances.” Rossi’s gaze was a physical pressure. “A few incidents downtown. Involving… liquids. Public indecency, maybe. Seems like a party trick someone with your particular reputation might know about.”
Me’s smile didn’t falter. “My reputation? I teach people to touch their toes and breathe deeply, Detective. It’s scandalous, I know.”
“Cut the shit,” Rossi said, her tone cooling further. “I’ve heard the whispers. The yoga instructor with the green hair and the… unusual hobbies. A bartender at this very establishment described a pretty vivid scene recently. Said it was life-altering.”
Me’s pulse gave a quiet, interested thump. Elias. He’d talked. But not with regret, she guessed. With wonder. That was good.
“People see what they want to see,” Me shrugged. “Or what they’re afraid to see.”
Rossi took a step closer, entering Me’s personal space, a classic intimidation tactic. The alley felt tighter, the hum of the city fading. “Here’s what I see. A person who thinks the rules don’t apply. Who might get off on shocking people, on leaving a little… mess. That can escalate. It can overlap with other things. Nuisance becomes vandalism. Exhibitionism becomes a public hazard.”
The lecture was dry, procedural. Me listened, her head tilted, as if to a mildly interesting podcast. When Rossi finished, there was a heavy silence filled only by the distant wail of a siren.
Me dropped her cigarette, grinding it out with her boot. She looked at the detective, not with defiance, but with a profound, unsettling curiosity.
“You talk about it like it’s a problem to be solved,” Me said, her voice soft. “A spill to be mopped up.”
“It is,” Rossi stated.
“Is it?”
In one fluid motion, Me’s hands went to the button of her jeans. The snick of the denim button was loud in the alley. The zipper’s rasp was deliberate.
Rossi’s eyes narrowed. “What are you–”
Me didn’t answer. She simply stepped back half a pace, planted her feet on the cracked asphalt, and let go.
It wasn’t aggressive. It was astonishingly matter-of-fact. A steady, golden arc cut through the space between them, splattering onto the greasy ground with a sound like sudden, pouring rain. The steam rose in the chill air, carrying its sharp, organic scent—infinitely more present, more personal, than the stale odor from the drain.
Rossi didn’t gasp. She didn’t cry out. Her cold professionalism didn’t so much shatter as it underwent a sudden, violent rearrangement. Every trained instinct should have had her stepping back, drawing her sidearm, shouting commands. Instead, she stood rooted, her eyes wide, not with horror, but with a detective’s frantic, involuntary cataloguing. The arc’s trajectory, the force, the sheer, brazen context of the act. It was evidence, made animate and utterly taboo.
Me finished, gave a slight, satisfied sigh, and fastened her jeans. She looked at the puddle, then at Rossi’s frozen face.
“You see a hazard,” Me said, her voice still light, conversational. “I see a body doing what a body does. No more mysterious than a tear. Probably more sterile.”
Rossi finally moved. But not away. She took one step forward, her polished shoe stopping just shy of the damp patch. Her face was unreadable in the gloom, but her breath was visible, coming a little faster now.
“You just…,” Rossi began, then stopped, her script utterly gone.
“I just provided a primary source for your investigation,” Me finished, a smirk playing on her lips. “Firsthand observation is best, right, Detective?”
Rossi’s jaw worked. She was supposed to make an arrest. She was supposed to be disgusted. Instead, she was… compiling data. The woman’s calm was absolute. The act was deliberate, but not hostile. It was a statement, delivered in a language Rossi’s manuals had never covered.
“You’re trying to throw me off,” Rossi said, but the certainty was gone from her voice.
“I’m not trying to do anything,” Me said. “You cornered me. I had to pee. The two things coincided.” She took a step closer now, invading Rossi’s space this time. “The question is, why did you step forward?”
Rossi had no answer. The question echoed in the silent alley, louder than any siren.
Me nodded slowly, as if confirming a private theory. “Thought so. The badge is a shell. Underneath, you’re just a person wondering what it feels like to stop seeing spills… and start seeing oceans.”
She brushed past the detective, her shoulder lightly tapping Rossi’s arm. “Tell Elias I said hi. And that he was right. It is life-altering.”
Rossi stood alone in the alley for a long time, staring at the dark, steaming patch on the asphalt. The case file in her mind, once neatly categorized, had been drenched in something that dissolved ink. She wasn’t thinking about charges anymore. She was thinking about curiosity. About the line between observation and participation.
And she was thinking, despite every professional fiber screaming in protest, that she needed to understand the composition of that ocean.
And she was thinking, despite every professional fiber screaming in protest, that she needed to understand the composition of that ocean.
The sharp click of a lighter broke the alley’s silence. Me was leaning against the brick wall again, ten feet away, lighting a new clove cigarette. She watched Rossi over the flame, her expression unreadable.
“For the road?” Me asked, her voice cutting through the damp air.
Rossi didn’t answer. Her gaze dropped from Me’s face to the dark, glistening patch on the ground between them. The steam had mostly faded, but the evidence remained. Her own polished shoe was perilously close. A single step would connect her to it. The thought wasn’t repulsive. That was the problem. It was magnetic.
“That was evidence,” Rossi finally said, but the words sounded hollow, a robotic recitation.
“Of what?” Me blew smoke sideways. “A human body functioning? You should see the reports from the public restrooms at the bus station. Now that’s a crime scene.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Do I?” Me pushed off the wall and took a few slow steps back toward the detective, stopping just on the other side of the dampness. “You’re still here, Izzy. Can I call you Izzy? Your procedure manual isn’t for this. It’s back in your car, useless.”
Rossi’s breath hitched at the use of her first name. It felt more invasive than the act itself. She stared at this woman, this confounding subject, with her serene smile and green hair and absolutely terrifying clarity.
“What do you want from me?” Rossi’s voice was a scrape, all professionalism stripped raw.
“Nothing.” Me’s smile was genuine now, almost kind. “I don’t want a thing. But you… you want to know. You stepped forward. That means something.”
Rossi’s mind was a static scream. The case file, the complaints, Elias Thorne’s dazed, reverent testimony—it all collapsed into the physical reality of this alley, this woman, this choice. Understanding wasn’t a mental exercise here. It was a physical one.
Me held her gaze. “You can leave. Write your report. ‘Subject was uncooperative.’ It’s easy. It’s clean.”
She took one last drag and dropped the cigarette. It landed with a tiny hiss in the center of the wet patch, extinguishing instantly.
“Or,” Me said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, “you can stop observing from the other side of the line.”
The challenge hung in the air, thick and palpable. Rossi’s heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drum betraying her stone-faced exterior. She looked down at her shoes, these sensible, official-black flats. They were meant for chasing suspects across pavement, for standing firmly in courtrooms. Not for this.
Slowly, as if moving through deep water, she lifted her right foot.
She placed it deliberately into the center of the dampness. The thin leather sole met the cool, wet asphalt. A slight shift of her weight produced a soft, almost imperceptible sound.
Then her left foot joined the right.
She stood there, in it, feeling the residual moisture seep through. She wasn’t mimicking Me’s act. She was participating in its aftermath. Acknowledging its reality. Claiming a space within it.
A shaky breath escaped her, fogging in the cold air. It wasn’t arousal. It wasn’t disgust. It was a profound, dizzying surrender of a boundary she hadn’t even known was so rigid.
Me watched, her smirk softening into something like respect. “There you are.”
Rossi looked up, her detective’s eyes wide. “Now what?”
“Now you know it’s just water and salt and waste,” Me said, shrugging. “And now you know that knowing that changes everything.” She turned to leave, then glanced back over her shoulder. “The first time is the strangest. For everyone.”
She walked away, her footsteps echoing, leaving Detective Isabella Rossi standing alone in the dark alley, standing squarely in a puddle of her own shattered protocol, the city’s noises rushing back to fill the silence she’d just broken.
She walked away, her footsteps echoing, leaving Detective Isabella Rossi standing alone in the dark alley, standing squarely in a puddle of her own shattered protocol, the city’s noises rushing back to fill the silence she’d just broken.
Rossi didn’t move for a full minute. The wet chill finally seeped through her shoe leather, a cold, insistent fact against her skin. Her mind was a blank, humming screen. All her carefully constructed categories—subject, evidence, violation—had dissolved into that one defiant puddle and the electric tremor still running up her spine.
She moved then, not toward her car but back toward the bar’s fire door. Her steps were automatic. She pushed inside, the humid, beer-scented warmth hitting her face. The main lights were off; only the ghostly glow of exit signs and the neon from the street lit the empty tables.
Elias was at the far end of the bar, counting cash. He looked up, saw her, and froze. His eyes tracked her path from the door, then dropped to her shoes. A strange, knowing tension tightened his expression. He said nothing.
“Where?” Rossi asked. The single word was rough.
He hesitated, then nodded toward the hallway to the back. “Storage room. She likes… the concrete floor.”
Rossi walked past him without another word. The hall was dark. A thin line of yellow light showed under a heavy door. She didn’t knock. She turned the handle and stepped inside.
The room was cavernous, cold, stacked with kegs and cardboard boxes. Me was there, sitting on an upturned milk crate near a deep utility sink, rolling a second clove cigarette. She didn’t look surprised.
“Lost your way, Detective?” Me asked, her voice echoing slightly off the concrete.
“No.” Rossi closed the door behind her. The click of the latch was final. She leaned against it, feeling the solid wood against her back. “You left before I finished my interview.”
Me lit the cigarette, the flare illuminating her amused face. “Interview’s over. You got your primary source material. Go write it up.”
“It’s inadequate.” Rossi pushed off the door. She took three steps into the room, stopping a few feet from Me. “The observation was contaminated. By my presence. By my… reaction.”
“So get a cleaner sample.” Me blew smoke toward the ceiling, watching her.
Rossi’s throat was dry. Her pulse was a steady, heavy drum in her ears. She reached for her badge, unpinned it, and placed it carefully on a box of napkins. The gesture felt absurdly formal. “Isabella Rossi,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Not the detective. Just me. Now… explain it to me.”
Me studied her, the smirk fading into something more serious, more assessing. She stood up, closing the distance between them. She was an inch taller. “You don’t want an explanation, Izzy. You got that in the alley. You want a translation.”
“Then translate.”
Me reached out, slow, giving her every chance to pull back. Her fingertips brushed Rossi’s cheek, then traced down to her jaw. Her touch was warm, shockingly gentle. “It’s about presence. Most people… fuck in their heads. All anxiety, all performance, all memory. They’re ghosts in the room.” Her thumb brushed Rossi’s bottom lip. “Liquids… they’re immediate. They’re undeniable. You can’t be a ghost while you’re pissing on someone. Or while it’s happening to you. It drags you right into your animal body. Right into the now.”
Rossi shivered. The clinical part of her brain was still trying to file this, but it was drowning in the scent of clove and the intense focus of Me’s gaze. “And that’s what you want? To be an animal?”
“I want to be real.” Me’s hand slipped down, fingers deftly undoing the buttons of Rossi’s practical jacket. “I think you’re sick of being a ghost in a badge.”
The jacket slid off Rossi’s shoulders, landing with a soft thud on the concrete. Me’s hands went to the hem of her sensible blouse, tugging it free from her waistband. Rossi’s own hands came up, not to stop her, but to fist in Me’s green hair, pulling her in for a kiss that was all hungry desperation.
It wasn’t gentle. It was a collision. Teeth clacked. Me laughed into her mouth, a low, thrilled sound, and bit her lip in return. Rossi’s back hit a stack of kegs, the metal cold and hard through her thin blouse. Me’s knee pressed between her thighs, a firm, insistent pressure.
“Tell me to stop,” Me murmured against her throat, her hands pushing the blouse up, palms rough on Rossi’s stomach.
“No.”
They fucked right there, against the kegs, then on the gritty concrete floor. It was fast and messy and brutally physical. Rossi’s trousers were shoved down around her knees, Me’s skirt rucked up around her waist. There was no romance to it, just a frantic, grinding need to connect, to prove something, to feel the reality Me had talked about.
Me came first, a sharp, silent shudder against her, forehead pressed to Rossi’s shoulder. A moment later, Rossi followed, a choked-off gasp swallowed by the damp, still air of the storage room.
For a long while, they just breathed. The cold of the floor seeped into Rossi’s skin. Me shifted, rolling onto her back beside her, staring up at the distant ceiling strung with cobwebs.
“Translation complete?” Me asked, her voice hoarse.
Rossi turned her head. She looked at the woman beside her, at the proud, unashamed lines of her body in the half-light. She looked at her own bare thighs, the crumpled trousers, the badge gleaming on the box ten feet away in a world that felt lifetimes distant.
“No,” Rossi breathed out, a plume of condensation in the cold air. “Now I need a whole new dictionary.” She propped herself up on an elbow, her gaze tracing the lines of Me’s profile. “The bartender. Elias. You did that to him, too. By the sink.”
Me nodded, a small, private smile touching her lips. “Yeah. Different context. Same principle.”
“And he… stayed.”
“He did.” Me turned her head to look at her. “Just like you stepped forward. Most people run. You two… you leaned in.” She reached out, her fingers brushing a strand of hair from Rossi’s forehead. “That’s interesting to me.”
Rossi caught her wrist, not to move it, just to feel the live-wire pulse under the skin. “This is evidence tampering. Of the highest order.”
“Is it?” Me’s eyes glittered. “Or is it the case cracking wide open?”
A heavy thud from the main bar made them both start—a keg being moved. Reality, with its schedules and inventories, was reasserting itself just outside the door. Rossi sat up, the spell fracturing. She felt exposed, not just physically, but psychically. The concrete was unforgiving against her skin.
She stood on unsteady legs, pulling her clothes back on with stiff, clumsy movements. The fabric felt alien. Me watched her, calm as ever, making no move to dress.
Rossi fastened her trousers, her fingers fumbling with the button. She walked to the box, picked up her badge. The metal was cool. It felt heavier.
“You’re leaving the scene,” Me observed from the floor.
“I am the scene,” Rossi corrected, her voice flat. She pinned the badge back onto her jacket. “And I have no idea what to do with that.”
She walked to the door, hand on the knob. She didn’t look back. “This changes nothing about my investigation.”
“Okay,” Me said, a smile in her voice.
Rossi opened the door. The hallway light felt blinding. She stepped through and closed it behind her, leaving Me in the dark. Elias was still at the bar, pretending to wipe down the already-clean surface. He didn’t look at her as she passed.
Out on the street, the cold night air was a slap. She leaned against her unmarked car, fumbling for her keys. Her body ached in new places. The scent of clove smoke and sex and concrete dust clung to her. She started the engine but didn’t pull away, just stared at the glowing dashboard.
Her phone buzzed on the passenger seat. A text from her sergeant: Any progress on the nuisance complaints? Councilor’s office is asking.
Rossi picked up the phone. Her thumb hovered over the screen. She typed a reply, deleted it, then typed another. She sent it before she could think.
Lead evaporated. False alarm. Nothing to pursue.
She tossed the phone back onto the seat. It was the first lie she’d ever filed in an official capacity. It tasted like clove cigarettes and cold concrete and something terrifyingly, vividly alive. She put the car in drive and pulled into the late-night traffic, the ghost of a grin tugging at her own mouth for the first time in years.