“Hurrah,” I say, and she giggles.
Jenny, Kayla or Kelly, Michelle, Tamika, Julia or July, Kathy with a K and Cathy with a C, Alicia, Lakshmi, another Jen, Mimi, Some Redhead, a Chinese girl, etcetera. For three weeks, I go from Thursday to Sunday: Varvatos suits, McQ shirts, clubs, clear drinks, pink drinks, amber drinks. Ice cubes. Hot, smooth hands, soft tongues, spit, eyelids, goosebumps, fumbling with the keys, unleashed breasts, legs thrown over my shoulders. Hair spilled all over pillows all over town.
I’m a fucking machine, fucking. Trying to out-fuck what’s in my head. My head is full of her: her twisting body like a small white wave in the darkness. Her phantom laughter. It cuts through all the noise. It cuts through the yelping and squealing and moaning and whimpering and grunting and slurping. Her ha ha ha.
“What’s wrong?” This one has plump lips, big lips. Her former lovers probably describe them as cock-sucking lips. I can’t confirm. My dick refuses to cooperate. I don’t care for it to cooperate. I’m exhausted. The dick is exhausted, too full of cocaine. Her breasts try to jump out of a too-small bra. I’m sure she knows that the bra is too small. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. She sits back against the wall of pillows. So many pillows propped at the head of her bed. Why does she need so many pillows? Her hair is brown. Unravelling curls that must’ve taken an hour or more to sculpt. Club-ready hair.
“Are you okay?”
She doesn’t ask Is it me? the way a plain girl would. A plain girl gone pretty. A Four but a Seven. Someone got to her long before I did. Someone built her up, convinced her she could make all of her confused parts work. Make herself into a whole that would be coherent, attractive. I’ve nothing to give her. Besides, I don’t care to give anyone anything. There’s nothing left.
“Not really,” I say.
“Does this happen –”
“I’m afraid so,” I say.
“Oh, dude, I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. It’s not you.”
“I know that. Shit, that came out totally wrong. You’re great. Babe, you’re God’s gift to women,” she squeals. “Just look at you!”
I look at her. She smiles like I’m a child who has just shat his pants but it’s okay because I’m adorable anyway. I’m God’s gift to women
She is the last girl I fuck. Well, try to fuck.
I spend the last week of my freedom in my apartment.
Jason comes over every day now.
I order groceries online. I cook us elaborate meals. Everything from soufflés to lobster bisque. Beef Wellington.
The last thing I make as a free man is a lemon meringue pie.
I pull the pie out of the oven. Serve it. Then I collapse on my leather sectional, racked by short but powerful, staccato sobs. It’s an unexpected outburst. Some dark cellar at my core.
“It must be a comedown from the cocaine,” I tell Jason. The fork with sticky meringue is suspended an inch from his open mouth. “A serotonin crash.”
“It’s just that – I’ve never seen you cry.”
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“For what?” he says.
“I’m going to plead guilty.”
“I know.”
“Good.”
“Do you want me to talk you out of it?” he says.
“Absolutely not.”
“I wouldn’t know how to anyway.”
“Good.”
34
“HEY,” SHE SAYS.
I don’t recognize her, and then I do, and I’m not sure which is worse. I hope my face stays neutral; I hope it doesn’t show that I don’t know how to react. Her hair is full of soft, messy curls, light brown. Her eyebrows are massive and there’s dark fuzz above her lip. Hollow cheeks. She was always thin, but this thinness is different; it’s unintentional. Too many things are unintentional with her now, except maybe her name.
She no longer calls herself $isi.
“Hey. I like the hair,” I say.
“Thanks. It got all curly. Weird.” $isi – Sylvia – sits down.
“Thanks for meeting with me. I really appreciate it,” I say. “I might be away for some time. A year. Maybe more.”
She’s not dressed in black; that’s different about her too. I can make out the dark shade of her nipples through the white cotton of her blouse. I wonder if it’s on purpose. Probably. She hasn’t gone entirely granola on me.
“Well. I feel very honoured to be your last date ever. And don’t be so dramatic. I’ve got at least a few years,” she laughs. “But maybe more.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean –”
“It’s okay. Just teasing you. I’m trying not to worry. You know, keeping my hopes up. Being in denial and all that. I was thinking of writing a blog about it, but that’s like really admitting it,” she says. “Anyway. I’m starting a new treatment in a month. I had to wait for all these tests. I haven’t been eating very well. I had fluid building up in my abdomen and I was throwing up a lot, so they thought it was something serious. But it’s getting better. I’m getting better.”
“You’re so young,” I say even though I don’t mean to say it. Such a cliché. I’m overwhelmed by fear. Not compassion. Fear. It’s too unnatural to be so close to dying this early in life. It could happen to anybody, including me.
“What’s your point?”
“You shouldn’t have to be going through this,” I say quickly.
“Aw, thanks.You’re such a sweetie pie. I’m feeling better than I have in a really long time. So I’m ready to get back to active treatment.”
“And then?”
“And then we’ll see. I didn’t think it would come back. But you learn how to deal with things. I suppose the only difference between me and everyone else is that I have a vague idea of when I might be kicking the bucket. But, you know, those things are.”
“I know many people who –”
“Yes. I know. Everyone knows many people,” she says. “Do you, really?”
“No. I don’t. I just don’t know what to say.”
“It’s not about you. Don’t worry about it. It’s nice to see you,” she says. “And I know that you didn’t do it. That’s why I’m here, right? To absolve you of your sins!”
I feel myself blush. I phoned her deep into the night a few nights ago. I’m not close with anyone. There’s Jason, but there’s only so much bro I can take. I needed a girl, and not Gloria. Someone less bitter, someone younger, more open. And $isi and I have history. Sylvia.
I phoned and asked her if I was possibly losing my mind, if maybe I actually was the violent guy that Em said I was. A guy who could hurt women. I was not that guy. But I got myself into a state where I started to doubt reality. Sylvia didn’t hang up. “You’re a fucking jerk. But yeah, you’re not that kind of guy,” she said.
“I wanted to find out how you were doing too,” I say, now.
“I’m doing better. I’m doing really well,” she sighs.
A waitress shows up to take our orders. She has a pretty face, big, trusting eyes that make you imagine her sliding down your stomach, looking up at you. A freckled nose. No waist and small breasts, but a nice butt. A Four.