He said I should just open the front door and walk in, no big deal, just walk past them in the living room watching TV and act normal. He said since it was raining hard they'd all just be there like slugs on the sofa. “Go all the way around,” he said on the phone, "down the hall in the back of the house. My room is at the end.
“Just say 'hey' like you know them already,” he said, “they’ve lost all their brain cells and can’t remember their own names.”
He was right, it was easy, nobody even turned around or even looked at me, and I told myself if that was so damn easy, other things would be easy too. He was back there all alone in a small bedroom with a fan on. The rain was louder in his room than seemed normal, and the walls were bare. His hair was long and girlish and shiny. The bag he took out of his pocket was what I had come for. It would take the worry away, so I smiled at him, for this, and because I always wanted such hair.
He laughed as though he were squeezing air out of his lungs, as if he knew what I was thinking, and said, “You should model, you could be a petite small type, the type you see in ads.”
I said, “Those girls are tall in real life, short girls don’t model.”
But I could see that I should have thanked him for the compliment, because he started tearing up. His window was open with no screen across, and it was freezing. I realized that he was wearing a t-shirt. There were clothes all over the floor and papers in stacks that looked wet.
He said I reminded him of all the dead movie stars he’d ever thought were beautiful. He was really crying about something else too, he said.
He asked me if I felt my beauty. He was acting as though crying was normal, just another man with long hair crying in a freezing room with a fan.
“Yes,” I said. “I know that I am going to die very young because of my looks."
"Right," he said.
"Trouble sticks to me."
He came over to me and hugged me. I wanted that heat a little bit anyway. There is no right way, I told myself, and no right person. I touched the girly hair.
“Like this?” he asked, and I could smell baby shampoo on his neck.
“Yes,” I said. I realized he was worried, and he wanted to fuck me while I was still on Earth, but maybe I would have to pay him for the stuff regardless.
“You’re a sensitive person,” I said, moving out of the hug in slow motion.
He handed me the bag and smiled. I stood there with my hands groping around in my pockets feeling for money. “Shit," I said, “I’ve been losing everything.”
He brought out his guitar from the piled up closet and sat on the floor. Strummed some chords, la la la all fake like he was Green Day. Threw that hair around like a whip. I almost laughed, but kept things low and slid off my skirt. I played Chelsea Road in my brain as I let him fuck me, looked up at the high ceiling - the oblong spread of water damage.
“Just say 'hey' like you know them already,” he said, “they’ve lost all their brain cells and can’t remember their own names.”
He was right, it was easy, nobody even turned around or even looked at me, and I told myself if that was so damn easy, other things would be easy too. He was back there all alone in a small bedroom with a fan on. The rain was louder in his room than seemed normal, and the walls were bare. His hair was long and girlish and shiny. The bag he took out of his pocket was what I had come for. It would take the worry away, so I smiled at him, for this, and because I always wanted such hair.
He laughed as though he were squeezing air out of his lungs, as if he knew what I was thinking, and said, “You should model, you could be a petite small type, the type you see in ads.”
I said, “Those girls are tall in real life, short girls don’t model.”
But I could see that I should have thanked him for the compliment, because he started tearing up. His window was open with no screen across, and it was freezing. I realized that he was wearing a t-shirt. There were clothes all over the floor and papers in stacks that looked wet.
He said I reminded him of all the dead movie stars he’d ever thought were beautiful. He was really crying about something else too, he said.
He asked me if I felt my beauty. He was acting as though crying was normal, just another man with long hair crying in a freezing room with a fan.
“Yes,” I said. “I know that I am going to die very young because of my looks."
"Right," he said.
"Trouble sticks to me."
He came over to me and hugged me. I wanted that heat a little bit anyway. There is no right way, I told myself, and no right person. I touched the girly hair.
“Like this?” he asked, and I could smell baby shampoo on his neck.
“Yes,” I said. I realized he was worried, and he wanted to fuck me while I was still on Earth, but maybe I would have to pay him for the stuff regardless.
“You’re a sensitive person,” I said, moving out of the hug in slow motion.
He handed me the bag and smiled. I stood there with my hands groping around in my pockets feeling for money. “Shit," I said, “I’ve been losing everything.”
He brought out his guitar from the piled up closet and sat on the floor. Strummed some chords, la la la all fake like he was Green Day. Threw that hair around like a whip. I almost laughed, but kept things low and slid off my skirt. I played Chelsea Road in my brain as I let him fuck me, looked up at the high ceiling - the oblong spread of water damage.
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