now he is wedged in the back, near the bathroom, perched at a little round table that seems specifically designed to be emasculating.
But she was beaming. At you. Apparently.
Fuck the beaming. Fuck this depressing ghost town of a city. Fuck his career. He should write a meltdown memoir. An anthem for his generation. Bret Easton Ellis with more man-child ennui. Then she walks in the door, and he swears to fucking God that all the atoms in the room recompose themselves around her. She’s wearing jeans and snow boots and a puffy jacket in an electric turquoise that matches her eye shadow, with jangly earrings and her braids tied up in an elaborate croissant twist.
“Hi,” she says, slinging her bag down onto the table, recklessly enough that he has to grab for his cup. “Sorry.”
“You say that a lot.” He’s grinning. He can’t help it.
“Yes, well,” she shrugs. “What, you didn’t get me one?”
“Half an hour ago!”
“You want another?” She indicates his cup, still three-quarters full, and he finds himself nodding, even though a fourth will probably tip him into heart-attack territory, like that kid who died from chugging energy drinks. But coffee is natural.
So is herpes.
“But to go, okay?”
“What about breakfast?”
“We’ll get pastries. I want you to show me around town. Show me your Detroit.”
“What does that mean?”
“Whatever you want it to. Personal perspectives on the city.”
“All right,” she says, with the same tolerantly amused look she had when he walked in on her with her hand between her legs. Definitely love, he thinks.
Inside her jazzy little blue Hyundai, she clips in the radio face and heavy techno blasts out, a whining buzzsaw with a frenetic beat. He winces. It sounds like the grinding teeth of machines on methamphetamines. Good name for a prog rock band. Machines on Meth.
She notices and laughs at him through a bite of almond croissant. “You were dancing to it on Saturday night.”
“I was drunk!”
“Want me to turn it down?”
“Please.”
“You’re a funny guy, Jimmy.” But she flicks the volume knob.
“Jonno,” he corrects.
“I know. I’m messing with you. So, where do you want to go?”
“Back to your place?”
“Not possible.”
“Then mine.” Although the thought of his grubby rental apartment gives him a fresh twist of resentment. And panic. His scattered underwear, the empty pizza boxes, the soggy towels balled up on the floor. He would need an hour, no three, to make it presentable. Actually, probably easier to burn it down.
“Not yet,” she says.
“Then somewhere you like.”
“It’ll be cold.”
“I can take it.”
“You going to write about it?”
“Maybe. If it’s good.”
“Isn’t journalism dead?”
“That’s what they tell me.”
“You should start your own video channel. Get advertising.”
“That’s what they tell me too. It all keeps changing. I don’t know how anyone’s supposed to keep up. It’s like learning to salsa in the middle of an earthquake.” That’s not bad. He should write that down. It would be a good essay. Scratch that, an easy essay. More bait. Maybe she’ll open him up to something. He always thought a muse should be sex on legs.
“You’re old is the problem,” she says, flicking the turn indicator. She’s wearing black-and-yellow-striped fingerless gloves. Her nail polish is chipped.
“Thanks for that.”
“Relax,” she says. “I’m teasing.”
They drive past the yacht club and she points out the old zoo, all shuttered up, the animals long gone. Maybe they joined in the white flight to the suburbs.
They pass the long stretch of the main beach. Dishwater waves with white caps are worrying the gray sand. He remembers being a teenager in Rhode Island, lying on his stomach to hide his semi, watching the girls rub coconut oil into their skin, or run shrieking into the waves. Such an assortment of girls. It seemed then that they were all
But she was beaming. At you. Apparently.
Fuck the beaming. Fuck this depressing ghost town of a city. Fuck his career. He should write a meltdown memoir. An anthem for his generation. Bret Easton Ellis with more man-child ennui. Then she walks in the door, and he swears to fucking God that all the atoms in the room recompose themselves around her. She’s wearing jeans and snow boots and a puffy jacket in an electric turquoise that matches her eye shadow, with jangly earrings and her braids tied up in an elaborate croissant twist.
“Hi,” she says, slinging her bag down onto the table, recklessly enough that he has to grab for his cup. “Sorry.”
“You say that a lot.” He’s grinning. He can’t help it.
“Yes, well,” she shrugs. “What, you didn’t get me one?”
“Half an hour ago!”
“You want another?” She indicates his cup, still three-quarters full, and he finds himself nodding, even though a fourth will probably tip him into heart-attack territory, like that kid who died from chugging energy drinks. But coffee is natural.
So is herpes.
“But to go, okay?”
“What about breakfast?”
“We’ll get pastries. I want you to show me around town. Show me your Detroit.”
“What does that mean?”
“Whatever you want it to. Personal perspectives on the city.”
“All right,” she says, with the same tolerantly amused look she had when he walked in on her with her hand between her legs. Definitely love, he thinks.
Inside her jazzy little blue Hyundai, she clips in the radio face and heavy techno blasts out, a whining buzzsaw with a frenetic beat. He winces. It sounds like the grinding teeth of machines on methamphetamines. Good name for a prog rock band. Machines on Meth.
She notices and laughs at him through a bite of almond croissant. “You were dancing to it on Saturday night.”
“I was drunk!”
“Want me to turn it down?”
“Please.”
“You’re a funny guy, Jimmy.” But she flicks the volume knob.
“Jonno,” he corrects.
“I know. I’m messing with you. So, where do you want to go?”
“Back to your place?”
“Not possible.”
“Then mine.” Although the thought of his grubby rental apartment gives him a fresh twist of resentment. And panic. His scattered underwear, the empty pizza boxes, the soggy towels balled up on the floor. He would need an hour, no three, to make it presentable. Actually, probably easier to burn it down.
“Not yet,” she says.
“Then somewhere you like.”
“It’ll be cold.”
“I can take it.”
“You going to write about it?”
“Maybe. If it’s good.”
“Isn’t journalism dead?”
“That’s what they tell me.”
“You should start your own video channel. Get advertising.”
“That’s what they tell me too. It all keeps changing. I don’t know how anyone’s supposed to keep up. It’s like learning to salsa in the middle of an earthquake.” That’s not bad. He should write that down. It would be a good essay. Scratch that, an easy essay. More bait. Maybe she’ll open him up to something. He always thought a muse should be sex on legs.
“You’re old is the problem,” she says, flicking the turn indicator. She’s wearing black-and-yellow-striped fingerless gloves. Her nail polish is chipped.
“Thanks for that.”
“Relax,” she says. “I’m teasing.”
They drive past the yacht club and she points out the old zoo, all shuttered up, the animals long gone. Maybe they joined in the white flight to the suburbs.
They pass the long stretch of the main beach. Dishwater waves with white caps are worrying the gray sand. He remembers being a teenager in Rhode Island, lying on his stomach to hide his semi, watching the girls rub coconut oil into their skin, or run shrieking into the waves. Such an assortment of girls. It seemed then that they were all
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