Read Online Fake House by Linh Dinh - Free Book Online

recrossed my legs. I leaned back on my elbows, arched my back, pointed my nipples skyward. I felt giddy, let out a burst of laughter, which I tried to dissimulate as a coughing fit. A homeless man, picking through a trash can ten feet away, gaveme a drugged, hostile look. How unfair, I thought, that the homeless should go without sex.
    He did not call me for two, three, four, five, six days. I thought,
It is okay. I’ll give him time
. It seemed perfectly natural that a man should run away from a woman after a bout of intimacy.
Love requires infinite patience
, I told myself. In any case I was swathed in a glow of contentment and was not all that eager to have sex again immediately. After a week I called him: “Tom?”
    “Oh, hi! Susan!”
    It was a little too breezy, this greeting, the emphasis on the “hi!”, the loudness of his voice. I half expected him to say, “May I help you?” I said, “Tom, I haven’t heard from you in a week.”
    “Well—ha!—I’ve been busy—ha! ha!—a few things came up unexpectedly.”
    “What are you talking about?”
    “Well, ah, can I call you back?”
    I did not say anything.
    “Susan, are you there?”
    “Why are you acting like this?”
    “Listen, are you going to be home tonight?” He had found his voice. It was deeper, more serious.
    “Why?”
    “I can come by and we can talk.”
    “Let’s meet somewhere else.”
    “Why can’t we meet at your apartment?”
    “Tom, what’s up with you?”
    “Nothing. Nothing’s up with me.”
    “Meet me at Tangier.”
    “Tangier at Eighteenth and Lombard?”
    “You know where it is. We’ve gone there together.”
    “All right. But when?”
    “Eight o’clock.”
    “I’ll see you then.”
    I went there half an hour early. I wanted to claim the space before he arrived. I also wanted to be drunk.
    “Just one?” The waitress said after I had sat down at a table. “For now.”
    “Would you like to see a menu?”
    “No, thanks.”
    “What would you like to drink?”
    “A snifter of Bailey’s and a mug of Sam Adams.”
    Some guy at the bar in a yellow polo shirt glanced in my direction. He grinned.
What do you want, asshole?
I glowered at him and he looked away. Then I noticed the white spatters on his pants. It was the house painter I had said hello to on the street.
    The music was loud. Some horrible free jazz. The waitress brought me my drinks. I drank the Bailey’s in big gulps, holding the chocolaty liquid in my mouth for a few seconds before swallowing.
    “Another Bailey’s, please,” I said to the waitress. “And, miss …” She turned around. “Is it possible to change this music?”
    She hesitated, then said, “I’ll tell the bartender.”
    “Thanks.”
    I thought it was important for us to meet in a civil environment, a public place where we would be surrounded by strangers, a deterrent to aberrant behavior.
    The bartender switched to Chet Baker.
More crap
, I thought,
but at least it’s soothing
.
    Maybe he’s afraid of being involved. Maybe he’s gay. Maybe my body repulsed him. (It’s true that my hips are a bit wide, mythighs a little too thick, but these imperfections are obvious through my clothes. Anyone can see them.) Maybe my pussy stinks. Maybe he’s in love with somebody else, although I don’t see how that’s possible. Maybe he’s offended by the way I escorted him out of the apartment.
    The door opened. It was Tom.
    “Hi, Susan.”
    “Hi, Tom.” I had drunk four Bailey’s and was feeling gentle, diffuse.
    “Have you been here long?”
    “I’ve just got here.”
    He sat down. The waitress came over. “Would you like to see a menu, sir?”
    He looked at me. “Are we eating?”
    “I’m not.”
    “Well, I’m eating.”
    The waitress handed him a menu. “Something to drink, sir?”
    “A Hennessy, please.”
    He hid his face behind the menu until the waitress came back, then said, “I think I’ll have the wings.”
    “Anything for you, miss?”
    “Another