Read Online Lightning People by Christopher Bollen - Free Book Online Page B

replied tiredly. “I’m not feeling too exhilarated right now.”
    â€œYou know what’s funny? If this were any other department except maybe insects, we’d be on the news. If you shot a pregnant tiger, the public would care, and there’d be red tape for days.”
    â€œI cared. Leto was mine.”
    â€œYou should have let her take Fran out,” Kip joked. “One good bite would have taught her a lesson.”
    â€œShit, what time is it?” Del searched her pocket for her cell phone. “I have to change. I’ve got a date.”
    â€œI thought you already had a boyfriend,” Kip said, while fondling her hand. “You trying to make me jealous?”
    â€œIt’s not that kind of date.”
    Before Del left that evening, she took a note card from the cabinet and wrote APOLLO, CROTALUS ATROX in black marker before attaching it with tape to the plastic top of the terrarium. The sticky little body curled against the corner, but she was relieved to see it breathing. No matter how traumatic her day had been, it didn’t match his. You can see it in animals better than in human babies: that stunned, determined look of taking up space in the world. Apollo , she thought, tapping her nail against the glass. Welcome to the Bronx.
    Â 
    WHEN THE SETTING sun gutterballed between the East–West streets of downtown Manhattan, Del had to be careful about keeping her head in check. It wasn’t just the speeding front bumpers of taxis she had to watch out for while crossing the street, it was the past that could slam into her and send her spinning violently through the air.
It occurred to her that only the ring on her finger separated her from a phantom version who had walked these same blocks after work every evening through Chelsea almost a year ago. As always, her eyes traveled through the windows of the brownstones between Ninth and Tenth Avenues. The flower boxed frames were surprisingly free of curtains to allow full-on flasher views of oak bookcases, crystal chandeliers, Ed Ruscha single-word paintings, and all the fine possessions that Wall Street executives made it their hobby to collect. She heard the chime of plates being dealt across tables and saw housekeepers plugging white candles into thick, silver sticks. It amazed her that these West Chelsea lives could be so clean, so secure in their own habits, that they didn’t find the constant stares from outsiders a threat. At Columbia, she had spent her sophomore year in one insanely small L-shaped dorm room, whose single window opened onto an apartment building of competing rectangles. It had taken her months to remember to keep her shades closed when she dressed. Once she saw a hirsute young man masturbating in a window across from hers, and she stood there watching him, hoping he’d see her but also fascinated by the furious arm pumping his fantasies through an afternoon rainstorm. When he did finally look over, perhaps searching for a glimpse of naked bodies compartmentalized in university housing, teenage torsos glowing in their lit windows like insects trapped in amber, she waved.
    She wondered if Joseph masturbated when she wasn’t at home. If he chain-locked the front door and walked into their bedroom with his pants cuffed around his ankles. Sex with Joseph. The urgency of his pale body fumbling over her as if constantly trying to find a better position like a nervous mountain climber unsure of the distance to the summit. She had no complaints. Even if a guy was a disaster in bed, she could usually find a meeting point with him, learn to adapt to the geography of his body, discovering the softness of his chest hair or the sensitivity of his neck, because everyone took on extra dimensions when they were naked. Everyone had secret avenues and unwelcoming slums and unexpected detours of scars and muscles hidden when the clothes went on.
    But to be honest, she had preferred sex with Raj.

    This