down and shook her head, and she didn’t look up again until she had the water in the mugs and the tray in her hands.
Right before she went past me, back down the hall and out to the courtyard, she said, “Actually, I might be, I don’t know. I want you to still like me afterwards.”
I took a minute. When I got out to the courtyard, Charlotte was sitting in one of the chairs at the table and her dad was mad-dogging the shit out of her—leaning forward, elbows on the table, his hands around the white mug, just glaring and glaring.
The way she was sitting—straight-backed, head down, hands folded in her lap, biting on her bottom lip like that—told you it was a pose, and the whole thing looked like a tableau. Just with him believing in it all the way.
I coughed so he’d see me standing there. He pulled out the seat closest to him and gestured at it. Seeing him in the daylight, he was actually a bit wilder-looking than I’d given him credit for. His big wet eyes and that beard that looked like a bird could nest in it, ja, but also his mouth. The thing was never, ever still, sucking and twisting and chewing. I could picture a worm made of mercury in there, and him trying to catch it in his teeth.
I sat down and I was still looking at that mouth, and I got a flash-memory of this guy I worked with once who used to do something similar when he was really angry
And then—before I even had a chance to say anything and suss the vibe—
That old fucker threw his whole mug of coffee straight into my lap.
I had jeans on but it still fucking burned, I could feel it burning the end of my dick and everything. I jumped up and I shouted and I felt it running hot down my legs, all the way down to my ankles. I wanted to swear, or hit him, or just grab my coffee and chuck the mug at his head—
But I looked over at Charlotte and she had this pleading, pleading look on her face
And I looked at him and he was shaking—
And I don’t know how I did it but I breathed, two deep breaths, and all I said was, “Can I put these pants in a washing machine?”
She ran off and got a towel and I wrapped it around my waist, and then for about the next hour I sat on a chair in the laundry room and watched the washing machine while they had a huge fight in a room on the other side of the house. The worst part was, in amongst all the clothes in there, my boxers and my jeans as well as some other stuff her dad wanted to do, I saw a loose cigarette get shredded to pieces, and a fucking fifty-rand note probably getting ruined—stuff that’d been in
my
jeans and it was too late to stop it now. All I could picture was the tobacco getting into his shirt pockets and causing a scene.
When the load was finished the machine made a noise and I turned the taps off, and soon after she came back into the room. She’d tied her hair up all neatly. I could see she’d been crying. I told her about the cigarette in the washing machine and she just smiled and shrugged her shoulders. The fifty-rand note tore pretty much as soon as I touched it.
We put the clothes in the tumble dryer, and she twisted a dial that started ticking on its way back. She pushed another button and the old thing came to life, loud and sputtering, sounding a bit like a generator. “Okay, just another forty minutes,” she said.
Till what?
I thought.
What happens when the pants are dry and you have to go home, Ed?
In the kitchen, we sat on high chairs and drank tea. I had to be careful with how I crossed my legs and folded the towel if I didn’t want to just sit there with my balls hanging out.
We sat there, and neither of us said a thing. I didn’t mind it, but I didn’t want her to think I was having a bad time or I didn’t want to be around her or anything like that, so I said, “You don’t have like a crossword or a pack of cards or something?”
“Doubt it,” she said.
“Some drugs squirrelled away somewhere?”
She didn’t laugh.
“No,” she said. “I
Right before she went past me, back down the hall and out to the courtyard, she said, “Actually, I might be, I don’t know. I want you to still like me afterwards.”
I took a minute. When I got out to the courtyard, Charlotte was sitting in one of the chairs at the table and her dad was mad-dogging the shit out of her—leaning forward, elbows on the table, his hands around the white mug, just glaring and glaring.
The way she was sitting—straight-backed, head down, hands folded in her lap, biting on her bottom lip like that—told you it was a pose, and the whole thing looked like a tableau. Just with him believing in it all the way.
I coughed so he’d see me standing there. He pulled out the seat closest to him and gestured at it. Seeing him in the daylight, he was actually a bit wilder-looking than I’d given him credit for. His big wet eyes and that beard that looked like a bird could nest in it, ja, but also his mouth. The thing was never, ever still, sucking and twisting and chewing. I could picture a worm made of mercury in there, and him trying to catch it in his teeth.
I sat down and I was still looking at that mouth, and I got a flash-memory of this guy I worked with once who used to do something similar when he was really angry
And then—before I even had a chance to say anything and suss the vibe—
That old fucker threw his whole mug of coffee straight into my lap.
I had jeans on but it still fucking burned, I could feel it burning the end of my dick and everything. I jumped up and I shouted and I felt it running hot down my legs, all the way down to my ankles. I wanted to swear, or hit him, or just grab my coffee and chuck the mug at his head—
But I looked over at Charlotte and she had this pleading, pleading look on her face
And I looked at him and he was shaking—
And I don’t know how I did it but I breathed, two deep breaths, and all I said was, “Can I put these pants in a washing machine?”
She ran off and got a towel and I wrapped it around my waist, and then for about the next hour I sat on a chair in the laundry room and watched the washing machine while they had a huge fight in a room on the other side of the house. The worst part was, in amongst all the clothes in there, my boxers and my jeans as well as some other stuff her dad wanted to do, I saw a loose cigarette get shredded to pieces, and a fucking fifty-rand note probably getting ruined—stuff that’d been in
my
jeans and it was too late to stop it now. All I could picture was the tobacco getting into his shirt pockets and causing a scene.
When the load was finished the machine made a noise and I turned the taps off, and soon after she came back into the room. She’d tied her hair up all neatly. I could see she’d been crying. I told her about the cigarette in the washing machine and she just smiled and shrugged her shoulders. The fifty-rand note tore pretty much as soon as I touched it.
We put the clothes in the tumble dryer, and she twisted a dial that started ticking on its way back. She pushed another button and the old thing came to life, loud and sputtering, sounding a bit like a generator. “Okay, just another forty minutes,” she said.
Till what?
I thought.
What happens when the pants are dry and you have to go home, Ed?
In the kitchen, we sat on high chairs and drank tea. I had to be careful with how I crossed my legs and folded the towel if I didn’t want to just sit there with my balls hanging out.
We sat there, and neither of us said a thing. I didn’t mind it, but I didn’t want her to think I was having a bad time or I didn’t want to be around her or anything like that, so I said, “You don’t have like a crossword or a pack of cards or something?”
“Doubt it,” she said.
“Some drugs squirrelled away somewhere?”
She didn’t laugh.
“No,” she said. “I
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