Read Online Lost Memory of Skin by Russell Banks - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Russell Banks
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usual navel rings. Polka-dot snaps one of his ears with her thumb and forefinger and keeps circling. Rolling along behind her Tiger-stripe does the same to his other ear.
Ow-w! Cut that shit out, man!
They flash their gleaming teeth and make a second loop. They are both genetic wonders, their smooth tight bodies evenly toasted a golden brown, flesh firm as an unripe Bosc pear, symmetrical faces with pertly sculpted noses and chins. They’re not quite twins, probably not even sisters—Polka’s cheekbones are a little higher than Tiger’s and she’s maybe two inches taller—but have been manufactured from the same prototype by a bored God for no better reason than to satisfy His private eyes.
But for the Kid as the girls skate arabesques around his table everything mingles and blurs. Gold bracelets and earrings glint in the late-morning sun. Flocks of screeching green parrots watch like an aroused audience from the palms and tamarind trees that crowd the center of the mall.
The Kid wants the girls to go away, please go away, and he wants them to stay and stay, please stay. He glances at each girl’s plum-shaped breasts as she passes, her taut belly, the sweet little pouch between her legs and he looks quickly off and up to her mischievously smiling face and as she swirls past and disappears in back of him he switches to the other girl’s face and down to breasts, belly, and pouch and then off her body at once bang and when she disappears behind him his gaze swings back to the face of the first girl again. He mustn’t linger on her body anywhere he mustn’t and tries fixing on her face but can’t keep himself located there for more than a second. His head nods up and down like a stringed puppet’s saying yes yes yes and flops side to side from one girl to the other saying no no no until finally they stop circling over him and Polka dives for the chair next to his and plants her elbows on the table and cups her head in her hands and gazes through half-lidded jade green contacts into his blinking eyes. All her moves very exact, very studied, very likely practiced in front of a mirror. Tiger comes to a stop too but stands next to him and watches as if holding a tray waiting her turn at a cafeteria counter. He feels his throat start to close and his blood thickens all through his body and he swallows hard but then suddenly realizes that seen up close like this the girls are not what they seem, they’re not grown women, eighteen- or twenty-year-old women. They’re girls. Teenage girls. A glistening pearl of sweat slips from Polka’s throat across her chest and slides between her breasts. Thirteen- or at best fourteen-year-old girls.
You guys . . . you guys oughta get the fuck outa here.
Aw, c’mon, little dude, we’re only trying to turn you on.
Yeah? Well, I ain’t turned on so forget about it, man. I got places to go, things to do.
You look so sad and cute sitting here all by yourself we figured you wanted company. We’re like cheerleaders. You know, like for cheering people up. Doncha wanna get cheered up?
The Kid sits back in his chair, folds his arms over his chest, and crosses one leg over the other trying to look gruff and casual at the same time. A grown man. Ex-military.
Tiger reaches down, pats his ankle through his jeans, and tugs his cuff back a few inches. What’s that thing?
Whaddaya mean? Nothin’.
No, what is it? It’s cool-looking.
Polka leans across the table for a look-see and the Kid quickly yanks his cuff back to his sneaker but can’t help peering down Polka’s bikini top. He can see between her breasts all the way to her dangling navel ring. Her glistening tanned skin is wet with sweat down there. And guaranteed warm to the touch.
Polka says, Show me. What is it?
Tiger says, Is it some kind of camera? Or a secret recorder? Are you a spy , little dude? You must be a secret spy working for the government, like in the CIA.
It’s nothin’.
I bet you’re spying on people.
Ow-w! Cut that shit out, man!
They flash their gleaming teeth and make a second loop. They are both genetic wonders, their smooth tight bodies evenly toasted a golden brown, flesh firm as an unripe Bosc pear, symmetrical faces with pertly sculpted noses and chins. They’re not quite twins, probably not even sisters—Polka’s cheekbones are a little higher than Tiger’s and she’s maybe two inches taller—but have been manufactured from the same prototype by a bored God for no better reason than to satisfy His private eyes.
But for the Kid as the girls skate arabesques around his table everything mingles and blurs. Gold bracelets and earrings glint in the late-morning sun. Flocks of screeching green parrots watch like an aroused audience from the palms and tamarind trees that crowd the center of the mall.
The Kid wants the girls to go away, please go away, and he wants them to stay and stay, please stay. He glances at each girl’s plum-shaped breasts as she passes, her taut belly, the sweet little pouch between her legs and he looks quickly off and up to her mischievously smiling face and as she swirls past and disappears in back of him he switches to the other girl’s face and down to breasts, belly, and pouch and then off her body at once bang and when she disappears behind him his gaze swings back to the face of the first girl again. He mustn’t linger on her body anywhere he mustn’t and tries fixing on her face but can’t keep himself located there for more than a second. His head nods up and down like a stringed puppet’s saying yes yes yes and flops side to side from one girl to the other saying no no no until finally they stop circling over him and Polka dives for the chair next to his and plants her elbows on the table and cups her head in her hands and gazes through half-lidded jade green contacts into his blinking eyes. All her moves very exact, very studied, very likely practiced in front of a mirror. Tiger comes to a stop too but stands next to him and watches as if holding a tray waiting her turn at a cafeteria counter. He feels his throat start to close and his blood thickens all through his body and he swallows hard but then suddenly realizes that seen up close like this the girls are not what they seem, they’re not grown women, eighteen- or twenty-year-old women. They’re girls. Teenage girls. A glistening pearl of sweat slips from Polka’s throat across her chest and slides between her breasts. Thirteen- or at best fourteen-year-old girls.
You guys . . . you guys oughta get the fuck outa here.
Aw, c’mon, little dude, we’re only trying to turn you on.
Yeah? Well, I ain’t turned on so forget about it, man. I got places to go, things to do.
You look so sad and cute sitting here all by yourself we figured you wanted company. We’re like cheerleaders. You know, like for cheering people up. Doncha wanna get cheered up?
The Kid sits back in his chair, folds his arms over his chest, and crosses one leg over the other trying to look gruff and casual at the same time. A grown man. Ex-military.
Tiger reaches down, pats his ankle through his jeans, and tugs his cuff back a few inches. What’s that thing?
Whaddaya mean? Nothin’.
No, what is it? It’s cool-looking.
Polka leans across the table for a look-see and the Kid quickly yanks his cuff back to his sneaker but can’t help peering down Polka’s bikini top. He can see between her breasts all the way to her dangling navel ring. Her glistening tanned skin is wet with sweat down there. And guaranteed warm to the touch.
Polka says, Show me. What is it?
Tiger says, Is it some kind of camera? Or a secret recorder? Are you a spy , little dude? You must be a secret spy working for the government, like in the CIA.
It’s nothin’.
I bet you’re spying on people.
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