The White Woman on the Green Bicycle

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Authors: Monique Roffey
rubbed herself and her legs were now open wide, one foot up on the dashboard.
    He crash-parked in an empty lot. There was no one about, the night watchman asleep in his hut. Stars up in the sky, the moon like a lamp. The salt sea breeze was fluttering in from the Gulf of Paria into the cab and Luna was rubbing herself, her heavy breasts spilling from her black camisole, and he could smell her now, sharp and saltier than the sea. Luna rubbing her dry cunt, a cold meaningless expression in her eyes. She was drunk, so drunk she was either going to fall asleep or become violent.
    Hands shaking, he unbuckled his belt and unzipped his flies. He was soft. His elderly cock lay flaccid against his thighs, a dribble of its former self. Luna lay back, her head propped up against the door, legs splayed, panties pulled to one side. He could see into her, a place he could fit his hand, like a purse, or a secret crevice in a wall. George is a drunk, a second-rate specimen . There, he could store his misery. Store his sins right there: inside Luna.
    Luna’s eyes were vacant as Sabine’s.
    He threw himself onto her, thrusting and thrusting until he became lost and out of breath. But he was soft, had nothing in him, nothing for anyone. He sweated, thrusted and thrusted, sweating and furious. He thrusted until he thought he’d give himself a heart attack, sweat trickling from his temples, from his hair. He stopped, his heart pounding, his chest heaving.
    ‘I’m too old,’ he said, by way of an excuse. ‘Too old for you.’ And he was too old. He’d die soon, he knew.
    ‘You’re very beautiful,’ he muttered.
    Luna steupsed, throwing him a look that said she’d seen and heard it all before. She glared at him. ‘Dis still a hundred dollars, eh?’

    Early evening, the sky was pink as pomegranate seeds. The keskidees squabbled over the pool in their eternal family argument. A horn beeped outside the front gate.
    ‘Let me in, let me in, Daddyyy ,’ Pascale called, her headlights spraying a lemony wash all over the driveway. The dogs rushed out, barking and jumping up, wagging their tails. George sped out with the buzzer to let her in. Sabine stood in the kitchen, holding her breath, counting: one, two, three. She took a clean plate from the rack and began washing it again slowly, listening.
    ‘Daddy, eh, eh.’ The car door slammed. Pascale’s loud boisterous kissing of her father on both cheeks.
    ‘How yuh goin’? Nuttin in de paper dis week? W’appen? Eh, eh, dese damn blasted dogs. Down. Down. Henry, down , man. Jesus, dogs. Dey diggin’ up de damn blasted roads again. Just like you said. Dey fix dem, den dey go damn well dig dem up again. Write somptin about dis, Daddy. Der’s a huge blasted hole in de middle of de road, just outside Linda’s. I almost drove straight in. Eh, eh. Down, you chupid dogs. Jesus Christ. Where’s Mummy?’
    Tears pooled in Sabine’s eyes. Her beautiful daughter. Her daughter’s rich sing-song voice, part of the island now. Those letters George found, all those years she thought they were about to leave. Another three years, another three, and then, and then. Now her daughter spoke like them.
    ‘Mum’s inside. This is an unexpected pleasure. What a surprise. Lovely to see you. And the kids.’ Joy in George’s voice. A ring in it.
    ‘I’m here,’ Sabine called, from her pretend washing-up. She stayed still; best let them enjoy each other first.
    They’d moved into the living room, Sabine could tell; George, she knew, was already mixing drinks, three-fingered measures. Pascale could drink, like her father. Sabine wiped her hands on a tea towel, patted her forehead dry. Dear Mr Williams ; what had she been doing? She blushed with the shame of being so naive. She went to join them.
    ‘How are you, my love,’ she said.
    Pascale invaded the living room. Tall, blonde, her curly hair straightened and cut like a boy; she was always in heels, always made-up. Always

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