The Dust of 100 Dogs - A. S. King [52]
You think so?
“I know so.”
I’ve heard them screwing, Fred. They do screw.
“You’re just a pervert, then, listening to other people screw.”
And you’re just a fat queer with a telescope.
“You’re the queer.”
He held his hand out to silence the air and watched. She walked slower now, kicking the water with her delicate feet, letting the foam race up her white thighs and stream down again. Her fair, medium-length hair hung down her back in a wet lump and Fred could see that her skin was peeling in places.
“Would you like me to put some cream on your back?” he asked.
Yes, please! I keep getting burned, she answered pertly, handing him a bottle.
“I can do the backs of your legs too.”
I’m sure it all washed off from my swim this morning. Please, just get it everywhere.
“Everywhere?”
She looked at him and blinked twice. Yes, everywhere.
Fred began applying tanning lotion to every part of her body. He lathered the inside of her legs, stopping just short of her flat crotch, and slowly worked toward her belly. His over-lubricated hands dipped under her coral pink bikini and around her breasts. Her nipples hardened, her breath grew heavy, her legs fell open. Fred reached down to his zipper. Then Rusty barked from the pool.
Fred’s hard-on transformed itself into a frustrated fist. If only the office were soundproof. If only he had the energy to get up and beat the dog senseless. She was nearly at the end of his sight line, and he caught one last glimpse of her through his scope before the usual questions presented themselves. How long was she staying? Where is she staying? Where is she from? Is she here with her parents? A boyfriend? More girls?
He watched all day, but she never returned. Not during one o’clock Oprah (one bourbon) or two o’clock girl-on-girl flick (two bourbons) or four o’clock McHale’s Navy (a beer and two more bourbons) or the five o’clock news, when Winston arrived home with two bags full of groceries and a new painting for the condo. Fred was remotely aware that he was home, and saw Rusty eating food from a bowl on the patio soon after, but he didn’t get up from the chair. Instead, he fell into a pre-sleep, coral pink coma until night came, and then dragged himself to bed to have coral pink dreams.
As if the universe could read his mind, she was the first person he saw the next morning while he nursed his hangover after a cold shower at 7:15. She was wading, thigh-deep, in the sea. Fred reached for his telescope and sat back in the chair.
You came, she said.
“I would follow you anywhere,” he answered, walking slowly into the warm, lapping water.
Hey asshole, snap out of it.
“Shut up! You’ll ruin it!”
You’re ruining it.
“I am not. I’m creating it. I’m making it happen.”
You’re not. You’ll never talk to her.
“Shut up!”
You shut up. You shut up and I’ll shut up.
She dried herself and walked east, slowly vanishing from Fred’s view.
Why don’t you walk down to the beach like a normal person? Go and ask her to lunch. Go and do something!
“I’m going out tomorrow. I can do it then.”
You won’t do it.
“I will.”
You’re a fat queer who won’t do it.
“I am not and I will.”
Then go. Do it now. Go and catch up with her.
Fred’s heart raced. His temples pounded with decision. He looked down at himself and twirled his ankle around and admired his calf muscle. Why not ask her to lunch? Why not try doing something for real?
He stepped out onto the second-story sun deck and made his way toward the staircase that led to the beach. Just as he got to the banister, the coral-clad girl stepped back into view, making him jump a little. Rusty barked and ran down the beach gracefully. Fred watched, but couldn’t move.
“Rusty!” he called. “Rusty!”
She looked up at him and squinted. He was sure she saw him, but she didn’t wave. What was wrong with her? Why didn’t she wave? She stopped to pet the dog and then continued walking, out of sight to the west. Rusty followed her for a hundred yards and then came trotting back to the house.
Still balancing at the top of the stairs, Fred Livingstone had lost