The Mystic Arts of Erasing All Signs of Death - Charlie Huston [50]
She put the binder back in its place on the office desk and spun around a couple times in Po Sin's chair.
—So, Web.
I sat on the bed.
—So, Soledad.
She put her feet down and stopped spinning.
—Do we have to do it this way?
—Which is to say?
She got up, took off her jacket, draped it over the chair, and walked over to the bed, where I sat scooted into the corner of the room, my back against the wall.
—Which is to say do we have to tease this out with all kinds of will we or won't we?
She put a hand to the wall and lifted one foot and unlaced her sneaker and kicked it off.
—I hate that shit.
She did the same with the other shoe.
—I mean.
She reached under the skirt of her dress, the same black knit knee-length she'd been wearing at the Malibu house, and pushed her black leggings down, stepping first on one toe to pull her foot free, and then on the other, kicking the leggings away, her light blue panties nestled inside them.
—I mean, can't we just fuck?
She took hold of the waist of her dress and peeled it over her head and dropped it, standing flat-chested and braless, naked except for her sunglasses.
—Fuck and get it over with?
I could see part of a Quonset hut out the window behind her, a bit of sky turning blue, old-growth palm trees arching up from the streets, brown rocket trails detonating into green tufts. It was chilly in the office. Goose pimples on her stomach.
I quickly sorted and discarded several responses, none of them delicate enough for this circumstance; a wounded and emotionally vulnerable young woman naked and throwing herself at me in my place of employ.
Finally knowing what to say.
—So romance isn't dead after all?
She smiled, put her knees on the edge of the bed, edged close to me, reached out and poked the wound on my forehead.
—Don't look a gift horse in the mouth, Web.
I winced.
—I'm not looking at your mouth.
She took hold of my hoodie and pulled it over my head, not bothering to unzip it.
—Wise man.
I watched her hands as they undid the buttons down the front of my shirt.
—I don't know when Po Sin will be here.
She took me by the collar of my T and pulled me forward and pushed the Mobil shirt down my arms.
—I don't care.
I lifted my arms and let her pull the T off.
—And, you know, all joking aside, my balls still really hurt.
She tossed the T over her shoulder and it landed on top of her dress.
—I'll be gentle.
She reached for my belt.
So.
She wanted to fuck. And get it over with. Who was I to say no?
A very little later, while she was on top of me, not being gentle at all, the earth moved. It was only a small earthquake, but it made us both laugh. And, finally, I reached up and took the sunglasses off her face, and I could see her eyes, so very red from all the crying.
And a little later after that, she had them back on.
—He hated my smoking.
I held the lit cigarette for her as she pulled her leggings up.
—He smoked like a chimney when I was a kid.
She picked up the Mobil shirt from the floor and put it on and took the smoke from me.
—Thanks.
She put it in her mouth and started buttoning the shirt.
—But he stopped and was one of those classic ex-smokers. A pain in the ass.
She found one of her shoes and sat back on the edge of the bed.
—I mean, I don't even smoke that much. And when I smoke at the house I only do it on the deck or in my room.
She put her right foot in the shoe and started lacing it up.
—Anyway, I was there, this was during a Christmas break when I was in college, a few years back, four or five. Before I graduated and didn't know what the hell to do with a degree in art history and moved back home.
She bent and looked for the other shoe.
—There it is.
She pulled it from beneath the bed and put