Читать книгу Bury This - Andrea Portes - Страница 11

TWO

Shauna Boggs had never thought about what she was doing, and what she was getting paid for. Or, at least, she’d never let herself think about it. That was something for grasping of steering wheels and late-night drinks alone in front of the TV.

You could drink and drink and watch that late-night chatter a thousand times. Clink. Clink. Clink. And then, at some point, what, sleep? Or was it blacking out? She couldn’t tell anymore. The whole thing was so far-fetched. So far away from what she’d planned for herself, like raindrops on the windshield.

This wasn’t her knight. Nor her pawn. Nor was she the queen. No, certainly not. Driving home in her beige Chevy Impala, knuckles clasped around the wheel, driving forward into the drink, or the hope of the drink. She could almost believe that it was not her. Here in this car. On this night. Who had just done that.

It was funny how she always took a shower after. Sometimes the guy, the date, the not-John, would say, “Why do you always take a shower after?” She, if she could’ve said it, if she were free . . . she would’ve said, “Because I hate you. I hate everything about you. Your black eyes and your black hair and the stuff you put in it and your hairy everything, belly, back, ass, and the thought of you, the look of you, the seeing of you above me moving up down up down grunt grunt grunt, transferring myself into the walls. Because I have to wash you off me, you dumb sonuvabitch. What do you think? Look at yourself?! Why don’t you take a good goddamn guess as to why I always take a shower after?! Jesus!”

It’s not fucking calculus!

But no, she would say, instead, “Oh, you know, I’m old-fashioned I guess . . . ”

Old-fashioned.

Ha. That’s a laugh. I am old-fashioned enough to let you fuck me and then drive away in my beige Chevy Impala, with white snot on my belly and a hundred and fifty dollars in my pocket and a mouth full of thirst that can never be quenched, will never be quenched, again.

Look at it this way. At least she wouldn’t have to work at that suck-ass job like perfect-face. The Green Mill Inn. What a dump. There wasn’t a mill around for miles, never had been.

No, leave that kind of work to little miss Goody Two-shoes who sings in the choir.