Читать книгу Attention. Deficit. Disorder. - Brad Listi - Страница 36

Her name was Pamela. That’s what she told me, anyway. She had light brown hair and dark brown eyes. If she had been a foot taller, she could have been a model. She spoke better English than I had originally thought. Coupled with my rudimentary understanding of Spanish, we were able to communicate with relative effectiveness. Pamela told me she had been living in Havana for six years. She liked Madonna and Baywatch and dreamt of being a pop star. She seemed relaxed and happy, completely at ease with our arrangement.

I, on the other hand, was feeling pretty edgy. I’d been feeling pretty edgy ever since we got to my room. We walked in the door, and all of a sudden I didn’t know what to do. My buzz faded and my humanitarian confidence went with it, and I had no alcohol on my person with which to bolster it. Flustered, I said a few salutatory words and offered Pamela a seat on my bed. She sat. I walked over to the nightstand and picked up a bottle of water. It was the only thing I had to drink. I poured us each a glass. No ice. She thanked me. We drank. There was silence. It was awkward. I could hear myself swallowing. I didn’t know what to say. I kept drinking. I finished my glass of water and stood there. I kept drinking, even though my glass was empty. Pamela smiled. I smiled back and asked her how she was doing. She told me she was doing fine and asked me how I was doing. I told her I was doing fine and asked her once again how she was doing. She didn’t say anything, and neither did I. I looked at her, and she looked at me.

The poor girl is dying, I told myself.

I will not have sex with her, I told myself.

Pamela got up and set her glass down on the nightstand. Without a word, she walked over to me, moved in, and gave me a light kiss on the lips. I closed my eyes and offered no resistance. She pulled away slowly, biting my bottom lip.

“You want to fuck?” she said.

conflict n.

1 A state of open, often prolonged fighting; a battle or war.

2 A state of disharmony between incompatible or antithetical persons, ideas, or interests; a clash.

3 Psychology: A psychic struggle, often unconscious, resulting from the opposition or simultaneous functioning of mutually exclusive impulses, desires, or tendencies.

4 Opposition between characters or forces in a work of drama or fiction, especially opposition that motivates or shapes the action of the plot.

conflicted, conflicting, conflict v. intr.

To be in or come into opposition; differ.

Archaic: To engage in warfare.

“Shower,” I said to her, stepping back. “How about a shower?”

“ØCómo?” she said.

“You should use my shower,” I said.

I pointed to the bathroom and said the word baño. I pantomimed the act of showering and made water noises with my mouth. Pamela nodded and began stripping immediately. She took off her halter top and walked into the bathroom. The girl was all business. I turned away, walked over to the nightstand, and poured myself another glass of water. I sat on the edge of the bed and listened as the shower turned on. I took a deep breath and looked at my water glass. I massaged the inside corners of my eyes with thumb and forefinger.

Pamela called out to me.

“Wayne,” she said. It sounded like “when.”

“Yeah?”

“Come here. Venga.”

I walked over to the bathroom door slowly. I could hear the water hitting the bottom of the tub in uneven slaps.

“You all right?” I said. “You need anything?”

“Come in,” she said.

“No, no. I’m going to stay out here. You go ahead.”

“Come in. Is good.”

“I’ll be here when you get out.”

“Come in, Wayne.”

I stuck my head in the door. Pamela was on other side of the glass, naked under the showerhead. She looked at me and motioned with her forefinger.

“Come in,” she said.

“I’m not getting in.”

“You need bath.”

“Tomorrow morning. Mañana.”

Pamela made a face. “¿Qué es la problema?” she said. “You no like?”

“No, no. Not at all. I like just fine.”

“Come in.” She smiled at me and motioned again.

I looked at myself in the mirror above the sink. I looked pretty ravaged.

“Look,” said Pamela. She was pointing at my feet.

I looked down. My feet were dirty. I’d been wearing flip-flops, wandering the streets and clubs of Havana for fourteen solid hours.

I looked at myself in the mirror again. “Shit,” I said.

I stripped and got into the shower. Pamela giggled and stepped to the side. I stood under the water and let it run over my head, my body. Pamela started soaping my back. I lifted my hands to my face, wiped the water away from my eyes, and turned around to face her. She pressed up against me and gave me a kiss. It tasted like soap and cigarettes.