from this boy other than sex, maybe a little companionship.
‘So, you know, I really should get going. I need to go back to work.’
She sat up and leaned against the wall, tried to lift herself from the bed. He laid there, shirt still off, black eyes moist like rain-glazed pebbles. Elie looked down at the floor and saw her clothes in a loose pile. Contemplating putting them back on felt like a chore.
‘Can I call you?’
Scar boy called a week later. That is what her friend Lisa had dubbed him. It was late, and she was watching Cary Grant on her miniscule television. The film was a video chosen from her quite large collection of almost any movie made before 1980. Old black and whites from the forties were among her favorites.
‘What are you doing?’ he asked her.
His voice sounded small and hollow. She was sure he was high; having just finished half a joint herself she was particularly attuned to this state of intoxication.
‘Watching a movie. You wanna come over?’
‘Okay. I’ll be there in half an hour.’
The sex was quick, and not very satisfying. His erection was unsustainable, then soft. He seemed angry as he walked into the salon, or was it merely frustration? Elie stayed in bed, but when she heard the television noises seeping in, staticky and muffled, she went in. They would talk, she told herself, and she would find out what was distracting him. He was lying on his back, the whole parade of scars in full view.
‘Are you okay?’