The husband listened to all the different souls clamoring inside him, his fears piercing the sky with their sharp and dusty backbones. .
The two whores stood in the parking garage, eating the husband's fortune cookies and smiling. Light harshened their teeth and wrapped their bodies in glittering sheets. The husband's whore put the money into her shoe. The photographer's whore put her money into her pants. The husband's whore kept hugging herself. She was a little cold. The garage attendant kept popping out of his office and saying: How long you will be here?
Shut the fuck up, you dirty A-rab, said the husband's whore. You're gonna get paid, too.
How long you will be here?
Not much longer, said the husband. This is such a sentimental spot for us. We're just standing here with our wives remembering the old times. Would you believe we first met here, on a double date?
Okay, okay, said the attendant. How long you will be here?
Shut the fuck up, ya dirty A-rab, said the whore.
She stood fat and beaming with her hands behind her back. The other had her hands in front of her, leaning into a quick and wary smile. .
Doing this I get the strangest feeling, said the whore. Her upper arms were the size of pumpkins. She had to be over two hundred and fifty pounds. She smelled so bad the husband had to breathe through his mouth.
You must have strange feelings too sometimes, said the whore, cupping a cigarette in a freckled hand whose puffy flesh reminded him of a cod's or a haddock's, and the match ignited and showered light over her freckles; her hand seemed to glow with its own blood; yawning, she dug her dirty black fingernail under the lacy black bra strap to scratch at her freckled shoulders which quivered with dimples so soft and deep and greasy she didn't really need a cunt; tilting her cigarette-end upward the whore said: I mean, don't you feel strange right now?
I always feel strange, said the husband.
Well, what are you looking for?
Love, I guess. A new wife.
But does it feel STRANGE?
It feels strange to me that I'm here with you because I don't love you and you don't love me and all I'm here for is some clue.
I'll show ya what you're here for, crooned the fat whore, suddenly becoming a heavy meaty bomb in action; stinking of urine she streaked for him, the neckless freckled seal-head hurtling for his fly, which she unzipped expertly with her teeth — hey, that was part of the SERVICE! — and now she was pulling him forward by his zipper; she was barefoot against the wall with her head uplifted for the blowjob, coughing and jerking like a red-haired bird; I have no patience, she mumbled, her belly jigging with all this effort; I just wanna make you feel strange is what I think.
After awhile she got up and spat. - You like my hair this way, Ginny? she said to the other whore. I decided to wear it this way just today.
You don't have any kids? said the other whore after a long pause.
Ten minutes later, when they were in the cab rolling down the brick-flickers, smell of piss in the back, the husband said to himself: Vanna is not this erythrismic whore, that's all I know. . but I have to love this whore, too, because she tried to be there for me. . No, I can't love her. I want to, but I can't. She makes me feel lost. Can Vanna be there for me? She's so far away… — and the husband's mind kept flying on steady fever-wings past the replicated squares and Xs of bridge-struts; he flew with a sunny nausea past hot palm trees and low warehouses. There went a nice convention of whores on the corner, in big black boots, bare thighs; one in red rolled her mouth into a kiss -
Hello, Sien? Yes.
Do you know who this is? Yes.
Any news for me from Cambodia? Not yet.
Do you think everything's all right? I don't think so, sir.
Coming back from Battambang they'd stopped for a piss break by one of the half-ruined bridges and he picked a yellow-calyxed white flower, its leaves half eaten by insects; it was studded beneath its bloom with a cluster of pointed buds like bullets. He took it with him when they got back in the car, holding it in his hand and thinking that it might be Vanna. Two ants came out of it, then two flies. Within ten minutes it wilted.
Lights whirled around the CAMPUS marquee. Dirty ragged men leaned in the darkness. A troll in a skullcap squatted in a doorway on Turk Street.
Uh no you have to go down Hyde, said the transvestite with the pale made-up face. I'll tell you when to turn right. Not this right but the next right.
Not this wife, but the next wife, said the husband.
The transvestite wasn't listening. That was fine with him; he didn't care, either. - I got beat up just last week but I'm too depressed to talk about it, she said.
The high heel twitched. The voice was soulful and whispering like a dead grandmother's.
I couldn't go out for a week, I was so scared, she said.
Water dripped steadily into the fish tank. Blue eyelids, cheek lines. Lips a sideways heart, she blinked disgustedly in the mirror.
I'm not forcing you, he said quickly.
If I'm being forced to that's wrong. But you're not forcing me. You like me, don't you? You don't have to love me. Ready? OK.
Zipper sounds in the sudden dark. And the husband thought: this creature is as strangely and fearfully specialized as a hymenopteran.
The kitten jumped on them in the dark. .
Stop it, cat! she shouted. I'm sorry about the cat. He's only a baby.
I'll give you a ride back anyhow, he said. You want to go?
Oh it's OK I'll walk.
You don't trust me?
It's not that.
Turning on the light, he saw that she was shaking. She must need her fix.
The TV went on and on. He thought of the different Buddhas made by hand, the faces of Buddha of all sexes, the biggest one with the wheel of enlightenment, six-colored, then the big Buddha standing, the lower Buddha lying on his side dying peacefully, the two Buddhas standing to give birth to a message. She was the Buddha twitching the wig nicely down.
Are we done yet? she said. Please please.
You're really good. You've done this stuff before.
Yes I have. I have. We're done. Please.
Round the corner, blinking square lights. A thin girl with thin legs twinkled away. A motorcycle cop shone his flashlight into a car. Not as much fun as Phnom Penh. A blonde stood crossing her legs, holding a white purse like some signal while she smoothed her hair. Slowly wandering up the street on tiptoe, she lowered her head, clasping her hands behind her phosphorescent butt. Long lean stockinged legs rubbed against each other. She waggled her cigarette so that the bright pink tip, possibly erogenous, swung through a wide arc of night. She was so perfect at what she did that it seemed inconceivable that someday she would be annihilated, probably not by pickaxe, bulldozer, poison injection or crocodile, but quite likely by some means equally hideous, given how the world regarded her. As he stood watching her from across the street, the husband wondered for a moment why he couldn't simply marry her instead of Vanna. It would be cheaper, in the short run at least, and it would be a lot more convenient. But it gave him joy to acknowledge that his deductions had now marched in single file almost into the grave called transcendent conclusions. He was not lost at all. He had proved to himself that he still loved his new wife, only his new wife. He had divorced his old wife. He had not called the Inuk girl whom he had once considered marrying. He had not called the Peruvian girl, although it is true that he had kissed her. He had disbarred the pronouncements of the wise man and Jeremy from all relevance. He had not been tempted by the fat whore. He had not tried to get to know the transvestite. So he watched the blonde from the shadows, smiling. She jounced her hip at each passing car, flashing her earring, turning her head, doing a quick split, pacing, leaning against cars and streetlights, brushing her hair back until the car stopped. It had a little mobile just above the dashboard, and it had stopped so recently that the mobile was still shaking. The blonde leaned up against the passenger window, negotiating. Finally she opened the back door. Other cars pulled past. The car put on its turn signal and went around the block. After one circuit the man dropped her off. He wouldn't pay enough. She drifted back sadly, brushing her hair, looking both ways. She pulled down her white skirt, her tight skirt; then she pulled it up again like possibilities erumpent. She turned her head smartly, flinging her hair so that she could straighten it. She tap danced and rubbed her crotch. She jiggled her white purse like an instrument, mooning cars with that lovely ass. When the cops drove by, she brushed her hair very seriously.