Sylvia's mother says she's too busy to come to the phone but thank you for calling. Do call again. Do call again after Sylvia's married. After Sylvia is (safely) gone. It is good to hear your voice and I will tell Sylvia you inquired after her. She will be pleased. Do call again. Not too soon, but do call again. (and the operator says forty cents more for - what?) Do call again. Do.
Faster now. Acceleration. Volume up now and windows down now. Cabin turbulence. Acceleration. One hand wheel one hand sky roof open. A swirl. Acceleration. Slow moving lane hogging motherfucker. Horn and finger. More volume now. Louder. Louder still. Turbulence. Motherfuckers everywhere. Horns and fingers raised. So many motherfuckers. Acceleration then. Speed.
She greets him at the door in bra garter stocking. Half naked. She pours two glasses of Pinot Grigio, tastes her wine first before offering the other glass. He notices. He pulls her tight to him with his free hand. Cool skin. Surprisingly so. As if she is bloodless. He wants hot. He expects hot. "Open." He pours half of his wine into her mouth in a rush. She doesn't choke or gag, but wine runs down her chin, down her throat, between her breasts, over her panties and down to the floor. Now look at what you've made me do. Lick it up.
Just last week we saw a Sylvia look alike at the coffee shop. She made our Cafe Americanos. I called you in from the patio to point her out. You seemed more confused than anything and I understood because I so poorly explained who Sylvia was. I can't explain it now either. But would it help to mention that she aborted our child? And then a few months later got on a plane and flew hours and hours to me with the expectation that she would be loved as if nothing had happened? As if she hadn't ripped me out of her at the same time? And would you understand if I said that I had to make her cry, to feel at least a little of what I felt?
She is fully naked now. Claims, when asked, to weigh one oh seven. Plausible. She looks good. Looks like she works at it. Nice firm titties. What he likes, although he's had plenty that were fatter. A couple of sticks too. Variety, he says, and all that. He is annoyed that her skin remains cool. The implication a failure on his part. Maybe this is why he lacks playfulness when he slaps her ass. Beat some heat into that meat.
Your disapproval was palpable when I told you that Sylvia wanted to be a flight attendant but couldn't gain the three pounds needed to make the minimum weight requirement. I was flustered seeing the look alike. And now I feel silly synopsizing her in that way. Surely she came across as banal. I didn't explain that Sylvia just wanted to fly, to get in the air, to walk the clouds, to say, Fuck you, to the limitations of the ground, or to some first class asshole. She didn't aspire to be a waitress in a flying box. It was an interlude, a phase, a whim. It was her teasing me that she could fly away and be gone. It was a warning that a couple of pounds could change everything.
The whore has a son from when she was married to the shrink. The shrink would inspect the house every evening when he came home. Meticulously followed a typed checklist he kept on a clipboard that hung in the kitchen by the telephone. And he expected a roast for dinner and later a naked wife that weighed 100 pounds when put on the scale. When in a good mood he would allow for plus or minus two pounds. His displeasure was occasionally violent but more often he used words. Fat stupid worthless disgusting and the like. At the dinner table he ate with gusto while observing every morsel that crossed her lips. He would nod when it was time for her to stop.
And the operator said forty cents more. For the next thirty years. Forty fucking cents. And he thinks it as if he hears these words for the first time. Like an instruction now. Like a command now. Acceleration now. Ignore the motherfuckers everywhere. More volume. The whirl. The beautiful fucking whirl.
At his instruction she turns up the volume on the stereo. Louder. Louder. There. He feels the nut getting closer and he is afraid this time tears will follow and so he wants it loud enough so that the whore doesn't hear. Shameful shit if a man cries in front of his whore. But now she's got it too loud. He needs to hear the smacking flesh. The moans and yelps. Turn it down. Down. He can hear his voice over the music giving direction. This is most important. There. I said there.
Michelle my belle. The words I know so well. Since you left me, my Michelle. My belle.
The music was not loud enough to prevent the whore from hearing his childlike bleating. His whimpering. He knew it sounded pathetic. He knew it made him pathetic.
His weight upon her now intolerable. She can not writhe free. His weight covers her. Like a smell, she thinks. Like a stink. It is everywhere. She struggles which causes him to grip harder. To hold on, like a beguiled memory. Like it must be. Like it should be.
The whore stops her struggle. There are worse things than stink. She will move on. And on and on and on. No looking back. On and on and on. And she might be singing. Humming lightly, at least.