‘What’s the matter?’
He turns to her. Her eyes flick down to his penis and then up again hastily. Her
arms twitch to cover herself, and then she remembers that they never do stuff like that in the movies and she drops them to her sides again. Her hair is black and her skin is winter white, the colour of cream. He breasts are firm, her belly perhaps a little too soft. One flaw to remind, Chico thinks, that this isn’t the movies.
‘Jane?’
‘What?’ He can feel himself getting ready. Not beginning, but getting ready.
‘It’s all right, ‘ he said. ‘We’re friends. ‘ He eyes her deliberately, letting himself reach at her in all sorts of ways. When he looks at her face again, it is flushed. ‘Do you mind me looking at you?’
‘I… no. No, Chico.’
She steps back, closes her eyes, sits on the bed, and leans back, legs spread.
He sees all of her. The muscles, the little muscles on the inside of her thighs… they’re jumping, uncontrolled, and this suddenly excites him more than the taut cones of her
breasts or the mild pink pearl of her cunt. Excitement trembles in him, some stupid
Bozo on a spring. Love may be as divine as the poets say, he thinks, but sex is Bozo
the clown bouncing around on a spring. How could a woman look at an erect penis
without going off into mad gales of laughter?
The rain beats against the roof, against the window, against the sodden
cardboard patch blocking the glassless lower pane. He presses his hand against his
chest, looking for a moment like a stage Roman about to orate. His hand is cold. He
drops it to his side. ‘Open your eyes. We’re friends, I said.’
Obediently, she opens them. She looks at him. Her eyes appear violet now.
The rainwater running down the window makes rippling patterns on her face, her neck,
her breasts. Stretched across the bed, her belly has been pulled tight. She is perfect in her moment. ‘Oh,’ she says. ‘Oh Chico, it feels so funny,’ A shiver goes through her.
She has curled her toes involuntarily. He can see the insteps of her feet. Her insteps are pink. ‘Chico. Chico.’ He steps towards her. His body is shivering and her eyes
widen. She says something, one word, but he can’t tell what it is. This isn’t the time to ask. He half-kneels before her for just a second, looking at the floor with frowning
concentration, touching her legs just above the knees. He measures the tide within
himself. Its pull is thoughtless, fantastic. He pauses a little longer.
The only sound is the tinny tick of the alarm clock on the bedtable, standing
brassy-legged atop a pile of Spiderman comic books. Her breathing flutters faster and
faster. His muscles slide smoothly as he dives upward and forward. They begin. It’s
better this time. Outside, the rain goes on washing away the snow.
A half-hour later Chico shakes her out of a light doze. ‘We gotta move,’ he
says. ‘Dad and Virginia will be home pretty quick.’
She looks at her wristwatch and sits up. This time she makes no attempt to
shield herself. Her whole tone–her body English–has changed. She has not matured
(although she probably believes she has) nor learned anything more complex than
tying a shoe, but her tone has changed just the same. He nods and she smiles
tentatively at him. He reaches for the cigarettes on the bedtable. As she draws on her panties, he thinks of a line from an old novelty song: Keep playin’ till I shoot through, Blue… play your didgeridoo. ‘Tie Me Kangaroo Down’, by Rolf Harris. He grins. That
was a song Johnny used to sing. It ended, So we tanned his hide when he died, Clyde,
and that’s it hanging on the shed. She hooks her bra and begins buttoning her blouse.
‘What are you smiling about, Chico?’
‘Nothing,’ he says. ‘Zip me up?’
He goes to her, still naked, and zips her up. He kisses her cheek. ‘Go on in the
bathroom and do your face if you want,’ he says. ‘Just don’t take too long, okay?’