The shrill sound of the
American upsets Marc’s rhythm. It’s been three weeks. His dick’s begun to
resemble a cigarette left in the rain. The memory of his girlfriend in the shower has washed away. Only
vague outlines of thighs and breasts return if he shuts his eyes long enough.
But there’s nothing distinct. No nipple. No neck. No…
“Excuse me, do you have any
soap?”
Why the fuck are Americans
always asking for soap? With only one shelf in the store, identifying soap
should be something you’ve learnt by a certain age. That, and being able to
brush your teeth without a mirror.
The guy behind the counter
acts as if she’s speaking at a different frequency. As if there isn’t a do you have soap frequency.
“So-ope? Do you have?”
He’s not a fucking retard,
lady.
Finally the American leaves
and Marc re-opens RedTube.
Three bum holes and two
scrotums re-appear. From behind the orgy, it looks as if a bunch of legs are
playing a game of tic-tac-toe.
His dick begins to take shape
again, when someone in a nearby booth hacks up phlegm.
Phlegm-guy takes a phone call.
He’s talking so loud the person on the other end must be getting tumble dried
in a washing machine somewhere in the south of France.
Finally, silence.
The camerman has gone in even
tighter on the bum holes and Marc loses it.
He shuts the window, stuffs
the un-used serviettes into his back pocket, leaves his seat, opens the fridge,
buys a beer and heads for the canal.
Just as he’s knocking the top
off his Becks, Marc catches a glimpse of a nipple. It belongs to the lady
reading Murakami, lying face down on a picnic rug, feeding herself grapes.
Marc reconciles that if he
happens to run into a hole in a wall large enough on the way home, he might
just stay there the night.
