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.
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.