Twitter Fiction: What You Want (#twittersmut) Part 2

There was no way to read her acceptance. I puzzled it as we walked along the wide, silent boulevard. The pride of the French who had colonized the place, Le Duan was deserted at midnight. Only the occasional passing motorcycle shot through the thick, humid silence.

We didn’t talk and, every so often, I glanced to my side to be sure she was still walking beside me. Her feet made no sound on the pavement and it was then I noticed she’d taken off her shoes and was barefoot. Her sandals dangled by from single hooked finger.

That would make anyone who knows how filthy the streets of Saigon are shudder. It gave me a sense of her intense vulnerability – not an unpleasant feeling – and I reached down to her free hand, clasping it in mine. But the minute I did, she shook it away.

“Don’t you at least want to pretend we’re lovers?”

“No. Why?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s just humane.”

“Fuck humane.” She said it with a quiet brutality.

“Okay.”

What else could I say? But her remark, so casually tossed at me, turned me cold. Who gave a shit if she was not wearing underwear? Did I really need to get laid that badly? No.

Call me squeamish, but the idea of fucking her had lost its allure.

We walked the rest of the way in silence and, as we turned down the alley leading to my house, I was formulating polite ways to make some excuse and send her home. I’ve always found it hard to admit I’ve changed my mind and, after a few moments, I realized I had to say it anyway. We’d reached the gate of my house; my keys were in my hand.

“Look,” I said, feeling like a shit, although I couldn’t explain why, “this isn’t going to work for me. Let me call you a taxi.”

She didn’t respond.

I waited until the silence became almost unbearable, then I unlocked my gate and pushed it open. “Come on. I’ll give you some coffee so you can sober up, then we can get you a cab.”

Again, she said nothing. For a moment, she stood glaring at me with the kind of hatred you only see in the eyes of religious fanatics.

“Fine.” She spat the word and stepped into the tiled courtyard. “What a fucking asshole,” she muttered as she passed me.

I’ve been told that, when I get really angry, I develop a rather alarming smile. I could feel it stretching the skin on my face as I pulled the gate closed, crossed the courtyard and climbed the steps to my front door. It was dark in the yard, but I could sense her behind me as I bent down to take my shoes off before letting myself in.

“You’re not coming in,” I said. “Not after walking all the way in bare feet. They’re filthy.”

“They’re not.” She slumped down onto the stair and pulled up a foot to look at the sole.

I opened the front door, glancing down. “They are. God knows what you’ve caught walking around like that.”

“How the fuck are you going to give me coffee if you don’t let me in?”

Frankly, I was hoping she’d forgotten the offer of coffee.

“I’ll wash them,” she said, abruptly. “Where’s your hose?”

Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath of the moist night air. Suddenly I felt worn out, and a mild metallic pain was gnawing at my brain, behind my eyes. Bad red wine.

“It’s over there.” I pointed vaguely toward a rusty spigot in the corner of the terrace. “Suit yourself.”

As I walked into my living room, I heard her turn the water on. The house was dark and I switched on a few lamps on my way into the kitchen.

Only when I’d filled the kettle and put it on to boil did I admit it wasn’t her feet I didn’t want in my house; it was her mind. Well, this is something close to the edge of the world, I reminded myself. The foreigners who end up here were, for the most part, misers, misfits or losers. I knew which one I was and I was pretty sure about what she was, too.

When I brought the coffee tray into the living room, she was lounging on my couch – absolutely naked – with her legs open as wide as it was humanly possible to spread them.