WHEN THEY drove off from the diner leaving his father and Barbra and Nash standing there in the street, Andrew was all exhilaration, which lasted as long as it took to turn the corner. Faced with an empty street, he felt confused again, ragged and unsure. Next to him, Dorrie’s lips curled up in a long, slow smile. He couldn’t see her eyes behind her dark sunglasses, but he knew that she was looking at the road, and not at him.
“So what are we going to do now?” he asked. “Am I just going to live with you?”
Dorrie lifted an arm to wave at some tourists in a passing streetcar who had lifted their cell phones to photograph her car, her hair whipping around her face. Finally, finally, she turned and looked at him through her opaque lenses. “Let’s not think about that,” she said, smiling again.
And so he hadn’t. For a while, it wasn’t hard. Being with Dorrie meant always being in motion. Forty-eight hours sped by like a joyous montage from some romantic comedy that he wanted to watch as much as the next girl.
Dorrie, leading him by the hand into a tiny cobblestoned courtyard set with battered turquoise tables and cane chairs. Dorrie, tearing apart the long baguette in front of them, slathering each piece with soft pale-yellow butter and feeding it to him, kissing his lips as he chewed. Dorrie, insisting that he drink his coffee black, then finally relenting and pouring in a long ribbon of cream and then adding two, three, four rough cubes of sugar, letting him feed her a spoonful of the crunchy, bittersweet dregs at the bottom. Him, following her out of the courtyard, eyes full with the delicious view of her bare thighs patterned from the woven seat.
Him, leaning back after having sex for the third time ever, head sinking in her plush pillows, thrilled that he’d gotten to watch her back arch and eyes flutter closed. Her, picking up an abandoned goblet of wine and taking a sip, leaning over to dribble a blood-red stream from her mouth into his. Them, again.
Dorrie, slipping past the concierge at Hotel Monteleone with a wink, taking a twenty-dollar bill out of Andrew’s wallet and handing it to the attendant who brought them a pile of towels. Dorrie, napping in the shade by the side of the rooftop pool, a smile on her face, not even waking up when her arm dropped off the green chaise and her long, thin fingers touched the concrete. Him, listening as she breathed, wondering if maybe this was the beginning of things.
Him, standing on the balcony of a double-gallery house holding something in a martini glass, leaning down so that Dorrie could whisper into his ear. The Democratic nominee speaking on the slice of big screen visible through the window, his right arm a metronome. Dorrie, turning and laughing, red-rimmed lips wide open, as the host of the party tugged an Obama T-shirt over his suit. Everyone, getting drunker. Him, sitting alone on the couch, surrounded by party debris, reaching up and letting Dorrie pull him out of the house and into the night.
And then the shiny pop soundtrack screeched to a halt. Andrew opened his eyes. Oh, it was bright. The world was too bright. And hot. He kicked off the blanket and groaned, rolling towards Dorrie.
“Good morning.”
She looked at him. She was sitting in bed with a platter of fruit and a newspaper. Freckled fingers picked up a section of kiwi and put it in her mouth.
“You just passed out last night. That wasn’t very nice, was it? Doesn’t make a woman feel very desirable.”
Andrew closed his eyes again. Groaned. Rolled back over. Why was this happening?
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
He heard the clatter of a plate on the side table and then a second later Dorrie was straddling him, her tiny nipples pushing against her ribbed wifebeater, the rest of her in a pair of little-boy underwear. On the bureau behind her, Andrew could see framed photos. There were a few of Dorrie and a nearly identical brother—he was ten years gone, dead of an overdose—and one old-fashioned wedding photo. The rest were all Dorrie in a bandanna and T-shirt surrounded by black and brown children with huge white grins, all of them framed by concrete huts and actual grass shacks.
She cocked her head, still looking at him.
“You’re beautiful,” he said.
“No, I’m not. But I am extremely sexy.”
Andrew laughed. Shook his head.
“No, you are, you are! You’re gorgeous.”
She reached over and picked up a strawberry. Pulled the top off. Flicked it at him and popped the berry in her own mouth. Andrew scooped up the wet blob of fruit and put it on the nightstand.
Dorrie reached over again and picked up a banana.
“You’re not hungover at all?”
She shook her head. He tried again.
“Do you think Barack Obama has a chance? Could he really win? That would be pretty amazing, right?”
Dorrie nodded and peeled the banana in three swift strokes, dropping the skin on his chest. Suddenly, he was scared. There was a queasy undercurrent of not-rightness to the whole thing that swelled up like a hot air balloon inside of him.
She held the pale fruit aloft like a dagger, squeezing so that its flesh oozed out between her fingers and sent a low, nauseous perfume into the room.
“Honey, I just want to jam this down your throat,” she said, sweetly.
Her other hand was on his shoulder, holding herself steady, holding him down.
“Dorrie?”
“Mm-hm?”