WHILE MATTHEW is changing, Leila wanders around the living room, reads his graffiti, inspects the demolition of his wall. When Matthew returns, he stands a moment in silence, watching her.
I don’t know what to do with her.
I know what to do with her, says BW. One look ought to tell you. She looks so desirable standing there!
But I feel like a pathetic figure when I think of touching her or — anything.
You’re just afraid. It’s not scruples — it’s fear.
You’re right. I am afraid. I want to touch her, but I’m afraid that everything will go wrong. I don’t want to startle her.
“Hi,” he says. He sounds like an adolescent. He has no idea what else to say.
“This is pretty wild,” she says.
“Oh, that. Well, there’s a mysterious odor.”
“Yeah, I know. Mom told me. I sniffed around, but I didn’t smell it.”
You didn’t? I can smell it right now. Rotten bananas. And — what? Motor oil. Bananas and oil. “Well, it comes and goes.”
“I meant the sayings.”
“A little crazy, I guess, but I figured what the heck, the wall has to be repainted, so — ”
“It’s like that writing you see all over town.”
“The Neat Graffitist. Right. He’s my inspiration. Would you like to write something?”
“Mmm, no. I wouldn’t know what to write.”
“You’re sure you don’t smell anything.”
“Yeah.”
“Well, write that. I’ve got all my sniff reports there. On the right.”
She takes the marker and writes, “I don’t smell anything. Leila.” Matthew watches her write and wonders why she can’t smell it. The oily odor is so strong right near the hole that he has to breathe through his mouth.
“What is this music?” Leila asks.
It must sound like schlock to her.
Mr. Paranoia’s first reaction, says BW. You think she’s going to ridicule it, don’t you?
“It’s Coleman Hawkins.” He’s ready to shrug it off, to pretend that it doesn’t really mean anything to him, that it’s just a curiosity, if that seems to be the way she feels about it. If she says anything against it, anything at all, or snickers, he’s ready to tell her that he put it on because he thought it would give her a laugh. He might hate himself for his weakness in the morning, but right now he’s prepared to say anything about his beloved Coleman Hawkins that she might want to hear.
“Great saxophone,” she says. “Really great.”
Great saxophone? Great saxophone?
He laughs a little, involuntarily. “Yeah,” he says. “It is. That’s Coleman Hawkins.”
“Ohhh. Of course. I should have known that, right?”
“No. No. Not necessarily. Why should you?”
“Do you want to dance?” she asks, just like that.
Matthew, says BW, there must be a God, or at least a devil. Don’t just stand there. Didn’t you hear her?
She might be teasing me.
That would be the first thing that comes to your mind! Maybe she is teasing you. Maybe she’s laughing at you, you and your stupid old music, your obvious desires. So what? You can use that. Let her tease you. Let her tease you right into her sweet little cunt. Who’ll have the last laugh then?
She’s not teasing me. Look at that smile. There’s nothing in that smile that says she’s laughing at me. There isn’t an ounce of nastiness or deceit. It’s just a smile.
All right, all right. Who cares? Dance with the kid, will you? She’s standing there.
Maybe she just wants to dance. Maybe that’s really all there is to it.
“I’d love to,” he says at long last. In an instant she’s right up against him. He wasn’t prepared for this. He had expected that she would take his hand, and he would put his arm around her waist, and they would shuffle around the room a little, but her idea of dancing is apparently completely different. It’s an embrace with music. Matthew isn’t sure whether this is a style or she’s in love with him. Well, not in love with me, but that she has a crush on me.
That she wants you, says BW.
[to be continued]
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