I sit in the corner of the club feeling like hamburger helper in a disco ball; good.
A girl, smelling of stale booze on broken glass, sits.
“Cigarette?” she asks. I nod, pulling one out and lighting it for her.
“How old are you?” she asks.
“Oh? I like older men,” she informs me.
Fuck you, I think.
“How nice for you,” I tell her.
She takes three more drags, watching me.
“Do you have a big dick?”
“A big dick, do you have one?”
I lean back. “What exactly is a big dick?”
“Twenty-five centimeters,” she tells me, as quick and as certain as if I’d asked her mother’s name.
“I’m American, we use inches. Hold on.”
I pull out my phone and google the conversion. I stare at the screen a moment.
“Uh, right,” I decide.
“Do you know how to use it?”
“You mean like peeing?”
She hits my arm, giggles, winks and says, “no.”
“I want to show you something,” she tells me, serious.
“Not here,” she says, looking around conspiratorially. She grabs my hand like the bar coming down in a roller coaster car and we are off through the mess of meat, slipping through it; coasting on booze-sweat.
I find myself dragged into a bathroom stall. It is green, the same color I painted the porch of my first house with my older brother. I was seven, he was ten; we got paid a fortune.
She stares at me, backing into a corner. I lean against the door, frowning.
“Do you love me?” she asks. I frown. “No,” I say without hesitation.
“Do you think I’m beautiful?” she asks. I nod. She takes off her shirt, letting it fall to the ground. She doesn’t take her eyes off mine. They are black and cloudy, like the bottom of a shoe.
“Am I still beautiful?” she asks.
I nod. “And do you love me?”
I shake my head.
She continues to undress, slowly, till she is as the day she was born. She doesn’t stop. She pinches just under her right ear. It is a nice ear. She pulls. The skin comes away from half her face. She slips a nail in just under her eye and pulls, a long strip of skin slides away down to her breast.
Music plays outside. There is a sucking sound coming from the stall beside us.
I watch; underneath, her muscles are purple and off-yellow.
She finishes just above her knees. We stand across from each other. Her skin, a pile of wet ribbons, between us. A tear slips from her left eye. It doesn’t run down her face. It falls into a crack in the muscles, gone.
“Do you love me?”
“Do you think I am beautiful?”
She sighs, then smiles.
Her teeth are black.