Touching Strangers Page 7
On her way back to the kitchen, she heard Aaron sing,“Went to a dance, lookin’ for romance . . . Saw Sammy-Sam and Ialmost shit my pants!”
She laughed and he spun around, sending splashes of soapywater arcing up into his hair.
“Jesus, Sam, you scared me!”
She giggled at the foamy clump on his head.
“How much did he give you this time?”
“Huh?”
“Your dad. How much was in the envelope?”
She shrugged and walked towards him.
“Hey, what are you . . .”
She stopped right in front of him and smiled. His wet handswere cold on her breasts.
*
Something was different. Not that Aaron wasn’t enjoyinghimself—he was happy as a check-up patient who’d just receiveda clean bill of health—but something was definitely off.
They never had spontaneous sex. Well, almost never.Usually it was planned out in advance, with both of them freshlyshowered and groomed. So what was Samantha doing, wrestlinghim into the bedroom, when they’d just said goodbye to a visitorwhose contaminants had yet to be neutralized, and after they’djust eaten a meal—of scrambled eggs, no less—when the prospectof needing to belch or fart (or worse) during intercourse was dangerously imminent?
She shoved him roughly at the foot of the bed, sending himtumbling backwards onto the mattress, and he nearly cracked hishead on the nightstand.
“Holy shit, Sam—oof!”
She pounced on him like a hungry lioness, and almost kneedhim in the balls as she manoeuvred herself into the straddlingposition.
“What’s wrong with you?” he wheezed from under hernaked and surprisingly strong body. Her wobbly breasts dangledin his face; her black hair was messy and wild and everywhere.His penis started to swell.
“I’m horny,” she mumbled into his neck.
“Are you sure you want to—”
“Shut up.”
Suddenly her tongue was in his ear. He laughed and, almostas a reaction, gripped her just below the shoulders and rolled bothof them over so that he was now on top. She looked up at himexpectantly, but when all he did was lay there, she started tosquirm and said, “Take off your pants.”
“Sam, I . . .”
“Come on, you idiot.”
She unbuckled his belt and unzipped his fly. He was fully erect now. She hooked her foot in the crotch of his jeans anddragged them down his legs to his ankles. He leaned in to kiss heras he attempted to kick his jeans off his feet. The taste of hermouth, her saliva, was unfamiliar. It was warm and kind ofketchupy, not the menthol iciness he was used to.
He was still contemplating the subtleties of her breath whenit occurred to him that his boxer shorts were no longer on hisbody and his penis was, in fact, inside her.
“You want me to put on a condom?” he said, mid-thrust.
She wrapped her legs around his body and pressed her heelsinto his buttocks. “Just keep going.”
Samantha was on the pill, but Aaron usually wore a condomanyway. The last thing they wanted was to have to worry aboutthe health of a foetus, or the hassle and guilt of having to disposeof it. As he carried on inside Samantha, Aaron tried to rememberthe failure rate of oral contraceptives. He seemed to recall it wassomething like five to ten percent, which was worrying. Toohigh for his liking.
Samantha’s eyes were closed. Aaron stared at her breasts asthey bounced in steady, metronomic circles and concentrated onbringing himself to orgasm. Her pubic stubble was starting to chafehis lower abdomen. He tried to pull out just before ejaculating butmisjudged it. An imperceptible amount of his semen was depositedinside her before he was able to direct the rest onto her belly.
“Sorry,” he said, and reached for some tissue paper.
Samantha turned on her side and rummaged through herbedside drawer for some baby wipes. “That was kind of quick.”
“Hey!” Aaron said. The sting was instantaneous.
“No, I didn’t mean . . .”
He waited for her to say something else as he watched herwipe her crotch area with her back to him. Finally she said, “Ijust meant that you must have been really turned on.”
Aaron stood, almost zipped up his fly, then stopped himself.“Mind if I shower first? I have an appointment with Dr. Zilberin forty-five minutes.”
“Aaron,” she said, annoyed. “When did you book that?”
“Earlier this morning. You were asleep.”
Samantha stood and attempted to drop the crumpled babywipe into the waste bin, but missed. She bent over to pick it upand said, “I don’t know how you can go there. That little waiting room is just . . .” She shuddered.
He stared at her, waiting for her to look at him, but sheseemed intent on busying herself with piddly tasks: staring pointlessly into her closet, adjusting and readjusting the framed photographs on her dresser. She walked over to the desk, picked up abook that was sitting beside her laptop, brought it back to thebed, and set it on the nightstand. Then she picked it up again andstarted flipping pages.
“Well,” Aaron said finally. “I’ll be in the shower.”
He went to the bathroom and turned on the tap. Took offhis clothes and, when the water was warm enough, lifted thenozzle for the shower. From the bedroom, Samantha called out,“Do you have to work tonight?”, but he stepped into the hotspray and pretended not to hear her.
*
Zack Pike needed a re-up. He took the 506 streetcar alongGerrard to Coxwell, where his dealer, Ugbo, lived above analways-closed convenience store called Milk Grocery.
Ugbo didn’t have a buzzer, so Zack sent him a text messagesaying, “I’s downstairs, holla back.” Then he lit the roach he hadin his pocket and waited, trying to look like a gangster who wasup to some gangster shit.
A minute later he got a text back saying, “My girl claire bedown in a minit yo.”
Zack adjusted his crotch and flicked his roach at the curb,but it landed in the grocery buggy of an elderly black womanwho was shuffling along the pavement in broken shoes.
“Shit, lady, I’m sorry, yo.” He hurried over and stuck hishands in her grocery bags, searching for it.
“Excuse me, young man,” the lady said politely, “but whatthe fuck is you doin’?”
“I flicked a roach in here by mistake,” he said, just as he’dlocated the burning wedge in a bag of potatoes and onions. Heheld it up for her to see and smiled.
The woman shook her head and said, “Lord have mercy” asshe continued on down the street.
A lock clicked behind him and Zack turned around. An icyblonde in a black lace top and red leather miniskirt was standingin Ugbo’s doorway, chewing noisily on a fat piece of blueberrybubblegum. She said, “You Z.P.?”
“Z.P., that’s me,” he said, and sniffed.
She nodded her head at the stairs behind her, indicating thathe should follow. He tucked his boner under the waistband ofhis sweatpants as he followed her ass up the steps, leaning forwardslightly in hopes of catching a sniff.
By the time they reached the landing, the cloying stench ofpot made Zack forget about the blonde’s ass. All he wanted todo now was smoke a bowl.
As he turned into the apartment, the first thing he noticedwas the giant handgun lying casually across the coffee table, surrounded by dozens of bags of contraband and various measuringcontraptions. He ran a hand through his hair and tried to steadyhis heart rate by reminding himself that this was all part of thedrug game.
The blonde approached a doorway at the end of the roomand said, “Your man’s here.” Then she blew a bubble andwinked at Zack before disappearing into the bathroom.
There was a groan and the squeaking of bedsprings fromthe other room. Ugbo appeared in the doorway, slouching andshirtless, his tattooed shoulders shiny with sweat. His harelip,which swerved up into his right nostril and exposed th
e tooth he’d deliberately filed into a fang-like point, was encrustedwith snot.
“Shit Z,” he said. “I done got got by the flu, or some shit.”
“Damn.” Zack cracked his knuckles and sat on the plasticchair next to the large flatscreen TV. “You ah-ight, yo?”
Ugbo collapsed onto the sofa and rubbed his eyes. Zacknoticed that the skin under his fingernails was all purple and red.There was a rash on his chest, too, like chicken pox, just abovehis stab wound scar.
“Naw, I ain’t,” Ugbo said. “I be in the bathroom pukin’ myguts up all night, knaw’m sayin’? I be turnin’ clients away n’ shit.”
“For real?”
Ugbo nodded and tried to sit up straight. “No doubt. Now,what you be needin’ my brother? Let’s do this shit quick. I needto get my ass back to sleep, you feel me?”
“True, true.” Zack scanned the bags on the table, trying hardnot to look at the gun, or at the nasty pustules on Ugbo’s collarbone. “What’s that? Acapulco Red?”
Ugbo picked some flakes out of his harelip. “Shit yeah.Freshly imported. How much you want?”
“Um.” Zack stuck his hand in his pocket and counted hismoney without taking it out. “Better give me a pound, yo.”
Ugbo nodded and coughed loudly. He reached for one ofthe bags on the table, but was interrupted again by another fit ofcoughs, each hack more wet and violent than the last.
“Hey, yo Claire!” he called, his voice hoarse. “Get yo sexyass out here and cut my man some weed, you heard?” He stoodup shakily and held his hand out to Zack. “Gimme the cash.”
Zack handed it over and watched Ugbo wobble backinside the other room.A few seconds later, the blonde cameout of the bathroom wearing nothing but a half-zipped pair ofjean shorts. Her small, muscular breasts jiggled with each step.She sat on the sofa and plucked a bag of weed off the tablewithout looking at Zack. Her hair was wet and smelled ofstrawberry shampoo.
“I’ve seen you somewhere before,” Zack said, mesmerizedby her breasts as she measured out a pound, separated it into four large baggies, and stuffed those into a bright yellow No Frills grocery bag.
She looked at him for a second and smirked. “The Wardian Trust Arms.”
Zack’s eyes widened. “No shit. You live there?”
She giggled and shook her head. “No, silly. I see a clientthere sometimes.”
“For real? Who?”
“Sorry, I don’t snitch.”
“Right.” He nodded. “I respect that.”
She stood up and handed him the bag of weed. “One thingI’ll say is that I won’t be seeing him ever again. Motherfuckerpuked all over me last time.”
Zack nodded and took the bag from her. He always figuredDoug Chisholm paid for hoes. This chick had some bad ass luckwhen it came to sick johns.
She walked him to the door. As he reached for the knob, heturned around and said, quietly, “Yo—can I get your digits orsome shit?”
*
Luca Pazienza was sitting in front of the TV, watching theBlue Jays get shellacked by the Tampa Bay Rays, when he lookedout his front window and saw a figure that looked like a glossyape approach his door.
When he stood up for a closer look, he saw it was the girl he’dmet—was it Samantha?—wearing a garbage bag poncho-style,with holes cut out for her arms and head. She squatted in front ofhis door and tried to slip something under the crack. It wouldn’tgo in, of course, because he had a thick rubber welcome matblocking the way on the inside, weighted down by his steel toework boots. He watched with amusement as she struggled in vainto jam the folded-up piece of paper inside with her cellophanecovered fingers. As if the garbage bag weren’t enough, she was alsowearing a green toque with a pompom, along with the surgicalmask and rain boots she’d had on during their previous encounter.
Luca had to laugh, despite the unsettling bizarreness of thesituation. When she started to get visibly frustrated, he went tothe door and opened it.
Samantha jumped back and assumed a crouched, ninja-likestance, the garbage bag fluttering like a cape in the breeze. Shelooked like one of those wannabe-superhero nutjobs you readabout in the tabloids.
“Oh my God,” she said, panting. “I thought you . . . I wasjust . . . I’m sorry.” She went to run away.
“Wait,” Luca said, and stepped outside. “What were you . . . ?”
Samantha stopped and just stood there. She turned to facehim but didn’t say anything.
He scratched his nose and walked towards her, waiting forher to step back, but she didn’t. “I gotta say, your fashion senseis pretty weird.”
Her only response was to look down at herself then back at him.
“What’s that in your hand? A letter or something?”
She shrugged.
“Is it for me?”
She nodded.
He was close enough now to smell her creamy cucumberscent. “Can I read it?”
She looked at the piece of paper in her hand for a moment,then held it out to him. As he was unfolding it, she said, “I’mjust the messenger.”
He smiled and started reading. When he was finished helooked up at her. She was still just standing there, a crazy personin a garbage bag, her citrusy eyes bright with dread.
“Are you saying you didn’t write this?”
“Yes.”
“Yes, you’re saying that, or yes, you wrote it?”
She hesitated, looked back at the building entrance on theother side of the parking lot, then turned back to him andshrugged.
He laughed. “Well, did you write it?”“Yes.”
“Why?”
“It’s all in the letter, isn’t it?”
He looked at the piece of paper in his hand for a second,then said, “Look. Why don’t you come inside, take off thatridiculous sack you’re wearing, and we can talk about why you’reshoving a letter under my door that’s basically saying you don’twant me here.”
She’d been shaking her head from the moment he said thewords come inside. “That’s not what it’s saying. I’m trying to doyou a favour. Don’t you understand? Your unit is lethal. Nobodyshould be living there. Do you want to die?”
“Die?” He scoffed and rubbed his forehead. “Listen. I can’ttake you seriously when you’re dressed like that. I can’t even seewho I’m talking to, so . . .” He held the letter out to her but shedidn’t move to take it, so he crumpled it in his hand, turnedaround, and started back toward his door.
“Wait.”
He stopped, sighed, and slowly turned to face her. “What?”
She removed her toque, and a bundle of long black hair fellaround her masked face. “Do you want to come over to myplace?”
*
Samantha’s hands were shaking as she removed her keysfrom the pocket of her pyjama pants. Luca was standing behindher. He smelled a little like tomato soup, which wasn’t terrible.Her heart was thumping so hard she felt like her ribcage wasbeing punched. She put the wrong key in the top lock by accident, then dropped the chain to the floor when she yanked it out.She bent to pick it up, and her ass bumped Luca’s arm.
“Sorry,” they both said at the same time.
There was an awkward silence, then, as Samantha attemptedto unlock the door again, Luca said, “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m just . . .” She took a breath. “I don’t usually have people over.”
“Is your roommate home?”
“No.” She unlocked the bottom bolt.
“I don’t think I’ve met him yet. Is he the guy who’s alwayswearing oversize basketball jerseys?”
“Ha!” Samantha turned to face him with the door stillclosed. “No, that’s Zack. He’s a drug dealer.”
“Ah.”
She went to open the door, stopped herself, and turned aroundsharply. “I can’t believe you thought I was dating Zack Pike.”r />
Luca looked confused, and in that instant, Samantha realized her mistake.
He said, “Wait. Who said anything about dating?”
She tried to think of something to say but came up with nothing. She was panicked enough just being outside her apartment, letalone standing in the hallway with a relative stranger who she’dbeen fantasizing about yet who also made her want to puke.
When she didn’t answer, he said, “Are you dating your r oommate?”
She looked down. “Umm.”
Luca stepped back and shook his head. “Jesus. I don’t evenknow why I agreed to come here with you. Are you trying toscrew me around or something?”
“No! I just . . .” She removed the mask from her mouth. “Alright, look. I live here with my boyfriend, okay? I’m sorry Iwasn’t honest about it before, but I never talk to people. I hardlyever go outside. Conversations are . . . difficult for me.”
His eyes seemed to soften a little. “Okay. So why did youinvite me over?”
“You invited me to your place first. Said you wanted to talkabout the letter. I suggested we come here instead because there’sno way in freaking hell I’d ever set foot in that scum-hole unit.No offense.”
He laughed. It seemed he was starting to relax again, and shecould tell by the way he was looking at her that he didn’t reallywant to leave.
She said, “You don’t have to come in. But I don’t recommend you go back to that apartment until it’s been sterilizedtwice-over from floor to ceiling.”
He stood there a moment, looking at her, then nodded at thedoor. “You promise your roommate—or, uh, boyfriend—isn’twaiting inside with an axe?”
She said, flatly, “He’s at the doctor,” then turned around andopened the door.
STAGE 4: PRIVATE CONSULTATIONS
Dr. Zilber’s office was located in a big Victorian ramblinghouse, just two streets over from The Wardian Trust Arms.