October, 2016.
New York City.
Malik violently threw open the shutters of his bedroom's window, as if he wanted to break them apart. The cold air of the morning landed on his chest's naked skin, while the opaque nine AM light tempered the autumn humidity.
– You're accusing me of being a thief. –
Holly's acute voice hit the back of his neck. Malik leaned out of the window, looking at the one hundred and sixty-something feet that separated him from the ground. The road's smoke, the cars in line, the people moving like ants. Malik shrugged, not at all meaning to sweeten the pill.
– Technically, you are. –
– What the hell?! –
Holly screamed, sitting up on the bed with indignation. Malik turned towards her, fixing back up the waist of his pearly-gray track pants.
– If you take someone else's money without asking, you are a thief. –
He used the kind of tone a teacher would use explaining the water cycleto elementary schoolers.
– I'll give them back, you idiot. –
She said as if it was a given, and Malik smiled sarcastically.
– Same as the other times? –
Malik moved close to the bed and dragged away the blankets to uncover the mattress. Holly put on a frown on her face.
– Stop that already. I told you that I'll give them back, too. All of it. –
She stood up, taking the pillow and putting it on the nearby piece of furniture. Regardless of his apparent calm, Malik was furious. He hated childish people who'd have no respect to spare for anyone, but he hated spoiled ones even more.
– I earn that money, do you understand? –
A bitter tone of voice left his mouth, and he tried to sound more neutral as he went on.
– Why don't you ask your parents, since you're officially still living with them? –
Malik's hand slammed against the mattress with an open palm, straightening the creases. Holly leaned down and did the same on the other side. In order to make the bedone person was enough, to argue you'd need two.
– You know I can't ask them for too much money. –
– Let's say you don't want to ask for it because you can steal from me. –
The harsh tone came back and he couldn't do anything to stop it, like a man watching helplessly an avalanche falling all over him. Holly, on the defensive, straightened up her back.
– Hey, quit it now, you're blowing this entire thing up. I'm not some kind of stranger. Trust me, I swear I'm giving them back to you. –
Holly sighed; she had put too much effort in it to look credible.
– The next week I'm posing for a friend of my mother's. –
She moved back on the sheets, tucking her hair behind her ears.
– Whatever I get is yours. –
Malik didn't even bother to roll his eyes upwards, too busy dealing with the bedcover's creases. She could have promised him Heaven, but you can't hold words in your fist; bank notes, instead, you can. Malik reached out and grabbed the sheet, waiting for Holly to follow.
– We'll see. –
He said, with a robotic tone of voice and without wasting extra time on it, not even wanting to give her a slice of the apple of trust that she had let rot. Holly's stare became uglier as she took the sheet with a rude gesture that belonged to an offended fifteen-year old.
– Sure, you could show some cooperation. –
They brought the sheet back upwards, until it reached the pillows, and the young man let out a cynical laugh.
– You're right, I should stop complaining, I'm a real asshole. –
– Quit that. –
Malik didn't accept the advice happily.
– But what are you doing with that money anyway? –
He asked, furrowing his brow.
– Your mom's paying for your studies, your father's paying for your car, you eat and sleep here most of the time… – Malik straightened up his back, put his hands on his hips and turned into a funambulist walking the rope of patience.
– Are you stealing my money to pay for movie tickets and get pissed with your friends? –
Holly batted her eyelashesand moved back her neck like a flamingo, burned by those accusations: they were dangerously close to the truth after all.
– Just so you know, I have my own money saved up! –
– And then use it, for God's sake! –
Malik screamed, giving up on his resolution of being zen-like about this. Holly took the hit, but then her survival instinct took over and she screamed after him in self-defense.
– I already apologized! –
And then, there was silence. That conversation wasn't leading anywhere: it wasn't just a dead-end street, but rather a dog barking to his reflection in a mirror. Malik shook his head and went for the foot of the bed. He raised upwards the last of the blankets and he waited for Holly to do the same. She looked at him bothered, a certain condescending manner printed on her face with acid, and it was only making Malik's fingers feel like slapping her fucking little face and leave a sign of it. He couldn't care less that she still was technically his girlfriend. He didn't live in absolutes, but in circumstances; and there weren't rules, only compromises.
Suddenly, the unfilled desire to slap the damsel disappeared and in its place came the gastritis caused by knowing he couldn't do it. And in between that knotted mess of I would like to, I wouldn't, Holly was still there, immovable: one half combative, one half defeated. From the window, you could hear the cars honking and the street-sellers chattering, while the coffee smell from the nearby Starbucks reminded everyone how that day had started off very badly. Finally, she moved and grabbed the blanket, dragging it upwards on the bed, her lips pressed. Malik followed her, and Kandinsky's Composition VIII printed on the cover laid down perfectly on the bed. The muffled sound of the hands reaching down into the creases took the place of their words.
Then Holly was bold enough to break the silence.
– I don't like at all how things are going lately. –
Malik was surprised; for the first time, he actually agreed with her.
– I don't, either. –
The bed was made at that point; as far as their row, who knew.
– Look at it, it's not just my fault. –
Holly went on, latching to that conversation like a dog who doesn't want to let go of the bone. Malik raised his eyes to the sky, more tired than an athlete at the end of a triathlon run. He just wanted to take a shower and eat something, and instead he had to undergo the torture of having her tear his good mood from him, seeing how Holly was taking a shit on it after dumping it in the toilet.
– No, of course. –
Malik replied without paying too much attention to it. Holly didn't let that go.
– Why, do you think there's nothing I don't like about you? But how full of yourself can you be? You have faults, too, you know that? –
She put her hands on her convex hips, looking Malik like a teacher about to question her chosen student. He shrugged, because he wasn't ready to talk about that specific lesson, and he headed for the closet, turning his shoulders to her.
– Come on, list them. –
Malik replied with the only intent to keep her talking. His only interest right then was on the opposite side of the planet. Meanwhile, Holly started posing as if she was going to some audition.
– You're obsessive. –
First arrow let loose. Well, it hadn't hurt so much.
Malik opened the drawer and asked himself, am I obsessive? He looked at his socks and perfectly folded laundry, recognizing that everything was laid down in parallel lines and in decreasing shades of color. Okay, fine, I might get obsessive over some things, he answered himself, figuring that it was a legitimate fault, after all.
– If you're talking about how neat I am, I can't fault you. –
Malik admitted candidly, as he picked his underwear for the day, but Holly didn't appreciate his comment's superficiality, and another clash of personalities began.
– Quit with taking it lightly, Malik! Look at me when I'm talking to you! –
Holly was screaming at this point, frustrated by the indifference that Malik was reserving for her. She thought she was some kind of Tibetan mastiff and he was treating her like some kind of lame runt from a dog shelter. She couldn't handle the prospect of not coming first and, judging from Malik's attitude, she was being left last. Sadly for her, Malik was like that – if he didn't have any respect left to give, he couldn't fake having it still.
– You're obsessive about people, too! Do you think that business with Joseph and Tyler is forgotten? I know that you keep on control me and it's not acceptable! –
Having chosen his underwear, Malik took it and slammed the drawer closed; Holly's eyelids immediately shook in surprise. He looked at her, taking her apart with his stare.
– Of course I'm keeping an eye on you. I don't trust you. –
Malik didn't waste any more words and moved past the girl, heading for the bathroom. Holly went after him, screaming louder than before: she seemed like Carrie White having her first period.
– You're an asshole and a jerk, too! Keep an eye on your own life, not mine! I'm going out with whoever I want, whenever I want to! Is that clear? Are you listening to me, Malik? –
Those screams felt like needles in his eardrums, and Malik had to resist the temptation to turn back to her and let her regret having ever been born just because he was almost at his destination. The young man slammed the bathroom door behind him, without worrying about how far Holly was from him, stalking him like an angry hunting dog going after his prey. She jumped in fear as the wooden door appeared in front of her nose with a dull thud. Then, a turn of the key in the lock put an end to any dialogue that might have been. Wounded in her pride once again, Holly started banging on the door, beside herself.
– Fuck you, you're an asshole! You'll pay for this, understood? Are you listening to me?! Walk out if you dare! –
Malik's answer was turning on the stereo and turning on the volume so loud on Talk Talk's It's My Life that it would cover the screams of that stubborn and angry carrion crow. It would be useless to explain that it just made her angrier, and as a reply, she kicked the door a couple of times and then left, looking for another outlet for her homicidal instincts. From the other side of the door, Malik put his face in between his hands: he had to put some effort in making sure that the rest of the day, just barely started, wasn't as dirty with shit as this morning. He turned on the water under the shower, undressed and launched himself under the warm spray, which still failed to get through the shell of spite born out of his bones. He closed his eyes, placing a hand against the damp wall, lowering his head and letting the water fall over his nape, calming him down. He didn't want to hear anything else anymore. Then he thought about a quicker way to accomplish it: he grabbed the hot water's knob like he would have the neck of a hen and turned it towards the blue circle at once; the hot water turned into cold in a moment. He convinced himself that an icy shower would have helped to freeze the discomfort, leaving it in between the house's walls, waiting for him to come back like a leftover from yesterday's dinner. The problem was that those leftovers had been around for months: feeble, ugly and decomposed, by now they only smelled like mold.
– I'd rather have you stay in the office, really. –
Lucy was halfway leaning on her desk, the other leg stretched out with her foot planted on the ground, and her hair tied in a ponytail falling over her neck. Michael reassured her with a smile.
– I'm all right, I'm all right. It was just a very bad night. –
Lucy's lips thinned, stretched taut like dental floss.
– It's happening a bit too often. Why don't you go see someone? –
– I have a doctor's appointment next week, we'll see. –
Lucy said nothing, waiting for the follow-up.
– I already know what they're going to tell me, anyway. It's all its fault. –
Michael said, his hand leaning on the rotund curve of his belly, peacefully overweight.
– You were doing fine this summer. –
The woman said, remembering how many pounds her business partner had lost a few months ago.
– Yeah, but it's not quite enough. Grace says I should lose at least another twenty-two. –
Michael's eyes went wide, shocked by a vision that he has sent himself.
– I can't even picture myself weighing twenty-two pounds less. –
Lucy smiled sharply, having a dig at him.
– But I can. –
Michael appreciated her tough support, but let the conversation die there. So, she moved away from the desk and grabbed a stack of paper from the table.
– Regardless, you're staying here. –
She moved close to Michael, handing him the paperwork. He looked at her with transparent eyes that made him look a few years younger; a teenager's soul in a body that was hobbling behind it.
– There's all this lovely paperwork to handle. No one is better equipped for it than you. –
Lucy's voice was gentle, but it was obvious that it wasn't a request – rather, an order. Michael wasn't going to dodge that bullet, and his bargaining skills wouldn't have worked. He might have been twice as old as her, but she had twice his balls. His lips curved and he scratched at his salt-and-pepper beard on his cheeks.
– I'd have gladly helped the boys out. –
He took the papers, noticing how thick the stack was.
– With Altair injured, on top of that… –
Lucy took her opening and inserted herself into that hanging sentence like an intramuscular injection.
– Altair is almost healed up. He's working fine with a brace, and the stitches should be off next week. –
Lucy smiled like a mall's promoter.
– He's fine. –
She added, so certain of it that Michael was out of objections. Sometimes this woman turned into his boss instead of being just his business partner.
– I don't want you to have another setback on the job. –
Lucy crossed her arms on her chest and her back's profile took an S-like shape.
– You have to look after yourself. –
Someone knocked on the office's door, effectively ending that conversation.
– Yeah? –
Lucy asked, moving forward like a deer heading for a river. The door opened and Malik's head, followed by the rest of his body, came into the room.
– Hello. –
Malik greeted the both of them with a nod. Michael smiled at him fully, the way you'd smile to your nephew, while Lucy smiled tiredly, waiting for the rest.
– I wanted to ask who's on shift today. Desmond told me yesterday that someone switched? –
Malik remained a few steps from them, with a hand resting along his hip and the other massaging the opposite shoulder. Concise as always, Lucy replied.
– Today it's you and Rebecca in the kitchen. Altair and Shaun are manning the counter and the check out. At rush hour, I'm coming down to help you out. –
Malik nodded in satisfaction, even if he couldn't care less.
– Mike, how are you? –
Malik asked, his hand already on the door's handle. About that, he did give a damn.
– I'm fine, thank you. Nothing to worry about, don't get worried. –
Malik nodded. Growing fond of that man was as natural as wolfing down an entire pack of Oreo when you're alone in the house. The cook closed the door and went to change. He looked at his cellphone; it was three minutes past ten AM and no text. When he left the bathroom that morning, Holly had already left. That was understandable. What was less understandable was how his friends kept on telling him that it was normal for a couple to go through ups and downs, pushing and pulling, the odi et amos and the whole crap-load of bullshit that came with it. Fine, if was true that in some cases the conflicts helped to keep a relationship zingy, now it had gone straight to spicy, but the kind of that makes the food impossible to eat. And it wasn't a thing that had just lasted a few weeks – it had for months. If he thought about their first meeting, he couldn't believe it was the same girl. Who knew if Holly felt the same, thinking about him. Malik put on apron and cap and left the changing room, heading for the kitchen. Before that, though, he had to empty his bladder, so he went for the bathroom instead, opened the door and went straight inside, but what he found in front of him was entirely unexpected and he stopped at once, quicker than if he had been pierced through with an arrow. Altair had his back to him, standing, with his legs opened wide in front of the toilet in which he was pissing. Malik froze and went back through the happenings of the last few seconds. The light in the bathroom turned off under the door, the absence of any noise from inside, no lock at all when he opened the door. Nothing. No, it couldn't be his fault. It was obviously on the idiot standing in front of him, Altair, who was currently turning his face to try and take a glimpse of who was standing behind him.
– Hey, Malik. –
He greeted, fresh as a rose at dawn and unflappable like a patient under anesthesia; it seemed like he couldn't care less that he was standing with his dripping dick in between his fingers as if he was a postman and that was the package he was about to deliver. If anything, Altair's arm and back were positioned in a way that hid the details and Malik was spared further embarrassment. Malik felt the bite of turmoil go down on his stomach, closing it at once.
– What the fuck … –
He muttered with resentment, so darkly that it made a Goya painting look idyllic. Malik slammed the door closed behind him; he didn't feel like pissing at all anymore at this point. The need had gone away as the certainty that the day was still salvageable. He took shelter in the kitchen and forced himself to concentrate on preparing the menu for the day. He grabbed onions, garlic and spices and started cutting, trying to avoid getting caught in hysteria. He didn't know what was worse: if he should wallow in his rage-filled thoughts about Holly, or think back on the recent episode starring Altair's dick.
Malik was so concentrated cutting vegetal bulbs that he didn't even notice his colleague coming inside the kitchen and stopping three feet from him, with his elbows on the counter as he looked at Malik's skills in chopping onions. Silently, he was waiting for Malik to notice him, or that he'd kill him, maybe. The cook's senses suggested him to raise his eyes: he started to feel a certain distress creeping up on his skin, like a cutaneous mycosis, and he convinced himself to take a look around himself, immediately noticing the reason he was bothered. Malik stopped the blade and the two of them just looked at each other in silence. There was a certain embarrassment to do away with. Altair was leaning with his chin on his left hand, the one with the finger wrapped in the brace, and he was looking at Malik with an inert but curious expression on his face; Malik, instead, was looking at him the way you'd look at someone who, in a metro wagon, sticks his finger inside his nose the way you only do when you're alone in the house in front of your computer. This time, the kitchen was free of the burbling of soups boiling or of the greens sizzling to hide the silence between them.
So Malik spoke first, because he did like silence, but he didn't like staring, not at all.
– Do you ever use the key, when you're in the bathroom? –
Malik asked with a huff. Altair didn't seem to be following.
– You mean, are you talking about before? –
Altair asked, not sounding rhetorical at all. Malik convinced himself that the man had to be a bona fide idiot.
– Maybe you should use it, when you're taking a piss. –
Malik grabbed a new knife from the drawer, put the onion aside and started chopping garlic. He couldn't stand that side of Altair's: he lived as if people had to adapt to him and not the contrary.
– Maybe you should knock before coming in. –
Altair replied, spitting on his good manners. Malik had met smartass people in his life, but Altair was definitely changing the bar. Malik gave him an hostile stare, but Altair was unchanging; he just stared at him with his amber eyes in which he could see shining all the hateful and showed-off sureness that killed in Malik any desire for compromise. You couldn't talk with Altair, just give him a few slaps. But Malik felt like he had exhausted his force to fight for the day: that morning, the exchange with Holly had exhausted him to the point that he was about to give up completely and he had barely been awake for four hours. Holly had a rare talent to suck fiber and vitality away from him, and she wasn't even sucking him off. So, Malik just dropped it. He turned his attention back to the garlic and started cutting it all over again, huffing again, feeling like he really wanted to be somewhere else right now.
Altair didn't deserve his efforts.
– Hey, it's not as if it's a problem. We're both guys. –
Altair intervened, feeling how the cook wasn't up to go ahead with that conversation. He shrugged to do away with the conflict and to pass towards Malik his internal peace.
– And we know each other. We work together. –
He added, surely breaching the number of usual words that he pronounced in one entire day. No, we don't know each other, Malik thought – at that point, he was slaughtering the poor piece of garlic just so that he didn't turn the knife on Altair. What his colleague was saying, and how he was saying it, was revealing just how superficial he was, and on top of that, a certain childish trust that's typical of an adolescence that was never fully concluded, that builds its relationships on well and more or less. Something that was making his skin crawl. The logic in that reasoning was finding his visual match in a piece of gruyere: it was full of holes. Malik knew also the guy manning the check at the bar under his apartment, but sure as hell he wouldn't have showed the guy his dick just because.
– And anyway… –
Altair kept on. He was probably under the effect of some kind of anti-depressant, seeing how he was being unnaturally loquacious. But he left the sentence hanging there, as if someone paused him with a remote. Maybe the drug's effect had worn off at once. Malik's eyebrows bent downwards, giving Altair the benefit of the doubt; as in, the doubt that he might be narcoleptic. But before Malik's hypothesis could find a confirmation, a saving external agent suddenly bursting into the Wes Anderson-like microcosm that was taking hold of the kitchen.
– Hey guys, sorry for being late. –
Rebecca came inside the kitchen, her usual tuffs of hair coming out of the cap's hem. Altair and Malik looked at her both: Malik with gratitude, Altair just with laziness. Rebecca only needed a glance to smell the hostility in between them, and she made the mistake of asking.
– Did I interrupt something? –
Rebecca's hands latched to a bowl full of tomatoes.
– No. –
Malik replied curtly, slicing at Altair with his glance.
– Only silence. –
With that caustic comment, Malik leaned back down on the garlic – which was spared further suffering – and moved on to the greens to chop. His colleagues had learned to understand Malik's digs, and had commonly established that the best attack was defense. So, Rebecca turned her back on him and started taking out the other greens they should wash, whistling to pass the time. Whatever happened in between Malik and Altair, it was going to stay between them.
Altair, indeed, since he was out of any communicative exchange, lost all interest in staying in the kitchen. He drummed his fingers on the counter and left, passing near Rebecca and patting her on the shoulder, to wish her a good time at work. Rebecca smiled back at him and for the remaining of the time that she spent in the kitchen, working with the other cook, just one thing was clear to her: Malik was fucking pissed off.
Two ratatouille casseroles, three of potatoes, four trays of mixed salad, two of stew, three rounds of falafel and two of grilled greens: all this work couldn't distract Malik. His thoughts had managed to win over the pots and pans, to elbow their way through the ingredients, and worm their way in the cooking times. It was past five PM and his shift was almost over. Usually at that point he'd have breathed in relief: he'd have gone home, taken a shower, put some music on in the living room and cook something calmly for himself… and Holly. But the girl was turning into some kind of unknown variable in his life, to the point that he didn't really care about her that much anymore. He always was a very practical person and he had this tendency to keep far from him the things that didn't make him feel good or didn't bring him any advantage. So, the question raised itself: what am I doing?
– Malik. –
It was the soft and gentle tone of Michael's voice, and Malik recognized it before they looked at each other.
– Hey, Mike. Tell me. –
Michael was leaning inside the kitchen, a hand on the saloon-like semi-open door, halfway inside the room. He had a certain constipated expression to his face and Malik thought that maybe he wasn't feeling well again. His boss motioned for him to come closer and he didn't need to be told twice. Michael put a hand on the young man's shoulder and invited him out, turning him towards the counter. Malik smelled trouble.
– Someone's looking for you. –
Michael whispered in his ear, sounding as if he was expecting an immediate catastrophe. A shudder ran through Malik's vertebrae and his suspicions were confirmed in a short while: behind the counter, glancing in between the amount of people in the shop, he noticed Holly's mane of hair. She was standing with crossed arms in a corner, the face of someone who's pissed off because they've been denied the student discount in the cinema. Holly was glancing at the counter with her predatory eyes, and noticed the young man soon enough. She went on her tiptoes and spoke.
– Malik! Get over here! –
Her tone was loud, intrusive like a suppository, and it left Malik still as stone. Why the fuck was that insane woman screaming doing inside the shop? It wasn't enough to drop here when he was working, now she also had to embarrass him in front of his co-workers and clients? Altair, who was behind the counter with Shaun, glanced quickly at the girl whose noisy presence certainly was noticeable to both ears and eyes. Malik could feel the weight of the stares and judgment on his skin. Holly skipped the queue and brutally made his way in between the other clients, stepping back from civilization's duties.
– Now! –
She screamed again, the crowd around her looking at her with curiosity first and then impatience. If Holly wanted to destroy their relationship fine, all right, but she didn't need to drag his job into that operation, as well. Shaun stopped as he served his clients, unable to ignore the distractions anymore, and the same happened to a few of the clients, irked because of Holly's arrogance and the racket she was making. Malik moved at once to avoid damaging things beyond repair. Altair moved, letting him pass, and glanced at Shaun to suggest him to go back to work; Michael moved back behind the counter, wearing apron and cap, ready to help out with the clients.
– So, who's next? –
Michael said, with a smile that took up his entire face, trying to grab back the attention of the clients and their good mood. Malik, meanwhile, had moved in front of the counter and grabbed Holly's arm without any gentleness to it. He dragged her towards the exit and just before leaving the shop his eyes met Lucy's – she was sitting behind the check-out like Athena on her throne. Lucy, his boss, was looking at him with a face sculpted in stone and incomprehensible expression, but Malik interpreted that muscular immobility as a reprimand. Once he was out, Malik pushed Holly towards the end of the sidewalk, leaving her with her back to the wall. His hands itched with the desire to punch her in the face until it was swollen.
– Have you lost your mind? –
The cook burst, trying to keep his screaming to a minimum.
– What's your genius plan here? Getting me fired? What the fuck is wrong with you?! –
Malik was moving his weight from a foot to the other, unable to stop his nervousness. He didn't understand what was going on and he didn't find it fair, either, but Holly was good enough to worm her way through that sliver of uncertainty.
– We need to talk. –
Holly replied, her tone dry; she sounded like a completely different person in comparison to the one who had been screaming for the entire world to hear how angry she was a short while ago.
– You want to talk now? –
– We need to find a solution, Malik.–
Holly crossed her arms over her chest again, pretending to look like a mature woman who tries to find a rational solution to an emotional problem; but that was just a picture, because Holly was a childish insane person and Malik didn't recognize anything in her anymore that justified his affection for her.
– I already have the solution. –
Malik said, the edge in his voice cutting as sharp as his kitchen knives. He turned his back to her as if she was invisible and went back inside. With a foot already inside the shop, he pointed at her.
– Wait for me here. –
Holly stayed there, unmoving, breathing noiselessly. She stayed there waiting for him, her noise turned towards the dark sky, probably already knowing what she'd find at the end of that run.
The evening kept on crashing in a free fall, and Malik couldn't still see the ground on which he was going to crash. He was staring at the lamplight on his nightstand thinking that its warmth was clashing terribly with Holly's sharp voice. Malik was already under the covers, his naked back against the pillow, with Nietzche's On the Genealogy of Morality within his reach, just because in these last weeks he had stopped for a while thinking about how homicide could be possibly legitimate. But he knew he wouldn't have time for reading: Holly kept on throwing up words at him, kicking, putting dots on the is, complaining. At the beginning, he just watched the scene without putting up any opposition, letting himself getting invested as he would have for a Tanztheater performance. Holly seemed angry in the beginning, talking about money, her parents, the deny of trust; the script never changed and the dramaturgy in it was barely average. He could feel the synergy between them fading away, unraveling like wool in water.
Then Holly moved from angry to seducing: it was clear that she was running out of ideas, as clear as the paleness on her legs that she was stretching towards him. Her breast touched his shoulder, she whispered apologies in his ear, drawing his pecs with the tip of a nail. But for Malik, by now, Holly was a siren who lost her charm, and what would have excited him once didn't even touch him now: there was no trembling going on inside his trousers. At that point Holly was saddened and her enthusiasm faded away, like a child's game that's not funny anymore: there was some kind of tenderness in her clumsy attempt to convince him that they'd have solved everything if she gave him a ride. Too bad that right then Malik would have picked Nietzsche over a good old sixty-nine. So he didn't feel guilty when Holly started crying, holding her own waist with her arms to make her breasts look bigger; even worse than a high schooler who doesn't know what to come up with anymore to get her boyfriend's dick up.
Malik didn't want her, and he didn't know how to tell her that. Being kind was a battle. He ran a hand through Holly's hair with a sigh full of pity – to himself, not to her. He knew that nothing was going to cheer him up that evening; he could only hope to open his eyes and find himself in another life. Malik through about what he could tell her to keep her in a good mood, but he couldn't come up with anything. It was as if he didn't know her anymore. It was partially true and partially an exaggeration to say that he hated her; the truth was that he felt hurt, and had been for a long time. He didn't know when it had started, but a good clue was that at some point, waking up in the morning, seeing Holly asleep next to him hadn't made him feel lucky.
Malik just gave up on it and left Holly to handle her own weaknesses. She probably should realize that in order to be desirable you need to be spontaneous, not just having a pretty face and a firm ass. He went to the bathroom, turned the key in the lock and gave his cervix a massage. From the opened window, the sounds of the night came in, along with the post-dinner smells. He let his exhausted head fall back, looking at the ceiling and thinking about decomposition.
It wasn't Nietzsche's influence, just the analysis of a relationship's funeral: Holly's magic that had enchanted him once upon a time now seemed diluted away like watercolors under the rain. It felt unfair, because he did want it. He felt like he deserved comfort, but not from her.
Malik closed the window, beginning to kick Holly out of his thoughts; anyway, she couldn't be the one to jump-start his imagination right now. At the point when even sex was hard, it was granted that their relationship wasn't salvageable anymore. When both affection and seduction are lost in insults and shrugs, what was left was only wanting a solitary, brutal and rough jerk-off to have immediate satisfaction. Malik put a palm on the sink, letting his other hand slip inside his trousers and inside his underwear, like a drop of water on his skin. He was surprised when his friend downstairs reacted at the touch of his fingers like the tickled sole of a foot, which Holly couldn't accomplish even putting effort into it. It was the confirmation that he did want sex, just not with her. Malik okayed himself to proceed and bent over with his back, letting out a sigh that wanted to leave behind the rest of the day. He found himself bent in a ninety-degree position on the sink, breathing like a thirteen year-old at his first self-driven erotic experience. He thought that his last memories of sane, nice sex were far and faded, at least of the sex that when you're done makes you feel like the world is still a good place to live in. He had felt like that with Holly, once, but it was such a far point in the timeline that it wasn't important anymore. Her body, her face, her breasts, her legs, her damp fruit… Malik wasn't feeling the need to bring any of those images to mind while his hand ran, fluid, around his dick, already swollen with great expectations. Not thinking about anything at all was exciting enough, and finally tasting that free pleasure was something he had missed a lot more than eight straight hours of sleep.
The most amusing part of it all was that anyone would have thought him completely mad in that moment: locking himself in the bathroom jacking off like some kind of prisoner in an isolation cell when a beautiful woman – his girlfriend – was lying on his bed in tears. It was an image that smelled rotten, but Malik was adjusted to sail in murky waters and those dirty waters of dissent didn't scare him. The young man's chest was stretched out, following his breathing that was rising quickly in his lungs, while Holly's sobbing from the bedroom tried to latch to his conscience like ticks on a dog. Malik wasn't feeling ashamed of finding that contrast as cruel as it was perverse: she was crying, he was enjoying himself. The wheel spins, karma hits, the chickens coming back to roost, and all that bullshit. His back arched as if during a pilates lesson, and his head sinking down until his chin brushed against his chest. The grip around the cold ceramic of the sink, the need to just blow up and fuck decency, wetness increasing in between the cotton of his underwear and the roughness of his hand… everything smelled like nostalgia in that moment.
He closed his eyes and for a bit he held his breath, playing with his fingers and stimulating his wrist for a little, as much as he needed to be free from the slavery of deprivation. The peak was intense and shocking, as he barely could remember it being. He was good at locking down his teeth and lips at the right time, so that his wheeze of well-earned bliss turned into an ecstatic sigh. He hated doing things slowly, and sex without noise was like a hug without touch, but he had to, and it was a prize torn away from caution. His back trembled, and when a small opening formed in between his lips he let himself succumb to a liberating sigh. He couldn't care less about the mess he might have left behind as the conclusion of that self-celebration. A hungry orgasm, even if in chains, was always an orgasm; and that evening, it surely would have turned out to be the best goodnight. Malik opened slowly the eyes that he had kept closed, eyelids pressed together like two shutters. In front of him, there was just the cream-white of the sink, and a few drops of water scattered over its curved borders, that hadn't still evaporated. On his naked skin, he could feel warmth holding him, and inside his bowels he could feel the rebirth of senses and the revenge of his self-esteem.
In that small temporal frame, he had felt free and pure, like a newborn crying for the first time. He let the grip go around his now spent glory, and he remained there, hanging to the dejection of an emotion already disappearing. Malik walked out of his dream and back into reality, bit by bit: the rumbling sound of the motorcycles in the street, the too-loud volume of a rude neighbor's television, the laughter of the teenagers coming back from the movies; and then, even Holly's sobs, stubborn and inconsolable, reminding him, with all respect, that he was being a real dick about it. He pulled his hand out of his trousers and left it hanging on the sink's edge, wet and heroic like a relay swimmer coming out of the water. He accepted with calm resignation that yes, he was a real dick, and let Holly's crying lull him: a woman already far from his body and his heart, that at this point could have been referred to as someone I used to know. Feeling satiated from his brutal conquest, he stayed there for a bit longer, his nostrils filling with a new smell, pungent but balm-like at the same time: indifference.
