Don't Cry by Mary Gaitskill

Author:Mary Gaitskill [Gaitskill, Mary]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Short Stories (Single Author)
ISBN: 9780307378064
Google: sX6Gx9ninO4C
Barnesnoble:
Goodreads: 7031537
Publisher: Vintage
Published: 2009-03-24T04:00:00+00:00

Time and again, the curtain parted: Served by stylish hostesses, we sat in ornate chairs, drinking martinis and eating caviar on toast. A lurid dream of music surged around us, mixed with the globule voices of strangers bent double, triple with personality We held hands and kissed across the table; Dani said, “If we have sex again, I don't want us to be drunk.” Drunk already, I took a ring out of my pocket, a flat amethyst I had bought that day. I had not bought it for her, but I gave it to her. “I love you,” I said. “We can't be together, and maybe we'll never even have sex again. But I love you.” Rosy young heterosexuals burst into laughter, gobbling olives and peanuts and beautiful colored drinks in shimmering glasses. Another time, we sat side by side in a modest music hall, my arm around her low back, feeling the knobs of her fiery spine. We were there because Dani knew the singer in the band, a sexy blonde no longer in her first youth. She sang “Today I'm Yours” and the music made shapes for her words: a flower, a rainy street in spring, an open hand, a wet, thumping heart. Each shape was crude and colored maybe a little too vividly with feeling. But we wanted those shapes and that feeling. My father was dead, and the writer Dani had once left me for was dead, too. We were not young anymore. “Today I'm Yours.” It was a crude and romantic song. But human feeling is crude and romantic. Sometimes, it is more vivid than anyone could color it. In some faraway badly smudged mirror, Dani's striking arm flashes again and again; her face is in an almost featureless trance, and my twisted mouth is the only thing I can see of myself.

“Here,” she said, handing the taxi driver a bill. “Wait until she gets in the door, okay?” The cab bucked forward, and her hard, dear face disappeared in a rush of starless darkness and cold city lights. I woke sprawled half-naked in a room with all the lights on, the phone in one hand, my address book in the other, open to the page with Dani's number on it.

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