The Show House by Dan Lopez

Author:Dan Lopez
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781944700294
Publisher: The Unnamed Press
Published: 2016-11-25T16:00:00+00:00

HIS EXCEPTIONAL DIGITS ECLIPSE THE SWAROVSKI stemware on display in the mall’s atrium galleria. Despite such large hands he manages to avoid looking clumsy or silly while handling the delicate crystal, yet for all his deftness he retains a measure of irreverence in the way he flips the champagne flutes as if they were pistols up for inspection.

“Yup,” he says, affecting a drawl. “Gen-u-ine crystal. Woo-wee.”

You grin.

“Them’s fancy fixin’ for vittles.” He twirls them in figure eights through his fingers.

“You’re going to break something,” you warn, marveling at his quarter-sized thumbnails and the robust tendons radiating across the smooth backs of his olive hands, the Virgin on his forearm dancing.

He shoots you the finger.

“It’s coming out of your allowance if you do.”

He laughs and moves away. “You funny, papi, you know that?”

“Sure,” you say.

He buries his hands in his hair. Since that first night at Independent Bar he’s allowed the close crop to grow a bit, so now his hair resembles the thick coat of a short-haired cat. He looks better shaggy, more at ease, and you tell him so. He accepts this in his customary languid way, then he moves on, elbows akimbo, slouching beneath the fenestrated rotunda.

“So,” he says, bending a toothy smile, “whatcha buying me?” A hint of the drawl clings to his words.

“Something respectable. I’m tired of seeing you wear the same ratty T-shirts.”

Arching an eyebrow, he asks if you’d prefer him to go around topless. Then he peels back the hem of his shirt, exposing his flat stomach.

“And wearing a collar,” you say. “Then we can burn this whole fucking place down.”

He grins. “Aren’t I a lucky girl?”

“That all depends. Do lucky girls get spanked?”

“Hmm.” Meandering deeper into the atrium, he nods in a way that either demonstrates his appreciation or signals the opening salvo to a deep offense. You have trouble telling the difference with him.

“I could use some new kicks,” he suggests. “That is, if I get a say.”

“Of course. Why wouldn’t you?”

“Just checking, sir.”

He bends down before a narrow infinity pool to study its ripple-free sheen. From his back pocket, he produces a Moleskine notebook that you bought for him. He jots down a few words, then stashes it away again.

“Let me get a quarter,” he says.

“Why?”

“Yo, don’t be a cheap ass.”

You stare at him, unflinching.

“Come on, I wanna make a wish. You want it to come true, don’t you?”

“Sure.”

“Well, then give me a quarter and quit being a bitch.”

You dig in your pocket and extract a grimy coin. “It’s the only one I got, so make it count.” As you press it into his warm palm, you ask what he’ll wish for.

He makes a quick sign of the cross with it, then tosses the coin into the water. “Can’t say.”

“That’s a raw deal.”

He shrugs. “Hey, man, I don’t make the rules.”

“What about a hint?”

He thinks about this for a minute, figuring his spiritual calculus, then says, “Yeah, all right. I think that’s allowed.”

In a flash, he’s down on his knees barking and sniffing your crotch.

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