Part 4 (2/2)

-Yeah, thanks. I started feeling better the next day.

-Good, good. So, how long have you lived here?

Sonja appeared nervous, and it was making him a little edgy too. But when she spoke his unease evaporated. Her voice was like nothing he'd heard - it was young, but not really a girl's voice, and that accent, whatever it was, it was so cute. He wanted to hear it more.

-Too long, she said. About two years. My dad's in hospital. But we're able to keep the flat.

-Oh. I'm sorry.

-That's okay.

-You like it here? Whitey asked.

-Nah. I don't know, it's a bit - -Yeah, I know.

-Actually, I've got another favour to ask you, she said, looking down at the bench.

-Yeah, okay, but I've, um, got friends coming over, maybe.

-Oh.

-But ask me, he said, and leaned on the bench next to her.

-Okay. I've, um, got this a.s.signment from school, for English. We have to write about our community. I was hoping I could ask you some questions about, you know, living here, in these flats.

-Sure, I guess, but I'm not sure I'm what you're after.

-But you're easy to talk to, I mean, think I can talk to you. Is it okay?

-Yeah, why not? Be fun to do some homework!

He opened the bottle while she went back home to get her a.s.signment book. He drank half a tumblerful of the metallic wine and spat out some cork. The drink was quenching but hot. He found the soaked cork piece and put it in the sink. He would have to think of something to say to Sonja if anyone came to score. Or maybe he should just tell her the truth? He wanted to be honest with her. But he also wanted her to like him. Because he liked her. She kept getting prettier every moment he glanced at her. He had never been able to tell when girls liked him. It always seemed to come out of the blue. And when girls he had been into weren't attracted to him, it didn't really bother him. Of course it stabbed at first, but he was able to lose interest fairly quickly. But he wanted Sonja to like him. Did she? Or was she just a friendly girl, thanking him for the lift to the hospital? That seemed more likely. But he hoped that it was more. He hoped that she would come back with her a.s.signment, like she said.

They sat at his coffee table, she on his two-seater, he on a cus.h.i.+oned milk crate. Maleness had shocked her nostrils when she'd come right into his flat. But it wasn't offensive. It was so his. And she hoped she wouldn't get used to it - it made her feel alive. She'd had to quickly draw up the English task, because it was a lie that had come to her in the moment. It was reasonable though. Her English teacher, and the careers counsellor, had told her to write about anything that she felt she should write about. Of course, they were encouraging her to attempt several scholars.h.i.+ps when they'd suggested it, but this would be something she really wanted to write about. Since the hospital, Patrick had become such an inspiration. He was handsome, but not egotistical - as far as she could tell - he was independent, but looked quite young. He seemed a bit shy, and she found this so appealing when she thought about how the boys at school acted. And he lived here, in Brunei Court, where she thought only people with financial and social problems lived - Loserville, the kids at school called it. But Patrick wasn't a loser. He was an angel.

While she got ready to ask her first invented question, Sonja and Patrick smirked at each other. He poured another gla.s.s of wine.

-Would you like one? Oh. Sorry, are you old enough?

-No, um, not really, but I would like one.

He got her a gla.s.s.

-Will this be all right with ya mum?

-Yeah, she said, because it was too late now, and maybe her mother wouldn't care anyway. Maybe.

The bottle, a deep vein, was between them. Like cherries, or blood, the wine was on her lips and her teeth.

-So, she began, reading from a hastily manufactured script: where were you living and what were you doing before you moved here?

-Okay - And he told her.

His story was proved almost immediately when two guys came knocking. Bought some marijuana. Sonja witnessed a criminal act. But it seemed far removed from what she'd expected of a transaction deserving of jail time.

She asked to look at the drugs. She had never seen them before. They looked appealing, like food. She asked for another gla.s.s of wine.

-Now, you see. I don't think you can use me as your, um, interviewee.

-Well, no. I guess I can't tell my teacher. I don't want to get you in trouble.

-Sorry. I know it's probably heavy for you. I don't know why I agreed to talk to you. But I did want you to come back. So - -Thank you, Patrick. And it's not really heavy. I mean, it kind of is, but now that I've seen it, you know, drug dealing, it's not heavy at all.

-Ya know, I don't usually like people calling me Patrick, everyone calls me Whitey, but I like the way it sounds when you say it.

He poured them each a gla.s.s of wine.

-Patrick, she said.

-Jesus, now we're getting too deep, he said, and they both laughed.

He took another sip of the still-coursing wine. He leaned back on the crate, supporting himself with his arms behind him, his hands, veined with dark wineblood, spread on the floor. She saw the trickle of hair below his navel again. His eyes were closed, but his mouth was open. She was a little drunk. She'd never felt drunk before. She'd had wine, even vodka, but it had just made her sleepy. This was the opposite. This was an awakening. Patrick looked so beautiful. He smelt so delicious. She knew she could fall in love with him. She knew she already had. Whereas an hour ago it was an intense but unidentifiable feeling, now it was omnipresent, and nothing could be more right. She leaned across the two-seater and had to drop a bare knee to the floor. She kissed him on the mouth, quickly, and then again, long enough to taste his wine. He brought himself forward and looked at her, maybe a bit shocked, but he smiled and kissed her back. He moved so his arm was around her waist and she between his legs. He kissed her again and the wine, separated into tumblers a few minutes before, was re-flowing in their mouths.

His breath was hot, and his body so hard and strong. His face was soft as he moved from kissing her mouth to all over her face. And her neck. It drove her crazy. She was no longer drunk.

Her little black-and-red dress had bunched up on her thighs, and she could see him looking at her panties. Tutti-frutti they said. She wondered why she'd worn them. They were so little-girly. She took them off - she felt like they would burn if they didn't come off - and pulled the dress over her head between his kisses.

-Take your s.h.i.+rt off, she demanded. She couldn't believe she'd said it. A new her had taken over. One that she hadn't even met an hour ago.

She saw that the trickle of hair on his stomach was alone on his skin. Until he rolled off his jeans.

-Are you sure? he said.

-Do I feel it? she said.

She rubbed her readiness on the top of his thigh. And he was inside her, and kissing her. It hurt. He pushed it so hard and fast. But the pain was soothed as he kept pus.h.i.+ng. Slower, but with a pa.s.sion she would never have imagined a man could have.

-What about - should I stop? he asked.

-Please, no, she said.

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