Sluts to text and fuck for free
You cut it out with all the old sucias, even the Iranian girl you’d boned the entire time you were with the fiancée. Takes you a bit, but you finally break clear, and when you do you feel lighter. She’s a big girl with skin like you wouldn’t believe, and, best of all, she doesn’t privar at all; actually seems . You must have needed it bad, because once you get into the swing of it you start running four, five, six times a week. You run in the morning and you run late at night, when there’s no one on the paths next to the Charles. The running is going splendidly, and then six months in you feel a pain in your right foot. K.: you get numbers, though nothing you would take home to the fam. Her name is Noemi, Dominican from Baní, and you meet at Sofia’s in the last months before it closes. She’s a nurse, and when Elvis complains about his back she starts listing all the shit it might be. You used to run in the old days and you figure you need something to get you out of your head. pushes with his thumb, watches you writhe, and announces that you have plantar fasciitis.
You start taking salsa classes, like you always swore you would, so that the two of you can dance together. You phone her every day and leave messages that she doesn’t answer. That makes you so sad that you go home and lie in bed in the dark. I don’t want to go back down the hole, you tell Elvis. Like a hardhead you keep trying to run, but the pain sharpens. Out of nowhere you call the ex, but of course she doesn’t pick up. At the end of the sessions, you move away quickly to wipe down your mat and she takes the hint. You actually become pretty obsessed with yoga, and soon you’re taking your mat with you wherever you go. Most of the time, you suspect that she feels sorry for you. You find yourself crying in front of sporting-goods stores. Yes, she’s really young and you fuck a whole lot, and during the act the two of you cling to each other for dear life, but afterward you peel away like you’re ashamed of yourselves. By the time the doctor appears, you’re crabbed over like an old man. He’s taken up yoga now, having seen what it did for you. She’s doing a year at the business school, and for how much she gushes about Boston you can tell that she misses the D. Boston is really racist, you offer by way of orientation. Soon you’re squiring her around the city and beyond: to Salem on Halloween and one weekend to the Cape. Wedding invitations from the ex-sucias start to arrive in the mail. That year your arms and legs begin to give you trouble, occasionally going numb, flickering in and out like a brownout back on the Island. And because love, real love, is not so easily shed. Because you’ve gone through so much together—her father’s death, your tenure madness, her bar exam (passed on the third attempt). (Well, actually she’s your fiancée, but hey, in a bit it so won’t matter.) She could have caught you with one sucia, she could have caught you with two, but because you’re a totally batshit cuero who never empties his e-mail trash can, she caught you with fifty! Your girl is a bad-ass salcedense who doesn’t believe in open anything; in fact, the one thing she warned you about, that she swore she would never forgive, was . R., to Mexico (for the funeral of a friend), to New Zealand.
Maybe if you’d been engaged to a super-open-minded blanquita you could have survived it—but you’re not engaged to a super-open-minded blanquita. Over a tortured six-month period you fly together to the D. You compose a mass e-mail disowning all your sucias.
She brings her own pillow, one of those expensive foam ones, and her own toothbrush, and she takes it all with her on Monday morning. You send her one exploratory text, but it’s never answered. You two are pushing his daughter’s stroller around the playground near Columbia Terrace.
And you thought this guy was a good idea for what reason? A little kissing, a little feeling up, but nothing beyond that. Within an hour, she has unfriended you on Facebook.
You’re out all the time, but no one seems to be biting. One girl, when you tell her you’re Dominican, actually says, Hell no, and runs full tilt toward the door. One month, two months, three months, and then some hope. You get serious about classes and, for your health, you take up running.
You begin to wonder if there’s some secret mark on your forehead. He’s working for this ghetto-ass landlord and starts taking you with him on collection day. Deadbeats catch one peep of your dismal grill and cough up their debts on the spot. You start three novels: one about a pelotero, one about a narco, and one about a bachatero—all of them suck pipe.
When you see other people hitting the paths, you turn away. You scan the incoming junior faculty for a possible, but there’s nothing. Sometimes Elvis joins you, since his wife doesn’t allow him to smoke weed in the house. Almost all her conversations start with In Santo Domingo. She also scoffs at the idea of racism in Santo Domingo. Of course you end up in bed, and it ain’t bad except for the fact that she never, never comes and she spends a lot of time complaining about her husband. You eventually erase her contact info from your phone, but not the pictures you took of her in bed while she was naked and asleep, never those. Arlenny turns over the cards, quotes Oates: Revenge is living well, without you. When you return to Boston, the law student is waiting for you in the lobby of your building.