"Zoo City" - читать интересную книгу автора (Beukes Lauren)

PART TWO.

26

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Yellow light slicing across my pillow like a knife would be the appropriate simile, but it feels more like a mole digging its way into my skull through my right eyeball. There is a boy in my bed, or at least I think it's a boy. It's hard to judge gender by the back of someone's head. But I have my suspicions, based on the sandy curls and the snippets of last night that my brain is starting to defrag.

A man built like a tank in a red and black tuxedo beside the velvet rope, because I couldn't face going to Mak's to get fucked up.

"Ro off tonight?"

"You want I can give him a message?"

"Can I give you my phone number?"

"Baby, you can definitely give me your phone number."

"Get out," I half-shove, half-drag the curly headed thing out of my bed by the ankle and dump him on the floor.

"This is something special," Babyface Dealer says, chopping out another line, grainy like salt crystals on the dashboard of his car. Technically, he's not supposed to indulge with his customers. I can be very persuasive.

It burns going up, like speed cut with rat poison. He says that's just the magic. Sloth whimpers unhappily. Then the inside of my head lights up like a Christmas mall display and my heart surges up in my chest and the world drops away in graceful slow-mo.

"What the hell?" Babyface Dealer yanks at the sheets around his legs.

A girl gyrates with an albino python in one of the elevated archways, pulling it between her legs and bucking her hips. It's the drugs or maybe her shavi, but lust seems like a tangible current moving through the crowd on the dancefloor.

A used condom is still attached to his limp dick.

"House special," Babyface Dealer says in the bathroom as he chops out another line. "Specially imported."

"Odious maximus." I giggle and he shushes me, but I'm not sure if it's because he doesn't want to be bust or if I'm not supposed to mention Odi's name.

"It was wonderful. You were great. Now get the fuck out of my house."

There is a singer from Mali up on stage crooning into the microphone. Also specially imported. Or maybe procured. "Not exactly a house," Babyface Dealer says, yanking on his pants, commando, over the shrivelled condom. "Is it, love?"

I tip the marine biology student bartender my last R1000. "Buy yourself an oceanarium, honey."

"Don't get mugged and die on your way out," I snap. He slams the door behind him.

Despite the evidence, I consider going to the pharmacy for the morning-after pill. Maybe a shot of anti-retrovirals. Sloth is not speaking to me. He refuses to move from his perch in the cupboard and when I try to pull him out, he hits out at me, scratching my cheek. I had it coming.

I strip the bed, bundle up the sheets and throw them out the window. They get caught up in the branches of the trees below and hang there like dead things. Flaccid ghosts. Or my own personal white flag.

I think I've been here before. Rock fucking bottom.