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Show before. Get off this ship, she repeats. I'll think about it, I say. Don't think about it, she says. Her hand is between my legs, moving easily. From the table I see Alexis and his friend leering at us as they argue. Deliberation is for old men, she says. I touch her breast, then take it in my hand. Her head falls to my chest. My hand follows the slight weight of her flesh as it rises and falls with her breathing. I think I'm sick, she says. It will pass, I say. But I realize that her fingers are suddenly still, her breathing shallow. We'll go, I say, but it is too late. As I start to lift her head, her mouth opens, and my shirt, Paco's shirt, is suddenly wet. From the blue silk rises the stench of her vomit. There is nothing to be done. I hold her head and look around the room. Alexis and his friend have settled at the far end of the table, have a new bottle between them, have apparently resolved their dispute. The music is gone, the lights dimmer than before. I stroke her hair, wait for more sickness, but none comes. She is breathing in gulps. I will have to move her soon. The ship rhythmically lurches, hesitates, and leans back. Empty cans roll back and forth across the floor. The cabin door bangs heavily at its frame. |
