Dos: Chapter 8


The phone rang. And rang again. And again. She listened with bated breath, willing him to be asleep in his barracks while simultaneously wanting him to have phones be allowed in the camp. 

At the seventh ring, a female voice answered, full of sleep, “Attorney Tracy Randall speaking. Who is this, please?”

Her world stopped. The voice, despite sounding as though the owner was unpleasantly and unceremoniously roused from sleep, was what a eucalyptus tree sounds like. It was regal, seductive, cold.

She stared at the screen for what seemed like an eternity, not finding the will or the voice to reply.

How cliché, she thought, if she in turn demanded what she was doing with her man’s phone, who she was, and where they were.

She hung up the phone, still reeling. After a couple of breaths, she carefully parsed what she heard.

“Attorney.” With the inadvertent admission of her profession, Tano immediately knew she had ultimately won against her, although that was far from her intention. What she truly wanted was to be cursed with understanding: why was he not in the barracks, and why did he fuck an attorney, of all people?

Yet this desire for understanding of course presupposes the she does not know his predilections, much less his motives for doing what he does.

This woman attorney, she was certain, thought the power of the vagina is that it’s always on, always wet, ever-conquering dicks lining up the sidewalk. She, on the other had, can turn hers off and think and write like a man. It was like a dam letting jets of water in a time when it was most crucial, granting it all the power a wet cunt can’t even being to fathom. Lawyers have to be certain and have to be one whole person: the trial demands that they take a stand involving their very principles, be their client guilty or not 

All these things entered her head like a trail of glacial water down her spine: having the revelation of certainty, having the finality of a deadline. She felt, yes, betrayed, (but why is it a betrayal? Brandon wasn’t beholden to her, for fuck’s sake), afraid (oh, god, I do love him), and the most traitorous of feelings: sad. All these feelings were racing one another to the finish line, not realizing that numbness was already on the finish line, smiling.

 

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Mental disorders: Thoughts on a whatever something or other

I suppose I could start in plainer English discussing who I am as a layman not trained in psychoanalytic language, and if so will revert to the language that I do use when discussing anything worth discussing: half academic and half wit (indistinguishable at times from being a halfwit). As a layman I chose to major in philosophy, for better or worse, which is a fast track to being witty, or being a halfwit, and other things besides. Or I could start with a bombardment of links mostly pertaining to The Diagnostic Statistical Manual   IV and V  and increasingly technical accounts of co-morbidity and dual diagnoses involving bipolar disorder and borderline personality disorder until we both drown in jargon I will not be able to understand, much less simplify. For DSM-IV diagnostic criteria regarding bipolar disorders types I and II, look at  this  if you want a full jargon drowning, or  this instead  if only for its simplicity and overall pleasant color sche...
Read more

Sketch: "Eye Contact" in Shawn Wong's American Knees

Shawn Hsu Wong is a second-generation Chinese American, born in Oakland, California in 1949. He obtained his undergraduate degree in English at the University of California at Berkeley in 1971 and his Master’s Degree in Creative Writing at the San Francisco State University in 1974. After teaching in several colleges and universities, he is presently a Professor specializing in Creative Writing and Asian American Studies, at the University of Washington, where he is also the director of the University Honors Program. His multi-awarded works include Homebase , first published in 1979, as well as edited and coedited works Aiiieeeee! An Anthology of Asian American Writers (1974) and The Big Aiiieeeee! An Anthology of Chinese America and Japanese America in Literature (1991), among four other anthologies. Wong has been awarded a National Endowment for the Arts Creative Writing Fellowship and a Rockefeller Foundation residency in Italy, and has won several awards including first pr...
Read more

Of finding something again

Image
I just sleep. I sleep to rest, to be away from the world that has given me so much and that I am not a part of anyway, to reset, to die. If only for a while.  I wake up and look at my phone, as all of us do now. The world painfully worlds, with no pauses and preambles: it elbows you in the face with all its glory, its vapid bitches, and all the iterations of the Andrew Tates of humankind. In everything we have a choice, save for one: this world. It is the ultimate given, the ultimate, ungentle, fact, and that we are in it. It doesn't stop. It can't; it doesn't have to. Immediately upon waking I close my eyes and dive deep into the recesses of whatever that was young that's left of me to desperately hunt for reserves of a desire to get up from bed, to work, to be . Two days ago I joked with my lover that I had been tired since 1984, and I think I mean it.  If not for him and another friend that gave me the time of the day in the MMORPG that I returned to, I would have ro...
Read more