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Granny ny chate

Granny ny chate-52

You walk the beach where they filmed “The Piano,” something she’s always wanted to do, and now, in penitent desperation, you give it to her.

On the ride out to the hotel, up through those wild steeps, you pick up a pair of hitchhikers, a couple so giddy with love that you almost throw them out of the car. Because you’ve gone through so much together—her father’s death, your tenure madness, her bar exam (passed on the third attempt). And because love, real love, is not so easily shed. Your ex never wanted kids, but toward the end she made you get a sperm test, just in case she decided to change her mind. She shows you pictures; kid looks like he’ll be dropping an album if she’s not careful. Sunday is her one day off—the Five-Baby Father watches Justin that day, or, rather, he and his new girlfriend watch Justin that day. Not sweet at all, because Noemi didn’t give it to you! On whether you’re planning to give me ass anytime soon. You know as soon as you say it that you just buried yourself. Then she says, Let me get off this phone before I say something you won’t like. Even these little breakups suck, because they send you right back to thinking about the ex. This time you spend six months wallowing in it before you return to the world. When winter rolls in, a part of you fears that you’ll fold—Boston winters are on some terrorism shit—but you need the activity more than anything, so you keep at it even as the trees are stripped of their foliage and the paths empty out and the frost reaches into your bones. Every time you think about the ex, every time the loneliness rears up in you like a seething, burning continent, you tie on your shoes and hit the paths and that helps; it really does. You wait, what, a week for the bad energy to dissipate and then you start dating. Minuses: she’s always working, and she has a four-year-old named Justin. One of those hot moms, and you’re excited for the first time in more than a year. She’s probably had a lot of bad experiences with the hit-and-run types. But it galls you that she gave it up to some thug with no job, no education, no nothing, and now she’s making you jump through hoops of fire. she asks when she next calls, and you almost say yes, but then your idiocy gets the better of you. Where was that guard when she let the banilejo fuck her without a condom? Besides, it only happens when you’re not looking for it. You run so hard that your heart feels like it’s going to seize. You lose all that drinking and smoking chub, and your legs look like they belong to someone else. Along the inside arch, a searing that doesn’t subside after a few days’ rest. I should have done this years ago, you declare, and your friend Arlenny, who never, ever messed with you (Thank God, she mutters), rolls her eyes. She smiles often, and whenever she’s nervous she says, Tell me something. Normally that would be a no-go, but Noemi is not only nice, she’s also kinda fly. She is instantly guarded, and that adds to your irritation. 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.

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 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.

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.

Elvis brings you food and sits with you while you eat. Classes start, and by then the squares on your abdomen have been reabsorbed, like tiny islands in a rising sea of lard. In Santo Domingo I’d never be able to meet you like this, she says with great generosity. Everywhere you two go she shoots photos, but never any of you. Write, you tell her, and she says, Por supuesto, and, of course, neither of you does. You have a sucia in town, too, and in the end you call her, but when she hears your name she hangs up on your ass. And, on closer inspection, that her ridiculously Persian-looking eyes are red from crying, her mascara freshly applied.

(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 She’ll stick around for a few months because you been together a long, long time. You claim you’re a sex addict and start attending meetings.

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.

Boston, where you never wanted to live, where you feel you’ve been exiled, becomes a serious problem. His back and buttocks and right arm are so scarred up that even you, Mr. You go to the barber, shave your head for the first time in forever and cut off your beard.