shrieked, and Althea laughed. It was a laugh that started deep in her throat and swirled out of her mouth like the smoke of a clove cigarette. Sitting in the sun and listening to the soft lowing of cattle, we whiled away a grape-flavored hour of grain alcohol. I unzipped my jeans behind an elm to take a piss and decided to get rid of the rest of my clothes. It was hot anyway. After noting the color of my cock, she slowly put down her drink and leapt from her seat, knocking me into the clover. “Now you’re going to get it.” She sat Indian style on my chest. In the sun, her eyes were the color of crushed brown glass. She tied me to a fence post with jumper cables and sang an off-key rendition of Stevie Wonder into my mouth before she fucked me. She didn’t stop when I came. She rode me til her stomach quivered and her eyes closed. We left a circle of mud in the grass, and my dick was pink again. Extinguishing my cigarette, I leave a round, black mark in the sink. I read the postcard two more times, making eleven total, and set it down on the gas range beside a half-full can of tomato paste. TIME Magazine falls off the counter. I pick it up and take it to the couch. While looking at advertisements for cars, I wonder, Can I take time off of work? Should I take time off of work? I haven’t had sex for two months. That shouldn’t be a consideration. What color is her hair? I don’t have the money for a trip. Do I want to take the chance of it happening again? On page 33, there is a small blurb about the rise of autoerotic asphyxiation among midwestern adolescent boys. I put down the magazine. I will not go. All during the week, I carry the postcard. Tuesday, it’s in my briefcase. Wednesday, it’s a bookmark. Thursday, it’s riding in the back pocket of my pants. Friday before work, I put it under my mattress and try to forget about it. On the way to work, just out of pure curiosity, I buy a Berlitz guide to Budapest. It doesn’t mean anything in particular. My boss is an American named Stu. An ex-patriot of IBM, he says. He has big ears and bushy sideburns. Sometimes, when he’s feeling jocular, I call him Norman Mailer. More often than not, I just call him Stu. We program the computers for Vienna’s public transit system. Today is check day, and when he hands it to me, I tell him I need to take a few days off next week. I’m going to visit an old friend. I stress the word friend, but he doesn’t notice. I almost want him to hassle me a little.
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The Natural Color of Hair