"You wouldn't be the first dyke pimp," he sighs.
"Hey, watch your language," she snaps, "it's hustler. Now git before I hustle your ass on the corner for aluminum cans."
Stephanie peeks over his shoulder at the bathroom mirror, minutely adjusting an eyebrow, and says, "Don't be jealous, Will. If you had to try to satisfy this woman you'd probably choose the corner after a few days. It's a constant struggle for me, and I'm perfect."
"I don't think he even knows which one of us he's supposed to be jealous of," Cray says, her face faire la moue. "It's both of us, dummy. We're awesome together or apart. Get to fucking work!"
Will dodged elbow, knee, and fist feints until he cleared the bathroom door. Kitchen toast, counter keys, hall jacket, front door. He was out and running hard. He had this routine depressingly memorized by his limbs. He would arrive just in time to get his left hand lodged, up to the wrist, in the number 85 bus doors. Thirty five seconds of enduring the bus driver's Armenian or Turkish cursing before feeding the till and disappearing to the back where he could hide between the two obese black men that rode this route every day.
The two men, named Chester and Cecil in Will's narrative, spent the whole ride in a constant dialogue, a cadenced patter that always sounded the same but nevertheless was always timely and pertinent. Ninety percent of Will's knowledge of current events came from unconsciously absorbing the details of their morning broadcast which was delivered while looking straight ahead. They were consistent, practically savant: local weather, global weather, local news, global news, local crime, global crime, local culture, European culture, Asian current events, surf conditions on various continents. At Will's stop they were almost always discussing the conditions of the best surfing beaches in New Zealand. Will wasn't sure what came after the daily surf report, but it was the closest thing to sports that they talked about during his ride.
"Strong northerlies in Wellington today hitting gale force on the exposed coast. This is keeping any swell knocked flat at Lyall Bay..." was the last thing Will's brain absorbed as he stepped over to the rear exit doors.
"Hey, watch your language," she snaps, "it's hustler. Now git before I hustle your ass on the corner for aluminum cans."
Stephanie peeks over his shoulder at the bathroom mirror, minutely adjusting an eyebrow, and says, "Don't be jealous, Will. If you had to try to satisfy this woman you'd probably choose the corner after a few days. It's a constant struggle for me, and I'm perfect."
"I don't think he even knows which one of us he's supposed to be jealous of," Cray says, her face faire la moue. "It's both of us, dummy. We're awesome together or apart. Get to fucking work!"
Will dodged elbow, knee, and fist feints until he cleared the bathroom door. Kitchen toast, counter keys, hall jacket, front door. He was out and running hard. He had this routine depressingly memorized by his limbs. He would arrive just in time to get his left hand lodged, up to the wrist, in the number 85 bus doors. Thirty five seconds of enduring the bus driver's Armenian or Turkish cursing before feeding the till and disappearing to the back where he could hide between the two obese black men that rode this route every day.
The two men, named Chester and Cecil in Will's narrative, spent the whole ride in a constant dialogue, a cadenced patter that always sounded the same but nevertheless was always timely and pertinent. Ninety percent of Will's knowledge of current events came from unconsciously absorbing the details of their morning broadcast which was delivered while looking straight ahead. They were consistent, practically savant: local weather, global weather, local news, global news, local crime, global crime, local culture, European culture, Asian current events, surf conditions on various continents. At Will's stop they were almost always discussing the conditions of the best surfing beaches in New Zealand. Will wasn't sure what came after the daily surf report, but it was the closest thing to sports that they talked about during his ride.
"Strong northerlies in Wellington today hitting gale force on the exposed coast. This is keeping any swell knocked flat at Lyall Bay..." was the last thing Will's brain absorbed as he stepped over to the rear exit doors.
