Paula Bomer - Two Years

No you can't. No one can. I can't either. He tries to tell her that that is what he doesn't like about her, the what don't you like about me, I can change. The sheer lack of pride. He can barely look at her when she starts in with that pathetic shit. How could he have let it go on for two years? Two years…

So what happens next? He already started fucking that girl in Portland, the one with the nice Volvo. She stunk of money. And she lived far away. Although he could see a future with her, her money, her scowl, her no-bullshit attitude. The opposite of Sonia's wimpiness. He needs a hard-headed woman, just like Cat Stevens says. Meanwhile, lots of hang-ups on the machine. Then a message from her. I need to talk to you. He doesn't call back. More hang-ups. Then a week later, another message. And then, a week after that, he picks up for some reason and it's her. Just let me see you one more time. I need to talk to you. OK, he says, I'll drive over in the cab, I'm driving tonight.

He drives over. It's dark, around 9 P.M. He honks. He's not parking. He's not going in there. The cab idles in front of the yellow house where she lives. He sees her come out the door and he steps out of his cab, leans against it. It makes him feel secure. She's lost weight, she's even skinnier than before. Her hair seems longer, stringier. She's wearing a tight miniskirt, like always. Those skinny legs look like he could break them with two fingers. She walks down the steps and onto the sidewalk. He folds his arms. He's not gonna let her make him feel guilty. He doesn't owe her anything, except seven hundred bucks. He doesn't owe her himself though, he doesn't owe her. He's afraid she's gonna fall down, she seems so weak, so pale, so helpless. Did he do this? It's her life, it's not his responsibility. Give me one more chance she whispers, and he can barely hear her, the motor of the cab hums loudly. Did he read her lips? Please, give me one more chance, I can change, she croaks. One more, one more. But his arms remain folded, and he shakes his head, no. He gets in the cab and he sees out of the corner of his eye that she's walking back to the yellow house, and he's so relieved, he was afraid that she'd do something crazy, jump on the cab, throw herself at him, and he drives away, wishing he could go all the way to Portland tonight.

Ah, Sarah in Portland. Lays there like a board, but her pussy's as slick as a seal. When she comes, she makes the tiniest of noises, moves her hips one centimeter. Blip. And it's over. It's as if all that money keeps her mind off of her body. It's a relief. It's… low pressure. It feels like fucking a wife would. No more screaming and thrashing about. No more hysteria. No more Sonia! No more.

Curt drives, his breath a little uneven, to a parking lot behind a convenience store. There, he rolls down his window and smokes half of a joint. It costs fifty bucks to lease a cab for the night. He needs to make at least fifty bucks. Christ, he wants to do more than break even. The pot starts numbing his mind. He feels better. He feels relieved. A tiny bit of sadness creeps into him, but he shrugs it off.

He pulls over to the cab stand on Harvard Avenue. A gaggle of BU girls walks down the street, swinging their glistening hair around in the clear New England night. They get in the cab in front of him and he pulls up to take its place, then turns on the radio and a Rush song is playing and he thinks, this is good, this is a good sign, and he takes his hands off the wheel, and with the utmost precision, air drums all of the fills. Tonight he'll try his luck with the rest of the college students in Boston, those girls out on the town who, drunk and terrifyingly young, hopefully will need a ride somewhere, and pay him to give it to them.

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Paula Bomerhas an M.A. in creative writing from the City College of New York. Her work has appeared in Global City Review, Open City, Feed, Ms., and other publications.

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"Two Years," © 2000 by Paula Bomer, first appeared in Nerve (Nerve Publishing LLC, 2000); www.nerve.com. Reprinted by permission of the author.