Kate Zambreno - Green Girl

Finally he takes his finger out. He licks it. This is supposed to be sexy. Mmmhmm, she purrs as if on cue. I don’t even know your name darling. Ruth hesitates. It’s Vivien, she says. That’s the name of her favorite model. Hi Vivien, I’m Alistair. Hi, she whispers. He kisses her mouth. His chin, patched with black wire, scratches her face. She kisses him back, tentatively at first, then with her mouth open wide, twisting around on his lap.

You smell nice.

It’s Desire, she breathes.

She traces the purple bruise around his eye. Did it hurt? she asks. His eyes flicker mockingly.

She puts her hand on the crotch of his jeans, warm and sweaty. He moans. The vodka-and-cranberries has made her feel all loose and wavy, unsure of herself. Leaning over, she kisses him. Her tongue licking him like a cat, her blonde hair hanging in her face.

She conjures up Deneuve in Belle de Jour . She allows filthy paws on her pristine body.

She has fucked and fucked until there is nothing left of her. How many of the unworthy has she let into her body? She has lost count. This is her “experiment.” She is “experimenting.” Sex is just something else she lets inside of her, like images from TV. She lets anyone, anything inside, to ignore the gnaw of loneliness, which comes anyway.

Does she mourn her young body riddled with violations? She does not know what to mourn.

Of all the terrible things that I have let inside of my body, you are King Terrible.

He stands her up, lifts her skirt up above her waist. He kisses her stomach, nuzzling her through her underwear, his wiry chin poking through. He undresses her like a child.

(This role really calls for nudity. It helps you understand the character more.)

He stands there and looks at her, every porcelain inch of her, a curious expression on his face. To see herself as desirable in their eyes. That is the trade. She presses her breasts against his chest, his crotch. She twitches her tail. She is seductress. She has learned how to be sexy from the covers of men’s magazines.

All I can do is look at her breasts. She has perfect French breasts. They are pert and taut with brownish-pink nipples. I want to stroke them. I am in awe of these lovely breasts — not like mine at all, maternal and massive and saggy.

He strokes her head, he presses it down. She obeys. She kneels down on the cold stone floor with an almost devoutness. On her knees she bows forth unzips his jeans takes his penis with its taste of urine in her mouth and pretends to ravish it. She pretends she is one of the women advertised in the phone booths. This is a part she is playing. It is the part of herself, her self who is not herself. He strokes her head more, tucking her hair behind her ears, almost a gesture of love. She sucks and tugs for a while, then takes it out of her mouth, looking at him. She is a bit bored and her mouth is sore. And her lip gloss feels coated across her cheeks. She wonders if he will give her money for a cab ride home.

She watches him strip off his T-shirt, throw his pack of smokes on the floor, pull off his boots and his jeans. His body covered in a dark fur. She has seen it all before, as if in a dream. But she is not really there. Not really there. She retreats inside her bubble.

She deadens herself. This self, this self not yet formed. What damaging effect can that have, that ability to vacate the premises?

With a moan, he lies down on top of her.

Ruth grits her teeth at the tourists who cannot read the Please Stand On Your Right sign posted above the escalator. It is morning rush hour. She is late. Again. She has overslept. Again. Is she conscious of these tiny insurrections of the self? Her train roars past downstairs.

Excuse me! Excuse me! She pipes up to the crowd of Germans in front of her, cameras swinging like oversized medallions. They either don’t hear or don’t understand or don’t care. She grows more and more furious with every plea. But the Excuse me! comes out the same, high-pitched, fluttering, lost in the air. She does not push herself down the escalator, like she has seen Londoners do.

She misses the whish of the doors of the next train. Business suits dive inside like clowns. A briefcase, hand, tie, knee almost get caught in the door. Ruth gasps. She waits for the next train, the next train, the next, the next. All full.

Finally she catches one that is almost completely empty, like a phantom train. Except for two men in long robes across from her. They are praying hunched over a book. The one with the olive skullcap has muddy sneakers with laces pricked up like elephant ears. The one with the black skullcap bends over his shiny wingtips.

She looks out the window and sees herself reflected in the darkness. She automatically smiles at herself.

Late for work. Again. The terrible girls roll their eyes at each other as she races in, having sprinted from the tube stop, cheeks flushed, head down, muttering inarticulate apologies.

She rushes downstairs towards the locker room. Where’s the fire? Slow down. She can’t. She is always late, late, late. She must pass by the luggage department to go to the locker room. He is behind the desk, leaning back, like he has nothing to do. The boy with the enflamed face. He waves at her as she passes, a lightning bolt, as if he had been expecting her. She waves back.

Once she has stored her belongings in her locker (she just throws them in there, she has forgotten the combination on her lock), she approaches him. She points at herself by way of introduction. Ruth. His red head bobs up and down gently. Rhys. Rhys that’s a nice name where is that from. I’m from Wales. Wow. She says. She doesn’t know why she says that. She doesn’t really know where Wales is. She thinks it’s near Scotland. You’re a temp right? Rhys asks. That’s right. Me too.

Just then the horrible head strolls past them, as if he had been looking for her. His thick leather face frowns.

Well, I’m being beckoned. Sorry. (Why is she always apologizing?) For some reason Ruth feels compelled to hold out her hand. He holds out his long bony hand and they shake. He is freckled all over, little brown spots confusing each other. Nice to meet you, Rhys, was it? A pleasure, Ruth. As if he already knew her name.

And then afterwards, all day, she takes with her a tiny flame of something, what it is, she does not know.

Rush hour. Heading home. Car so crowded everyone crushes up against each other. Smell of spearmint gum, beer, sweat, hairspray, warming chicken breasts collapsing in a plastic Sainsbury’s bag. A man is behind Ruth the entire ride home. He presses up against her. We are partners for the ride she thinks. I allow him to press up against me, to make room. It is almost curiously moving.

She has all of these questions she carries around with her she doesn’t know whom to ask. They are the questions of a child. Sometimes at night she sits up and thinks of these whys, like they are filling a page.

Why do people leave? Why are we here? What happens when we die? This is what she really wanted to know.

Where was her mother? Everyone fed her metaphors and lies. All the answers were excuses. She is with us now. Literally? No, not literally. She needed to know answers. Was her mother there? Actually watching after her? She needed to know.