Zachary Karabashliev - 18% Gray

“Hello!” I yell. No answer. “Hello?!” What is she doing in there, shooting up or something? I don’t even know her name. What’s her name — Stacy? Tracy? Daisy? The bathroom door opens and a perfect, wet female body enters the room. Look at that. This journey is beginning just wonderfully. Nine days without my wife and I score a drunk Pamela Anderson. She moves closer, looking me straight in the eye. She passes me and jumps onto the bed. She gets on all fours and shakes the mattress, as if trying to check its firmness. She presses her breasts down while lifting her ass up. She looks like a cat stretching and sharpening her nails. Her index finger gestures come here and points toward her waxed, perked-up pussy. I understand that I have to lick. I kneel on the floor, so my mouth is at the right height. I stick my tongue in her and start licking, sucking, biting, snorting, suckling, massaging with my lips, blowing, spitting, and growling. My hands glide across her tight belly (how many hours spent weekly at the gym?), caress her round breasts, return to her ass, grab her waist, spank the firm globes, slide under, and rub her clitoris. At some point, she starts moving more energetically. She thrusts herself harder in my mouth, pushes my tongue back, and gets into a rhythm. I lick, I lick, I lick, I lick, and lick. She becomes more aggressive with her thrusts. I go deeper with my tongue. I dig in tighter. The muscle under my tongue hurts. I stop licking and start sucking. I suck. I suck. I suck her, as if sucking the poison from a snake bite. I want to suck Stella out of there and spit her back — whole, beautiful and real, fragrant as linden blossom, salty as the sea, and silent as the night. I want her, I want her, I want her.

“Come here, big boy.” Tracy/Stacy/Daisy looks over her shoulder at me, flips over, and pulls me between her thighs. “Come here.” Her experienced hand grabs my cock. What I don’t understand is what happened to my erection. There is a numb reptile hanging between my legs. She patiently starts stroking it with one hand, while rubbing her breasts with the other. Her eyes are half-closed. Blood vessels show through the flushed skin of her neck. Her nipples are big and brown. I reach across her body and switch off the reading lamp. Then I help her get back in her previous pose, so I can continue with my tongue and buy some time until the anaconda wakes up. In the semi-darkness, her body is sliced by the yellow street light cutting through the blinds. I try more energetically with my tongue but nothing really happens. Not only my penis, but my neck gets limp, too. I can hardly hold my head up. And then, who knows why, I decide to stick my index finger in her anus. She jerks away, pushes me off of her, and jumps off the bed. She collects her scattered clothes without saying a word.

Where are you going Tracy/Stacy/Daisy? Where did you come from, and whom are you trying to forget? A moment later, I see her silhouette wobbling through the bright rectangle of the door, which slams behind her. Her footsteps fade down the hallway. And then it’s quiet. I get up and drag myself to the bathroom. I have no better idea of what to do before going to sleep. Plus, I always feel better in the morning if I drop a rope after a night of drinking. I ease my ass down on the wet toilet seat and look around for something to read, out of habit. I notice her thong in the bathtub. I reach over and grab it. I touch it to my cheek and close my eyes. I recreate her perky ass, her goose-bumped vagina, and the large nipples of her silicon breasts. I quickly wrap up my business, get out of the bathroom, and throw myself across the bed. With her wet thong in my hand, I masturbate, squirt it toward the ceiling, and fall asleep, unable to make it back to the bathroom.

*

For several years, my band cycled through members, my country — governments, and Stella and I — cheaper and cheaper apartments. Then suddenly everything fell apart. Our bass player took a job as a customs officer and left, the drummer married a pop singer and both of them took off on a cruise ship to earn a living, and, on top of everything else, the lead singer caught a disease of the larynx and became practically mute. I tried playing with a couple of other bands, but it wasn’t working. I couldn’t make myself play other people’s songs at restaurants. I spent less and less time with the guitar. Stella and I both graduated and had to find a more dignified way to surrender to reality. She could become a school teacher, I — a journalist at some local newspaper, taking pictures and writing. With our earnings, we could choose to be either permanently hungry and live closer to downtown, or be only semi-hungry and live in one of the ugly, government-built projects outside the city. We chose the latter. It was winter. We moved our stuff in a friend’s Opel.

The building was in a gray, concrete neighborhood, a safe haven for gusty winds. The one-bedroom apartment was on the top floor, the balcony faced northeast, the walls were moist, and snow blew in through the loose, uninsulated windows. There was no central heating and Stella hated being cold. It was so cold there.

The good thing about this concrete box was that it had a view of the airport. Low-flying airplanes would interrupt our conversations, reminding us that something better awaited us someplace else. From time to time, when Stella wasn’t home, I’d warm my fingers on the brown electric radiator and pull out the guitar to play a little. My old songs, however, sounded somewhat two-dimensional, and no new tunes would come to me. I started getting used to the notion that maybe making music was not my calling. I doubted my talent. Did I even have any talent at all? In that cold apartment, however, it was impossible to think about those things.

I had to do something. I had to leave. We had to leave together no matter what!

I spent months looking for the best way to leave the country. The easiest way was to continue our education. We both knew perfectly well where we wanted to go: America. We were both tired of waiting for our lives to start.

*

After a night like the last one I can’t sleep in, which makes the next day not only painful but also long. In the window, I see the bluish light of a morning I don’t want to live out, yet can’t postpone, either. I eat a few triangles of Toblerone and leave the rest for later. I stay in the shower for a long time trying to somehow arrange the events of the last two days in my head. The only proof of the reality of what has happened is the bag in my trunk. If I manage to trade it wisely, I’ll make a decent amount of money, I’ll buy myself some time, I’ll buy the equipment I need, and I’ll do only what I want to do. What do I want to do, though? What do I want to do? And would it bring Stella back? I step out of the shower. There are three chocolate letters left on the table — O N E.

*

— i’ve never seen you cry

— i never cry

— you don’t want to?

— no, i just can’t

— what if i die?

— if you die, i’ll cry

— a lot?

— maybe not a lot

— a little?

— a little — yes

— but you’ll cry

— of course i will

— cry now, then

— i can’t, i told you

*

The car is cold and smells of coconuts. I’ve hung six air fresheners on the rearview mirror. The clock blinks 5:40 A.M. Until I have my first espresso, nothing good can happen, so I try to remember the location of the coffee shop from last night. I find it at the corner of Henderson and Grand. I park in front of it and wait in the car until the doors open at six.

I go in. I order two doubles. I sit near the window, take out one of the notebooks I bought yesterday, and quickly scribble the few sentences that are roaming around my sleepy head. I open the road atlas I bought from Walmart for $4.97. I unfold it. There are at least two major routes I can take to the East Coast. If I take I-15 to Utah and then Highway 70 across Colorado, Kansas, and Indiana, I’ll reach Ohio. Then 79 to 80 and then directly to New York, which is my final destination. I have traveled this route already. I’m familiar with it, so I don’t even need the atlas. It’s picturesque and I like it a lot. That’s why I take the other one — whatever’s left of the legendary Route 66—Arizona, New Mexico, Texas, Oklahoma, Missouri, Illinois, Indiana, Ohio, Pennsylvania. . to the East Coast.