Jonathan Lethem - You Don't Love Me Yet

“Everybody’s got wheels,” she said.

“Sorry, I just left mine at home.”

“That’s not what I meant,” she said, too dreamy to explain.

“I don’t like to drive anyplace I can walk,” he said, squinting at the street before them. “I know that outlook’s a rarity in this burg. Still, you learn things at ground level. Don’t get me wrong, though, I love my car. My car is my friend.”

Lucinda labored to breathe, as though he’d robbed her car of its spare oxygen, inhaled it all himself. His shaggy gray hair and shoulders seemed to balloon toward her. Tiny rivulets flowed along her ribs and the backs of her knees. On the barren roadway, streetlamps illuminated the Datsun’s interior in slow-flickering bands. Under cover of a flare of dark Lucinda placed herself against him, rubbed her chin on his arm through the thin, and slightly damp, cloth of his shirt.

“I’m not nervous, but then again I’m not not nervous,” he said, without turning. “I find I actually don’t want to disappoint you.”

“You don’t.”

“Or be disappointed.”

At the block’s end, freeway on-ramp in sight, the complainer leaned her Datsun to the left, pointed it at the darkened curb at the foot of another tower, and rolled it to, then over, the curb. The car’s nose bonked into a metal cable box on the sidewalk, producing a grinding noise. The complainer turned the key in the ignition, killing the engine. They perched there, tilted across the curb, facing the wounded cable box through the windshield.

“If your car’s hurt I’ll pay for any damages.”

“I’m sure it’s fine.” Lucinda slanted her knees, drawing herself across the gearshift. The two of them lurched together, jaws fitting bonily in place, his imperfectly shaved upper lip chafing hers. He pawed the small of her back, fingers soft and huge like a pastry bear claw. She encouraged him, touched arms and shoulders through his flimsy shirt. The windows fogged, the Datsun’s interior massing with exhaled steam. The car might explode, she thought, as she tugged free to consider him.

“What’s your name?”

“Carlton. Carl.”

“Lucinda.”

“Lucinda the complaint girl.”

“Carlton Complainer.”

“Say Carl.”

She said it into his mouth. His hands tangled in her clothes, his clubby fingertips working beneath her brassiere to bridge her ribs, as though measuring her breast. When she opened her eyes she found him inspecting her at close range. Her heart thudded against his palm.

“What?”

“You’re beautiful.”

“Thank you.”

“I want to take your clothes off and do things to you.”

“I want you to do things to me too.”

“But not in the car.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll have to drive us someplace.”

“Your place is close.”

“No.”

She didn’t understand, didn’t care. “Should we go to my apartment?”

“Back to the hotel, I think.” His questing hand toyed with the elastic threshold at her hip bone, made a sudden incursion below.

“Wait, uh, I can’t think when you’re doing that.”

“I need neutral surroundings. This is confusing enough as it is.”

“Oh,” she sighed, pressing herself to his suddenly irresistible hand. She felt she could detect the exact texture of the whorls that tipped his wide fingers. The car teetered with her motion, as if on a crumbling cliff.

“Also they’ve got really good room-service burgers at that hotel.”

“Okay.”

The valet unblinkingly reclaimed her Datsun at the entrance, only panning his gaze to note the scuff the car’s bumper had gained since he’d seen them last. Lucinda stood to one side at the check-in, swaying slightly, while the complainer registered. His touch had concentrated her blood somewhere between stomach and knees, leaving her higher brain entirely to the double scotch, which had perhaps been waiting in abeyance for this moment. The desk clerk, another child, handed over a single key card.

The room was full of unornamented blond wood in clean lines, gleaming chrome fixtures, low glowing lamps, and a vast stainless steel tub, big enough for two kangaroos. Lucinda un-laced her sneakers and sprawled on the king-size bed, framing herself in the sea of cushions, but the complainer turned from her, in no hurry now. Rapidly browsing the complimentary CDs, he clicked one into the player—jazz—then crouched at the minibar. He tossed several miniature bottles to clank against one another in an indented billow of the bed’s comforter.

“Something brown,” he said. “Rum and Coke?”

“What?”

“You taste brown.”

“Scotch.”

“Whiskey’s what we’ve got.”

“Fine. Just come over here soon already.”

Without turning, he said, “Take off your clothes.” He spoke wearily, as if imperfectly resigned to his role.

Lucinda almost hurt herself getting sweater, shirt, and un-fastened brassiere over her head in one clump. The undergarment had been rotated beneath her armpits without her noticing, to form a kind of straitjacket. Tugging the ball of clothing from the neck, she poked herself in the eye. She slid her pants off too, catching her socks with her thumbs so they cocooned within her pants legs, another soft sculpture she deposited at bedside.

Only after she sat, trembling slightly, knees folded, feet crossed under her ass, did he turn and hand her a tumbler, then place himself on the bed’s edge beside her. Some sadness in his eyes made her attempt a joke. “We used to have so much to say to each other.”

“It’s different now, yes,” he said, apparently taking her at face value.

“Why?”

“We’re creating secrets now, instead of telling them.”

“Secrets from who?”

“Whom.”

“From whom.”

“That depends on who you tell your secrets to. Open your legs.”

She did. A long moment passed before he spoke again. “Don’t tell me you don’t confide in anyone.”

He placed his hand on her thigh. Her voice trembled lightly, low in her throat, as she said, “Not anyone. Not right now.” The music in the room was distant, muffled by the pulse in her ears.

“The world is full of tellers. You can’t even sit in a movie theater without hearing people share their thoughts.”

“Not me,” she managed.

“People are frightened of secrets, they remind them of death. Everyone tells just one person, but that person tells a thousand others.”

“Not me.”

“What about the complaint line?”

“I haven’t told anyone about you.”

“You will.”

“Not if you don’t want me to.”

“You can tell anyone anything you want, my name, how we met, whatever. But let’s create one real secret, let’s lock something in this room forever. Like a rock sitting on a beach somewhere, through all time and space.”

His fingers fanned across her stomach, again as if taking her measure. His thumb stretched beneath the curve of her, still not touching where he’d gone so suddenly before. She felt it was possible he could lift his hand and she’d find herself raised to the ceiling aloft.

“You can drink if you want,” he said.

“Thank you.”

“Do you want me to put my fingers inside you?”

“Please, yes.”

“Two?” He raised his glass and uncurled paired fingers to show them to her.

“Yes.”

“Only if you promise it’s a secret forever. I don’t care if it seems stupid to you, just a common act, no big deal. You can’t ever describe this to anyone, neither can I. The way it feels, the look I see on your face, even just the fact that I’m going to do the particular thing I’m going to do.”

“Please do it now.”

“Promise.”

“Why?”