Jonathan Lethem - You Don't Love Me Yet

“Because if it’s a secret it’s going to change how it feels. I want you to feel that.” He sipped from his tumbler once more and set it aside.

“I promise.”

One hand still bridged on her stomach, he reached with his other for her mouth. Lucinda gobbled his fingers avidly, slicking them. She heard her own zoological sounds, not only a snort as she widened her throat and breathed around his knuckles but also a hum and squeak deep in her chest.

“Don’t give it a name,” he said. “Don’t even mention it to me.”

“Uhnn.”

“This doesn’t need a name,” he repeated, then moved his two fingers from her mouth and pushed them inside her.

“Oh, god.” She took another drink, too much, and when she tried to swallow felt a sticky trickle of whiskey leak from the corners of her mouth, over her chin.

“Enough now,” he said, and took the glass from her.

“Don’t take your hand away,” she said, her voice very small.

“Shhh. I won’t.”

“I’m—”

“Shhh.” He moved deeper, pressing his thumbprint to her clit. She abruptly came, shuddering against his whole arm with her swaying body, grasping at his back through his damp shirt.

the jazz ran out sometime without Lucinda noticing. He never restarted it, though they quit the bed several times to rearrange the lights, to draw the shades against the wall of offices that faced them, to run water in the basin to splash and slurp, to wash her scent off both their faces, though not before she’d sampled herself from his chin and nose. Lucinda was in a hotel robe and then out of it again. His body, once he removed his clothes, was thick. More generous than Matthew’s, than anybody’s. It surprised her how little she minded. His penis too. His hair, white at his throat, darkened below the curve of his stomach, as though night’s setting had recorded itself across the field of his body. The television was on for a while, music videos they drowned with their own groans. When her foot swept a miniature bottle from blocking the digital clock face it read one thirty.

He forced her to wait once until she couldn’t wait anymore and then when she came it was enormous, and she began laughing and couldn’t stop for a while.

“That was the funny one,” he said.

“Are you counting?” she said, still laughing.

“Sure, and giving them all names too, and that was the funny one.”

“What were the others?” She panted to a halt.

“The fast one, the big one, the ugly one, and the one where you kicked me.”

“The funny one was the big one.”

“You can have your own names.”

“You weren’t there, you don’t know.” She laughed again. “And none of them were ugly. Fix me another drink.”

“Another another.”

“Yes.”

Unexpectedly he was shy, donning his robe each time he went to the minibar.

“Carl?” It was the first time she’d said his name since the car.

“Yes?”

“Who is this a secret from?”

“Nobody, really. Not on my end.”

“Oh.”

“You?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

They were both in robes when the room-service guy, another eager child in a hotel costume, arrived with two flying saucer–shaped covers, lifting them like a magician to present their hamburgers. He placed the tray on the foot of the bed and while the complainer scribbled on the check he gawked at the state of the room with open delight. He thanked them and told them to have a good night like they were beautiful and crazy, then backed from the room in dazzled wonder, as if having gazed on the masters of some performance art. The complainer muted the television, the bejeweled rappers and squirming entourages now trapped behind aquarium glass. He slapped at tiny bottles of ketchup and mustard, pooling them, red and yellow side by side, in the center of his plate, then dipping his burger’s bitten edge to swirl the colors together.

“I think the staff likes us,” Lucinda said through a mouthful of hamburger. The warmth of the meal drew her toward helpless drowsiness.

“Probably they’re massed in the hallway with their ears to the wall.” He wore mustard on his upper lip. “Probably I could make a room-service call without the telephone.”

“More whiskey.”

“You haven’t finished the last one.”

“More burgers,” she said, raising her burger.

“More bed, more music, more night.”

“Room service, bring me a room.”

“Exactly.”

The liquor ran out and he kept making her drink water, insisting she’d thank him later. Maybe that was because he was older, maybe that was what passed for wisdom in a place and on a night like this, between two such people as themselves. Lucinda sucked droplets from the last of the little bottles instead, slurped the residue from her glass. Burger wreckage still at their feet, she said, “Let’s make another secret.” She curled in his lap and parted his robe and tried to raise him again, fruitlessly. He was spavined, mushy as a bar of soap.

“Here, drunk girl,” he said, beckoning her up to the headboard. “You want to make a secret?”

“Yes.”

“Lie back.”

“Okay.”

“Now pick up the telephone.”

“Who am I calling?”

“Someone you shouldn’t.”

“Who’s that?”

“I don’t know, but you do. The maybe person, from before.”

“The maybe person?”

“The one this is maybe secret from. Everyone has someone they shouldn’t call.”

She looked at him horrified, delighted.

He brushed his stubbly chin across her thighs, moved below. “Go ahead.”

“It’s too late,” she said, not even glancing at the clock, which had whirled irretrievably past two, three.

“If there’s one thing I know it’s that it’s never too late.”

“I’ll make noise.”

“You’ll control yourself.”

“Okay, but wait, ah, just do that for a minute.”

“Sure, but dial the phone.”

Matthew’s number rang three times, then clicked through to the false ring of voice mail. She knew it too well. “I’m getting his machine,” she whispered.

“Leave a message,” said the complainer, his mouth full, the words mashed into her.

“Saying what?” she panted.

“Sing something,” he said. “Make up a song.”

At the voice mail’s tone she began. “Kangaroodle roo, pouchie the kangaroo, don’t make kanga dootie on the floor ohhhh nooooh…” Gasping, she covered the receiver with her palm.

“Nice,” he whispered. “Another verse.” A waft of herself rose with his face from between her thighs, penetrated even her whiskey-dimmed nostrils.

“Kangaroodle dee, don’t make any pee, don’t make fun of me, you sad and glorious roo, you dootie pooper you…”

The complainer’s mouth began to make her come again. She wrestled the phone onto its cradle with spasming fingers, not before appending a pleasure-drenched chortle, a kind of hoot-gasp, to the message she’d left.

“Now you,” she breathed.

“Now me what?”

“Now you on the phone. Now I do you.”

“Drunk girl, I’ve got nothing left, haven’t you noticed? Besides, I’ve got no one to call.”

“I thought everyone did.”

“Everyone except me.”

“I’m not drunk.”

“Your eyes are x’s.”

The sex ran out and now tangled in their robes and still atop the bedcovers and with the lights and television on they dozed, and then more than dozed, fell fast asleep, despite never having decided to, or not Lucinda, anyway. She passed out picturing herself dressing and retrieving her car, even as her beard-chafed cheeks and kiss-swollen lips moused in the nest of his elbow, one arm thrown across his stomach and one leg cantilevered over the tray which had been set just barely aside, so when she woke briefly, early light seeping in to delineate the curtain’s edge, her foot dipped into ketchup and mustard and crumbs. She grunted, whisked the foot clean as she could with sleep-numbed fingers, then tucked it beneath her robe, shivering. The complainer snored beside her, and murmured too. Before she fell asleep again she thought she heard the words “more love on,” or perhaps it was “pour love on.” Or she might have imagined it entirely.