Giannina Braschi - Yo-Yo Boing!

— The only time you close the door. On purpose. My sandal is behind it. You must have felt the door slam on my sandal, on my toenail.

— Whoa, it’s really black. Sorry, kika, it wasn’t on purpose.

— Sorry, your mother! You knew it. Look how you’re laughing. Shameless. Why did you do it? Gangrene. What if they have to amputate? Look at the pus swelling out the sides. Get the iodine. And hurry up.

— Sorry, it’s funny. I swear, I didn’t even notice. I opened the door, and you knocked me over. You bit me. Your jaw was contorted. And then you pulled my hair. I yelled:

— Ouch! That hurts!

— That hurts, bastard? Never, listen, I’ll never be able to hurt you bad enough. Bastard. Ouch! Ouch!

— Then you kicked off your sandal, and out popped your big toe, all black and blue. A cockroach. A wrinkled grimace. Like a raisin. Then silence fell. Horror. A silent horror.

— A silent scream. Maybe I’ll rip it off — nail and all. Maybe I’ll un-nail the nail that’s been nailing me, I mean, your nail.

— And then you threw yourself on the bed. Rolling back and forth like a rolling pin over ball of dough, roly-poly.

— Roly-poly? Holy moly. I dove into the mushy cushions to see if it would ease the piercing pain. It was swelling fast, growing sharper, finer.

— Sharper in wit, memories, and blaring trumpets.

— Go ahead, laugh.

— It’s not at you — it’s just a nervous reaction. It reminds me of when I was a kid. I kept my albino hamster in the back patio. One day he escaped from his cage, and I stepped on him with my shoe by accident. You shoulda seen how the blood trickled from his red eyes, yes, that’s how my buddy Monte Cristo bled to death, from his eyes.

— And I’m still bleeding. Let’s see if this washes away the bad blood between us. What am I going to do with you?

— That’s what you get for wishing me dead.

— Sorry, I didn’t curse you. If I remember correctly, it was you who cursed me:

— Why don’t you drop dead.

No, wait, that’s not how it went — it was meaner — you said something worse:

— Why don’t you and every last one of your species drop dead.

— Yes, as long as it frees me from you —I screamed— yes — let worst come to worst because nothing could be worse than living with you.

At that moment a nasty grin crossed your lips.

— What’s so funny, Dracula? Hey, what’s that Sakura sack doing in the middle of the room? I don’t want to see it in my house again. How many times have I told you?

— I’m not gonna throw it out. My brother gave it to me. Why should I throw it out?

— You’re asking for it. It goes or you go.

— I’m not gonna throw it out.

— You want me to throw it out? You really want me to throw it out? Fine. I’ll throw it out.

— At that moment, the door flung open and the Sakura sack went flying down the hallway. I tried to close it but couldn’t, so I slammed it even harder.

— You slammed it even harder on my big toe. My poor toenail. You knew it was there. You must have felt something weird under the door. You knew something was underneath.

— Don’t point at me.

— Yes, I point at you.

— Don’t point at me, I said.

— I point at you.

— Take away that finger.

— Why? It’s just a finger.

— I said, take away that finger. Don’t point at me.

— I said, I am pointing at you. You are the one who is pointing at me. You are the one who is pointing at me. You are pissing me off. You are really pissing me off.

— Don’t repeat yourself. I heard you. Don’t repeat yourself. I said what I said. Do not point that finger at me. Take that finger away.

— You are repeating yourself too many times. Stop yelling at me. And stop pointing at me. I heard you. Now, listen to me. Do not talk when I am speaking. Listen to me.

— Don’t point at me. I’m listening. But take that finger away. You did the same thing to Monique Wittig:

— You like Fellini ? — you said.

— I like two of his films: Satyricon and Juliette of the Spirits — she said.

— You don’t like Fellini ? — you said.

— I said what I said —she said. I like two of his films .

— So —you said— you hate Fellini .

— Idiot, exactly, that is exactly what I said to her. I hate compromises. Either you like him or you don’t. Not two. Listen to me. Everything or nothing.

— Don’t point at me.

— That’s a compromise. Either you like him or you don’t. What do you mean? You like me when I make good films. And when do I make good films? When you like me? I don’t believe in that. It’s not real.

— Listen to me. Unreliable. You’re so unreliable. You tell me you like Almodóvar, and I trusted that you like Almodóvar. But then when you meet Jean Franco, you say you don’t like Almodóvar. I said:

— But you told me you like Almodóvar.

— Because you told me you like Almodóvar. I wasn’t going to disagree with you even though I hate Almodóvar. Jean, you hate Almodóvar?

— I hate Almodóvar. He’s a terrible filmmaker.

— You see, I hate Almodóvar. The only thing new in him is his cynicism. But he imitates American comedy ad nauseam. After Buñuel, he’s a retrograde.

— Did you like The Piano?

— No, that feminism was so decimononic.

— You see, I hated The Piano. I went to closing night at the film festival, and I was planning to give a standing ovation. But I turned into rock and couldn’t get up from my seat. I’m glad you didn’t like it. It confirms my suspicions. I was so angry when I left the film.

— You were also angry when you saw Sweetie.

— Because it was so dirty.

— It was an original.

— Jean, did you like Sweetie?

— I loved Sweetie.

— Me too, I loved Sweetie.

— Why contradict her? To make people uncomfortable? If I were to say whatever I think, I would not have a single friend. You are out of an argument. I won. End of discussion. I won. And you know it.

— Don’t point at me.

— That’s why you lost. I pointed at you. I won. I don’t make compromises. I like Fellini. Either yes or no.

— How would you like it if I pointed in your face?

— You can, I don’t mind, I won.

— It’s bugging you.

— Yeah.

— Then why don’t you just kill it? Or let me do it. I can’t stand the buzzing. I wish I could fly invisible. I envy her liberty. She’ll tease you, bite you, suck your blood and steal away. And you can’t catch her. She’s too quick. Now she’s napping on your yellow pages. Why don’t you kill her now? Fast and precise. There’s satisfaction in doing it right. A good swat on the first try. Gimme it. Where is she? Piece of cake. Oops. Don’t move. If you weren’t distracting me — in a flashback or flash-forward — with my pupils glimming, I’d snap the killing moment instantly like a photographer, like that, click, and now, oops, again, damn, I can’t stand it.

— You are not handling the situation very well. You have to seduce her first and then wait until she feels at ease with you, when she is most quiet, when she trusts you, she has to trust you so much that she feels she can sleep, imagine, she feels she can close her eyes and let herself go in front of you. That’s the moment you sneak off your shoe. No vacillation, no doubt, you must act straightforward. Now she’s feeling relaxed, she’s on the verge of falling asleep, her eyes are half asleep, and she’s feeling saved, protected by you. Keep your eye on her as if you’re playing tennis and she’s the ball. Now watch the ball coming towards you, watch her crossing the net, watch her bouncing on the court, bouncing hard and jumping back and high into the air. Where is she? You’re aroused by a sudden doubt. You think you have missed the shot, but you continue. Now, take it back, okay, move back, stretch your hand back just over your shoulder, in slow motion, you must be aware of the slow motion so she doesn’t know that you are her enemy. She trusts you now. That’s why she has just stretched out her legs. If you dare to miss this shot. It must be straightforward, no compassion. Kill her. You must give me this pleasure. I am the one who is going to clap for you. If you do it meekly, believe me, I am going to be very disappointed. You don’t have three shots. You can’t wound her and leave her suffering because you smeared one of her little legs across the white wall with your dirty tennis shoe. She’ll recognize in her state of agony that you were not her friend, that, in fact, you were her enemy. What does she do then? Nothing, she’s trapped. No, please, don’t you dare torture her, please don’t, kill her with the first swat, the pleasure of being hit right there, on the dot, on the spot, with no sensation at all, no hard feelings, no recognition of anything.