TWELVE
Kezia
The sky had cleared by the time Kezia and Judson returned to the hotel. The stars were out. Not in droves, but in visible constellations. Judson gestured up, nearly tripping on the valet curb.
“Well, that’s not the worst sight in the world.” He put his arm around her.
“That’s Orion’s belt,” she said, “and that’s Cygnus.”
“It sounds like you’re saying ‘sickness.’”
“It means swan. It’s part of the Milky Way.”
“The Milky Way has parts?”
“Yeah, it’s like a section of the ocean. Certain stars live in certain nebulas. Like how there’s a whole set of animals that live around Australia. Sharks, men of war . . .”
She could hear how she sounded but the thought of not sharing information for the benefit of the male ego made her want to burn her bra. Though the bra she was wearing now was not priced for protest: $50 on sale.
“Is it man of wars?”
“That’s actually . . . I have no idea.”
She was about to have sex with this person. It had been six months. She was starting to fear the kind of desperation that turned old ladies orgasmic when they got their hair shampooed.
“A group of jellyfish is called a smack!” she practically shouted.
A taxicab pulled up and released a group of tightly dressed youths, fresh from the club and ready for the second act of their evening on the rooftop bar.
Judson took her by the hand and pulled, forcing her to trot after him. They crammed themselves into the triangle of the revolving door, shuffling in tandem.
“Well.” He scratched the back of his head.
She rubbed one foot against her calf. Streams of white fabric hung from atop the atrium like crestless medieval flags. Eventually they made their way across the linoleum floor to the elevator bank, her pressing the button, Judson pressing it after. She thought of the crosswalk button at the airport. Was life merely what happened between buttons?
“What floor are you on?” he asked.
“Three. You?”
“Six,” he said. “They must like me better.”
He pressed six and only six. They were of one button.
Once inside his room, which somehow smelled of him even after such a short period of occupancy, she excused herself to go to the bathroom and apply body lotion to her thighs and armpits. Hotel lotion was essentially scented mayonnaise. When she emerged, Judson was sitting on the bed, playing with the TV remote.
“These buttons should just say ‘porn’ on them.”
“I know, right?” Kezia said, even though she didn’t.
Because the TV was off, the buttons did nothing.
“Okay.” She clapped her hands together. “I’m going to take my clothes off now.”
He looked at her as if she’d been beamed into the room.
She let her dress drop into a navy moat around her feet. She unhooked her bra, slipped off her underwear, and stood upright. He started with his belt, followed by his jacket. He kissed her and they stayed like that, locking lips even as they fumbled with the lighting. Her mind raced with nonsensical concerns once they were on the bed. Under the covers or over? A nonissue in a civilian bed but you had to be an amateur weightlifter to pull back the sheets in these hotel beds. She crouched on top of him. He kicked his underwear off with surprising speed, moving the elastic over the hook of his penis.
“What is that?” She sat up straight.
Even in the half dark she could see that something was amiss between his hip and his groin. He looked down, alarmed, concerned about growths.
“Oh, that? That’s a tattoo.”
“What of ? The pyramids? Is that the Louvre? No, can’t be . . .”
Kezia leaned her face down, momentarily oblivious to the proximity of a dick swaying in her face.
“It’s the Fortress of Solitude.”
“You got a tattoo of something made of clear crystals?”
“It’s where Superman goes to think.”
“I know what it is.” She sat up again. “I guess I always thought therapy would be more convenient for him.”
“True.” Judson’s stomach muscles vibrated.
He began kissing her again, developing a kind of intensity that Kezia recognized. Men clicked over, went through stages. Women were more consistent. Whatever level of sexual intensity they felt for you when they met you, they stayed there for about twelve hours. The duration of an allergy pill.
“What’s wrong?” Judson pulled back, his head sinking into the pillow.
“Oh God.” She covered her face with both hands and spoke through her fingers, her voice like a flashlight.
“This is my cue to say, ‘nothing,’ right?”
“Is it nothing? You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”
“Oh.” Kezia dismounted and lay on her stomach. “Please don’t say that.”
If that were true, it would rule out 99 percent of her daily activities.
“It’s okay,” he said, stroking her back, well on his way to meaning it.
“I just feel weird. This is weird, right? I just met you.”
He stopped moving his hand. “Umm, I guess it depends on your definition of ‘weird.’ We’ll see how you feel later.”
Her heart sank a little for him. He thought her prudishness was a temporary condition. But once she started down the path of uncertainty, it was tough to turn back. Meredith and Michael had been right—there was a hot single man at the wedding. But he would have been better off with Marlene, the Magic Cherry Stem Bridesmaid.
Bodies were shifted, pillows adjusted. Soon he was asleep. Bored of staring at the ceiling, Kezia got up from the bed. In the dark, she removed the paper cap from a glass, poured herself water, and stood on the balcony, naked. Her hair blew everywhere. She leaned forward on the railing, looking past the slope of her narrowed boobs. Strips of brightly lit pavement framed the pool. The hotel was in the shape of a horseshoe and she tried to locate her own balcony, wondering if she’d spot Victor on it, also unable to sleep. Then she dumped the water and headed back inside.
Judson was on his back and lightly snoring. He roused slightly, spooned her, and began kissing her neck in a pointed fashion. Maybe now was “later.” “Do you know any riddles?” She pulled his hand to her chin.
Judson took his arm back.
He rubbed his eyes, as if trying to squish them together.
“The only one I know is the one everyone knows,” he said. “Sid and Nancy are dead, surrounded by water and glass. Who are Sid and Nancy?”
She flipped to face him. “Well, there’s no riddle there.”
“Yes, there is. Sid and Nancy are fish.”
“Those are real people. Sid Vicious stabs Nancy Spungen multiple times and the ‘bowl’ is the Chelsea Hotel. Then he dies too. End of riddle, start of fact.”
“They’re fish.” He sighed. “Those are the names of the fish.”
“I think you should name them something else when you tell people that riddle.”
“What does it matter?” he asked, not entirely kindly.
“It’s confusing.”
“Fine. Bonnie and Clyde.”
Kezia indulged herself by giving him a dirty look in the dark. She could guess how Judson would retell the story of this evening. When things were finally getting good and naked, this chick had pulled the plug and decided she wanted to play children’s games. But she didn’t quite care what he thought. She just wanted to kill time until they were exhausted enough to fall asleep.
“Okay.” She leaned on her side and cradled her head. “Okay, watch. A man is lying dead next to a rock . . .”
Like all riddles, this one was of more interest to the riddler than the riddlee, but she liked to observe the natural direction of someone else’s thoughts. It was like watching someone else try to calculate the tip.
“It’ll be fun,” she lied, “and I’ll give you a hint already: The answer to the riddle has to do with something we were talking about earlier tonight.”
“How we lost our virginities?”
“After that.”
“About bikini waxes?”
“That wasn’t me.”
“Okay. I give up. Go.”
“A man is lying dead next to a rock. Who is he and how did he die?”
Judson examined her face, trying to ascertain if there would be sex waiting for him at the end of this nonsense-paved road.
“Was the man murdered?”
“Kind of.”
“Really?” Judson lifted his chin. “A ‘kind of’ right off the bat?”
“I don’t want to lead you in the wrong direction.”
“Is the man old?”
“Good. But no, not old.”
“Did the rock fall on the man?”
“No.”
“Did the man provoke the rock?”
“Um, no.”
“Is the rock alive?”
“Why would the rock be alive?”
“Because Sid and Nancy are goldfish, that’s why,” he snapped. “I don’t know.”
He scratched himself thoroughly between the sheets.
“Is this man a real person?”
“No!” She slapped his arm in excitement. “Good one.”
“Did someone shoot the man?”
“No.”
“Did the rock fall on the man?”
“You already asked me that.”
“Is the man a carpenter or a welder?”
“No and no.”
“Is the man Jesus?”
“He’s not a carpenter. And he wasn’t crucified.”
“Was he killed by the Jews in any way?”
“What kind of a question is that?”
“Okay, fine . . . is the rock a transformer?”
“No.”
“Was the rock a big rock?”
“Irrelevant.”
“Did the man cut himself on the rock?”
“No.”
“Is the man famous?”
“Yes.”
“Is he famous because of the rock?”
“Kind of.”
“I give up.”
“But you’re so close! Think about the factors of the riddle. A man. Is lying. Dead. Next to a rock. Who is he? How did he die?”
“Is he a real guy?”
“You already asked me that.”
“It’s hard to keep all this stuff in my head at once. Is he asleep?”
“He’s dead. That’s one of the three facts we have to work with.”
“Is he in a desert?”
“No. Irrelevant. No.”
“Did he kill anyone?”
“Focus on the other noun.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“It means stop asking me questions about the man.”
“Oh. Is the rock valuable?”
“To some people.”
“Which people?”
“That’s not a ‘yes’ or ‘no’ question.”
“Can you give me a hint?”
“I already did give you a hint. You of all people should know this.”
“Because the man has a huge cock?”
“Yes, totally.”
“Is the rock sharp?”
“Irrelevant.”
“Did the rock strangle him?”
“Now you’re not even trying.”
“Was he stoned?”
“How the fuck’s he gonna be stoned to death with one rock?”
“Easy.” He stroked her hair in his first unchoreographed gesture since they’d met. “I mean was he high?”
“Oh. No.”
“Would I have heard of the man?”
“Yes. Good one.”
“Would I have heard of the rock?”
“Yes.”
“Is the man allergic to the rock?”
“Big yes!”
“Is the rock from another planet?”
“Yes!”
“Is it Superman and kryptonite?”
“YES!”
Kezia hopped on top of him, the relief at the riddle’s ending acting as an unexpected aphrodisiac. She pressed her palms on his chest and twisted her pelvis down like a childproof cap. He ran his hands along her thighs and over her belly, which she had already been sucking in and now sucked in more.
“You have such tiny bones,” he remarked.
She could feel a reflexive tightness between her thighs. Judson removed his hands and put them squarely on her breasts. Kezia shut her eyes and leaned on the mattress, framing him. This was good. All she had to do was avoid touching his product-heavy hair and keep him from speaking. She could feel her limbs loosen. She leaned down for a kiss but Judson opened his mouth, inhaled abruptly, and said:
“Superman doesn’t die from kryptonite.”
“What?”
“It should go: A man is lying sick next to a rock. Who is he and why is he ailing?”
She kept kissing. “Yeah, but people are never sick in riddles. That’s not how the riddle universe works.”
The reflexive tightness had morphed into a reflexive wetness. She took his hand, ready to show him. But he fought her.
“Tell me. How does the riddle universe work?”
“I . . . they’ve all hung themselves from dry ice or been shot in card games.”
“So?”
“So I’m not trying to argue. It’s just that riddles are very black and white. Black, white, and read all over, if you know what I mean.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“A newspaper. A newspaper is black and white and read all over.”
She stroked his chest but Judson, oblivious to the biological turn of events, wouldn’t let it go. The riddle was misleading. Just like this evening. She could read his mind: All he wanted was to have a good time at Caroline and Felix’s wedding, definitely get drunk, maybe get laid. He was thinking: I should have gone home with the Magic Cherry Stem Bridesmaid. Yes, Judson, you should have. Here’s a riddle: Who do you take back to your hotel room? The weird pale girl in the shift dress or the one with the butterfly tramp stamp inked on the same longitude as her belly button?
But that was the thing with riddles. The answers never seemed obvious in retrospect but the questions did.