Heartbreaker by Maryse Meijer Page A

pretending like I don’t want to say.
    Just show with your hands, she urges, and I draw a slow line on the table, nine, ten inches long. Her eyes get huge.
    No fucking way, she breathes. How much around? she asks.
    I tap my lip, considering.
    Like, I don’t know. A—a soda can? I say, making a motion like I’m sipping from a Coke.
    Oh my God , she says, slapping the table with her palms. What do they call you when they do it?
    I told you already.
    I know, but I want to hear you say it, she pleads.
    Pussy, I whisper, my hand cupped against the side of my head to keep people from seeing the shape my mouth makes. She scrunches up her shoulders like a kid being tickled.
    You’re so the pussy, she says. I can tell by the way they look at you.
    I’m pretty sure no one is looking at me, but I nod like I know what she means.
    I love seeing you like this, she says. But wouldn’t it be better, I mean, I always imagined it, like, through those big Plexiglas windows? With the phones?
    I think that’s for the big-time guys, felons and stuff, I say.
    Huh, she says, and sucks her tooth the way she does when she’s thinking hard about something.
    We keep talking and the time flies by. I hold her hand until one of the guards tells me to stop.
    It’s not your fault, you know, she says. That you want this. That you need it.
    No?
    No, baby, she croons. You can’t help it, and that’s okay.
    Okay, I say, and all of a sudden I’m not sure if I should smile, because I am smiling, a little, but she’s looking at me like, no.
    You’re not too lonely? I ask her. She seems confused.
    Oh God, she says. Are you kidding me?
    *   *   *
    When I get out she wants to see my ass, right there in the car, before we’ve even left the parking lot. I unbuckle my pants, slide them off my hips, and she folds herself between my legs, scrunched in the space below my seat, and squints like she’s trying to read the directions on a box of instant potatoes. Without warning she spits and shoves two fingers inside me. I wince.
    What the fuck, didn’t they loosen you up at all? I thought you needed stitches, she grunts, working her fingers up to the knuckle.
    It healed, I say, gasping. I want to look at her face but she won’t let me; she tells me to keep my eyes on the window in case anyone sees us.
    Why aren’t you coming, she says, all out of breath.
    I don’t—if you could just slow down, maybe—
    Slow down? You want me to slow down? Like hell you want me to slow the fuck down.
    I—
    You need cock, is that it? she says, and she is ecstatic when I say Yes, she jerks me off and kisses me so hard I can feel her teeth.
    Baby, she says, over and over, Oh baby baby baby.
    We stop and get sandwiches at a deli. Bea keeps looking at me, not smiling, more like she’s studying me or something. When my knees touch hers under the table she moves them away.
    You smell good, I say, and she blinks.
    What? she says. What did you say to me?
    Your perfume, I say.
    I’m not wearing perfume, you jackass, she says.
    I guess it’s just been so long since I smelled a woman, like, up close, I tell her.
    You don’t want a woman anymore, she says, sucking on a Funyun. You don’t want to smell a woman. You want to smell your own shit on a guy’s cock, don’t you?
    Bea, I say, do you think we could just talk to each other for a moment? Talk about something else?
    Why? ’Cause you want to feel normal? You’re not normal. You’re a fucking whore. You let all those guys fuck you and you liked it. I don’t know what else there is to talk about.
    I sip my Sprite. I want to tell her I missed her so much, but instead I tell her she’s right. I say You’re right, and she finally smiles.
    I know I am, she says.
    *   *   *
    The apartment is messier than I remember. The stove is crusted black, and all the dishes are stacked in the