Sweet Karoline by Catherine Astolfo

in which I now lived. I did immediately realize that I had no one in whom to confide. No Giulio, of course. I would have felt too guilty talking to Parris about Karoline. My mother and I had never acquired the kind of relationship that fostered discourse of any kind, let alone 'girl talk'. She maintained a distance, a motherly stance that she thought was appropriate for our difference in age and role.
    Karoline had been my sole confidante for so many years and now she was the one I wanted to discuss.
    Alone, I didn't have the tools to fix Karoline. So I pretended I didn't notice her increasingly sleepless nights. I ignored the fact that she suddenly began smoking. That she'd sit on the balcony for hours staring at nothing. That she no longer asked me questions or appeared to be listening to my rants. She refused to answer me when I asked her what was wrong.
    Slowly, like scum forming on a pond, the dancing, theaters, clubbing, parties and dinners faded away under a film of unease. For a time I chattered on. For a while I bought tickets for the movies, said yes to outings and openings. I marched forward, Karoline muttering beside or behind me, unkempt and disinterested.
    Instinctively, I avoided parties and dinners. There were no more discussions around our beautiful wooden dining table. Soon there were only nights of mumbling from the balcony.
    I didn't know what Daniel thought because I didn't ask. Of course I didn't invite Parris home again. We went to lunches and business affairs, dinners with our clients and bosses. My wall of cheerfulness and everything-is-okay remained intact and solid.
    One Friday night Karoline didn't show up at the parking lot. I had the keys, but I didn't want to leave without her. I went back into my office and tried her office phone over and over. I left frantic messages on our answering machine. Where was she?
    It was dark by the time I finally decided to drive home without her. I wasn't particularly quiet as I entered our apartment. Nor was I a bit shy about heading straight in to push open her bedroom door, which was slightly ajar, to demand an explanation. For a few moments I stood astonished, frozen to the spot.
    Karoline lay on her back while a man moved slowly and languorously above her, his hips and buttocks smooth and black in the semi-darkness. He was moaning softly, whispering fuck me, Karoline, over and over, his voice husky with desire. I could smell the musky, moist fragrance of their bodies and the saltiness of sweat. I watched as he began to pump harder, his hands on both sides of her, his face dipped to her breasts, sucking and moaning, faster and more abandoned with each thrust.
    At that moment Karoline opened her eyes and looked at me. She stared with disdain as I heard him tell her that he was coming inside her. She began to chant fuck me, fuck me, her eyes never leaving mine.
    I closed the door.
    So began a six-week sojourn with Glenn Simpson. On our couch when we came home, eating from a barrel of ice cream. Shouting at the television as basketball players streaked across the floor. Smoking with Karoline on the balcony. Beer bottles piled in the kitchen. Coffee cups in the sink. Frying pans with sticky grease spots sitting on the stove. Behavior that Karoline had never before allowed in our apartment.
    Glenn was a huge, flabby man whose skin was so dark it looked purple. His rounded cheeks pushed his eyes back into his head, making his black orbs little pinpoints of malice. He wore enormous sports shirts and jeans that rode on his ample hips, often displaying his disgusting butt crack. Whenever he bent over, a shiver of revulsion raced through me. He was at least ten years older than we were, but he acted like a spoiled teenager.
    He used the kind of speech patterns that I detest. In my opinion, it was a throwback to slave talk. He had been born in New York City to a middle-class family and had a university degree, this much I knew. Yet he behaved as though he'd just been