The Subprimes by Karl Taro Greenfeld Page B

were hauling the pots of lentils and rice down toward a chicken pen, trailed by three hungry dogs. The sun sunk in an egg-yolk disc, and in those last moments before sliding down into the horizon, it sprayed orange and purple all across the sky and everyone’s face glowed a pinkish hue so that they all looked ruddy and healthy.
    A man in blue dungaree overalls tossed logs into the same pit as yesterday, and set to work making a fire.
    â€œCan’t see why anybody would ever leave,” Sargam said.
    DARREN CAME TO HER IN the night, after Sargam had spread out her sleeping bag and changed into the tank top and sweatpants she slept in. He gave a cautious knock at the door, two taps, and at first Sargam thought it might be a raccoon digging in the dirt, casting pebbles against the door. When he knocked again, she stood up, slipped on her jacket, and called out.
    â€œIt’s me, Darren,” he said.
    She walked over on bare feet and opened the door. He had a flashlight, which he shined down toward the floor.
    â€œHey there,” Sargam said.
    â€œI was trying to think of a reason why I had to come and check on you, but I couldn’t think of any.”
    Sargam waved him in.
    â€œHow about just saying you wanted to see me?”
    His pale skin was ghostly in the dark, and yellow up his arm in the peripheral light cast by his flashlight.
    She was dark, her amber skin and black hair obscured in shadow so that he couldn’t see where she ended and the rest of the world began.
    Her white tank top was the clearest indicator of where she was. But Darren, unable to see Sargam’s face, was having difficulty picking up any visual cues as to how welcome he really was.
    â€œSo, you’re okay?” he said.
    â€œNow, Darren, don’t go all wishy-washy on me now. You had the moxie to come knocking on my door.”
    She pulled him toward her and kissed him. They both smelled of hard work, and neither had washed, so the mutual stench was hardly off-putting. They hugged each other for a moment, as if trying to catch up with the surprising suddenness of their kiss.
    Darren shined the flashlight around the living room.
    Sargam had cleaned out the place, tossing the empty cans, cigarette butts, and plastic water bottles into a garbage bag that she had discarded in one of the bathrooms. With a borrowed broom she had swept out the living room and even drilled a U-bolt lock into one of the cabinets to secure her pack while she was out. She had laid some newspaper under her bike to sop the fluids and was planning on replacing the oil-pan gasket to stop the oil leak. The room had the pleasant, slightly sweet smell of bike oil and metal mixed with some desert rosemary coming in through the open window.
    â€œHow’s the bike?” Darren asked, as if worried that she might leave as soon as she had done her repairs.
    â€œI could get it done in a day or two, if I wanted. But I’ve met some interesting folks and thought I might stick around.”
    â€œAnyone in particular?”
    â€œThis one really hot guy, a socialist.”
    â€œHow could you ever fall for one of them?”
    They kissed again and made their way to Sargam’s bedroll.
    It had been a few months since Sargam had been with a man, and it took some getting used to—the shape and length of his body. He was long and bony, skinny-legged and flat-stomached, with a few sparse blond chest hairs. He was delicate in the beginning as they kissed, but then became rough and insistent with his lips and tongue in a way that she liked. It became clear they were going to make love, their urgency as they kissed and grabbed each other, her hands pulling down his jeans, his reaching inside her sweats. When their pants were off, she guided his penis so the head was against her vulva, but did not guide further. She wanted him to have to work his way in. She was wet and open and he slid inside in stages and she gasped at his length, pushed back