Vaquero
Another night of insomnia, which I spent trying to read, mostly a moldy hardcover of Peyton Place that looked like it had been dumped in a bath once or twice. Thank God Beno is home.
I never go for Latin men; I seem to prefer them pretty and corrupt. But Beno always looked good to me, with his perpetual tan and high cheekbones and well, earthy sense of humor. We all like Beno, because before he arrived we were in pretty bad shape, especially our finances. But he loves all that financial economic sort of thing and Dad was happy to be able to stay in the cellar without interruption. When Glennis first brought him home, he was a lot less polished than he is now. His father is some big rancher in Argentina, and they don't get on, which is probably why he's been out here for as long as he has. But he likes his hand-tailored suits and expensive restaurant and those shoes that it takes ten years to make, so he escapes to the city as much as he can.
He poured me a scotch. "How's rehab?"
"It sucks. But I'm clean."
"Should you be drinking this?"
"Oh, fuck off, Beno." I said. "I'm clean of what I was addicted to."
He was grinning at me in that particular way and I felt my face go warm. This is always a sign. Your body can predict the future sometimes.
We did it in a corner in the study, standing up. It was fabulous, it felt so dangerous even though cautious Beno had locked the door and everyone else was in the city. Underneath those damn suits he's got this lovely dirty Latin-macho cowboy thing and I love messing him up.
Afterwards he always takes more time to do his hair than I do. "Beno, my darling, don't you ever think about getting caught?"
"Yes, all the time. That's why we can't do this again." His voice was serious but his shoulders are practically in half-shrug. He doesn't think Glennis will ever catch on.
"You always say that."
Oh, he was trying to be so stern. He always feels bad afterwards, but it never lasts. And he knows that I know it will never last, even though I really, really think he loves my sister, in his own way. Even then he was wavering, and finally he rolled his eyes. "If you can beat your addictions, I can beat mine, sweetheart."
Dinner was fabulous. I had three helpings of dessert.
I never go for Latin men; I seem to prefer them pretty and corrupt. But Beno always looked good to me, with his perpetual tan and high cheekbones and well, earthy sense of humor. We all like Beno, because before he arrived we were in pretty bad shape, especially our finances. But he loves all that financial economic sort of thing and Dad was happy to be able to stay in the cellar without interruption. When Glennis first brought him home, he was a lot less polished than he is now. His father is some big rancher in Argentina, and they don't get on, which is probably why he's been out here for as long as he has. But he likes his hand-tailored suits and expensive restaurant and those shoes that it takes ten years to make, so he escapes to the city as much as he can.
He poured me a scotch. "How's rehab?"
"It sucks. But I'm clean."
"Should you be drinking this?"
"Oh, fuck off, Beno." I said. "I'm clean of what I was addicted to."
He was grinning at me in that particular way and I felt my face go warm. This is always a sign. Your body can predict the future sometimes.
We did it in a corner in the study, standing up. It was fabulous, it felt so dangerous even though cautious Beno had locked the door and everyone else was in the city. Underneath those damn suits he's got this lovely dirty Latin-macho cowboy thing and I love messing him up.
Afterwards he always takes more time to do his hair than I do. "Beno, my darling, don't you ever think about getting caught?"
"Yes, all the time. That's why we can't do this again." His voice was serious but his shoulders are practically in half-shrug. He doesn't think Glennis will ever catch on.
"You always say that."
Oh, he was trying to be so stern. He always feels bad afterwards, but it never lasts. And he knows that I know it will never last, even though I really, really think he loves my sister, in his own way. Even then he was wavering, and finally he rolled his eyes. "If you can beat your addictions, I can beat mine, sweetheart."
Dinner was fabulous. I had three helpings of dessert.
posted by M.A.A at 9:06 PM
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