E-Book, Englisch, 144 Seiten
Sandling / Lott / Jackson Lovers' Lies
1. Auflage 2013
ISBN: 978-1-909208-08-7
Verlag: Arachne Press
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 0 - No protection
E-Book, Englisch, 144 Seiten
ISBN: 978-1-909208-08-7
Verlag: Arachne Press
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 0 - No protection
This book is designed expressly for romantic Cynics and cynical Romantics. Be careful who catches you reading it - your intentions might be misinterpreted. Join us as we wallow in the many facets of relationships. Explore role-play gone wrong, goldfish that eat loneliness, and a very literal leap into the unknown. Old love, cold love, true love, new love, dead love, we're through love - making babies and making whoopee, disappointment and contentment, playing at home, playing away or just playing; missed chances and new romances: everything from first conversation to last breath, strange journeys and stranger destinations.
Rosalind Stopps lives and works in South East London, which provides endless inspiration. She has an MA in Creative Writing from Lancaster University and is currently working on her third novel. Rosalind's story for London Lies, The Suitcase was originally read at Liars' League in April 2009 as part of the Bridge & Tunnel evening.She has two stories in Stations: How to Grow Old in Brockley is set in Brockley and pays homage to that classic tale of Love and Trains: Brief Encounter. Recipes for a Successful Working Life is set at Norwood Junction and is a tale of work-place bullying and pizza ovens. and two stories in Lovers' Lies, How to Survive the Olympics with a Broken Heart, and Monsieur Fromage.
Autoren/Hrsg.
Weitere Infos & Material
Dara
Jessica Lott
‘She’s perfect! And you know how I searched, Maria.’ It’s Wednesday, and I’m over doing Mrs A’s house. I’m done scrubbing the tub, and I’m waiting for her to stop talking so I can turn on the faucets. She’s going on about her new boarder, Dara, who, like me, is attending college. ‘She’s very smart. A European from Spain. I believe her family’s quite wealthy. Oh, dear, make sure to get the soap scum from the ledge there. Last time you left quite a bit.’ ‘What’s she studying?’ I ask, but Mrs doesn’t know. I’m studying history, even though my sister says that’s the dumbest thing she’s ever heard of. ‘Who d’you think you are, gomela? Where’s the money when you come out?’ She acts like I don’t feel the pressure, too, living up in that small-ass apartment with her three kids. The Bronx, man, this is supposed to be convenient? We might as well be in New Haven. Next time I’m over there, Dara’s out again. Mrs owns a four-floor townhouse in Chelsea, and Dara’s got the parlour bedroom off the kitchen. I ask whether I’ll be cleaning it, too. ‘No. Dara said that wouldn’t be necessary.’ As if they’re both doing me a favour. She now knows Dara’s major: art history. Also, Dara has a steady boyfriend in Paris and her mother is dead. She keeps referring to Dara as an ‘orphan’. Her following me around like this is reminding me of the old days, when she was afraid I was going to steal and used to lock up her fancies when I was there, basically just the silver, which she never uses, since she never has any guests. Just as Mrs is telling me how Dara plays both bridge and cribbage, Dara herself comes in the door. Whatever I was expecting, it wasn’t this – I feel like I’ve been hit with something soft, like a snowball. She’s so beautiful, sweet looking, shy. She’s got this dark, shiny hair like in a shampoo commercial and a little porcelain doll face, and she’s dressed like a Ralph Lauren ad. I’m mortified by my scrubs that my sister swiped from the hospital she works at. We were super excited, like kids, coming up with this solution to my wardrobe problem. Mrs was also complimentary. ‘A nice clean uniform. Like my mother used to insist on.’ Mrs introduces us, and we shake hands real proper. I get a flash of brilliance to impress her with a Castilian greeting. ‘Encantada, Dara. ¿Qué tal?” She looks at me like I just released frogs out of my mouth, nods, and then disappears into her room. Mrs is still smiling. ‘I forgot you speak Spanish, too,’ she says to me, her Latina maid. After this Dara avoids me. It hurts my feelings. I mean, shit, we are the same age. This is New York, people have all kinds of jobs to get by. I’m in school, too! All these thoughts run through my head as I dust in the living room where she and Mrs are laughing their asses off over a game of gin rummy. Mrs teasing her, ‘Oh, no you don’t, you sly thing!’ Sounds flirtatious. I vacuum my way out the door, laughter follows. As the weeks go on, Mrs and Dara seem to have gotten pretty tight. Mrs talks to her about all sorts of things, the recent production of Puccini at the Met – she even bought her a ticket! – the Frick’s Fragonards, all seven volumes of Proust’s novel. I do a lot of eavesdropping. I’ve never heard Mrs talk so much, especially about art, and she obviously knows a lot. Dara nods knowingly, rests her chin in her hand and all that, but something seems off to me. She got confused about who Goya was – an art history major! I’ve never seen her studying. And she doesn’t speak Spanish. The other day I asked her if she was done in the kitchen, and she just smiled and shook her head, totally clueless until I switched to English. It’s like she has this whole other dimension of her character that is just barely visible. It makes her seem more interesting, troubled. ‘Are you like crushin’ on her or something?’ my girlfriend says to me. ‘You can’t shut up about it.’ It’s true – I’m seriously fascinated. The lies just keep coming. Dara doesn’t drink alcohol according to Mrs, but last week she’s in the kitchen reeking of tequila, filling up her plastic jug with Gatorade. ‘Dara’s ill, today,’ Mrs says behind her. ‘No running the vacuum cleaner on the first floor. She needs rest.’ Then, from where Mrs can’t see, Dara winks at me. I’m so surprised I almost drop the Clorox. ‘I don’t know why you’re still working for that racist old bitch, anyway,’ Trina says. And then she’s on to her thing about how I never speak up for myself. Prefer not to rock the boat. If someone thinks I’m straight, I don’t correct them. If they assume I’m an uneducated inmigrante, I won’t mention my college courses. ‘So you want me to go off on an old woman and then get fired?’ I say. ‘Pavo told you he could get you work at the Starbucks he’s at. With benefits.’ ‘Once Pavo does you a favour, you have to hear about it for the next forty years. I’m happy where I am now.’ I actually like my afternoons at Mrs’s, especially when I’m alone – just the ticking clock, and her books, and the sun on the hardwood floors. So pretty. You don’t even hear traffic because the windows are double-paned. It’s like the house in my Austen novel for class. And I like Mrs, too, in a weird way. Even though she’s a little racist and she’s definitely a homophobe, although nothing like mi mamá. With Mrs, being gay seems more like a social indecency. One of her favourite lines, usually after she’s been out in the neighbourhood, is: ‘Why can’t they just keep their urges to themselves?’ But for a while it was making me self-conscious how she kept bringing it up, as if this was her way of letting me know she was on to me. She’s dropped it since, so maybe it was just me being paranoid. To make Trina feel better I say, ‘Maybe next semester I’ll get a different job.’ ‘Stay away from Dara. Girls like that are major trouble.’ ‘Whatever,’ I say. ‘She hasn’t said more than two words to me.’ A few weeks later, Dara appears behind me when I’m looking at one of Mrs’s books. I nearly jump out of my skin. She laughs. ‘Hey.’ ‘Hey,’ I say back, sliding the book onto the shelf. I feel my heart pounding. I wait to see if there’s more. She’s in cutoff shorts and no bra. I’ve noticed she’s been dressing sexier lately. I wonder about it, since she’s also been smiling at me a lot. And I keep bumping into her around the house, which is also weird. She surprises me now by saying, ‘I saw you out.’ ‘Oh, yeah,’ I say, all cool, but inside I’m grinning. ‘Where was that?’ ‘At the Kitty Kat. On 4th.’ That wasn’t a good night. I picture myself doing shots and then kissing a friend of mine, and then bent over a toilet throwing up/praying that Trina would never find out. I’m so paranoid about what Dara saw, I don’t even think to ask what she was doing at a dyke bar. ‘I was going to say hi, but you looked trashed,’ she says. ‘I was afraid you’d actually act on something.’ I’m still trying to think of how to respond, but she’s already left the room. That’s when I soured on Dara. I wasn’t the only one. On my next visit, I get it from Mrs that Dara’s months behind on the rent. ‘I understand how hard it is when you’re in school, but she needs to be more frugal. The phone bill is several hundred dollars this month! She probably lost track of the time talking to her boyfriend overseas, but really.’ The card games and good cheer have stopped. Dara is never home. The one time I see her, she’s breezing in with Bloomie’s shopping bags, like she’s been on a spree. She passes right in front of Mrs, who’s dying to have it out, and slam! into her room. Mrs’s face is red. ‘The nerve! A week later there’s a lock on the outside of Dara’s door. It’s a big-ass lock, too. A Master Bolt. I’m mad curious but don’t want to bring up the subject since I don’t know who installed it. Dara. Mrs is in her bedroom telling me all about it. Huge holes ‘that she put in the antique moulding! Just the thought of it is making me ill!’ ‘Don’t get yourself worked up or you really will get sick,’ I tell her from first-hand experience. It’s how I’d felt. I should have known, with all that experience with fucked-up girls in my life, and girls from the neighbourhood, hustlers, nice until they get bored, and then they’ll humiliate you instead because that’s more fun. That’s what shamed me – I know this...
