Adonis Borges (’24) majored in Philosophy at Duke. This is his second short story for The Lemur.
This serialized short story is the first entry in a new series of fiction-in-installments at The Lemur. In the spirit of the great 19th century novels (think Dickens, Dostoevsky, and Tolstoy) which were first published chapter by chapter in periodical magazines, we are experimenting with a new way of reading fiction in the age of the Internet. Instead of condensing the entire piece itself to bite-size, as the attention-economy pressures of writing for the public now demand, we hope you enjoy Adonis’ full story bite by bite. The next morsel will be coming soon.
“We can skip the line. I know the bouncer.”
Chris hadn’t looked this good since they met. And on that rare, chilly Miami evening, wearing the black polo and leather jacket Kayla bought him one or two birthdays ago, smiling and sweet-talking the bouncer, he looked even better—tall, proud, and gorgeous, like a Roman statue.
“You’re just gonna let them skip the whole line?” said a girl waiting at the front.
“I know him. I don’t know you,” said the bouncer, shaking Chris’ hand, pulling him in for a hug, and then unhooking the red velvet rope from the stanchion to let him and Kayla pass.
“This is bullshit.”
Chris knew this would impress Kayla—and the girl complaining, whose eyes, squinting at him with lust and malice, said what her words didn’t.
“You’ve changed,” said Kayla, thinking that Chris looked skinnier, that he was partying too much, and, as if ambushed unexpectedly, about the last few weeks without him, which upset her and which she immediately tried to cast out of her mind. Why worry if they were together now? She reached for his hand as they walked through the large glass doors at the hotel entrance, past the dark, candlelit lobby, toward the elevator with access to the rooftop, in whose silver doors she watched her nebulous reflection blend into Chris’.
In the elevator, as he shifted his weight onto his leg, Chris thought his knee hurt. He was coming down from those eruptions of anxious energy that drove him out of his house into the bars every Thursday, Friday, and Saturday—and on Sunday, too, if his friends were willing. Sometimes, he even went alone. The alcohol was eroding his joints . . .
