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.
The first installment can be found here.
And the second installment can be found here.
Chris took a large sip of the old-fashioned, and his tongue sank into the pool of its thickness. He tasted the barrel, the wood, the bourbon smoke that coated his molars and the inside of his cheeks like liquid glass. His forehead tingled, his face warmed, and he grinned at the orange peel garnishing his cocktail, which reminded him of Steph, who, wearing his pajamas, had the habit of kissing him good morning whenever she slept over, her lips tasting like the oranges she’d had for breakfast.
“Do you remember,” said Kayla, “the night we danced until the white lights came on in the club, and we drove to the beach and fell asleep on the sand as the sun rose from below the ocean, painting the sky blood-orange?”
“That was a long time ago.”
“Too long ago. We should,” Kayla leaned toward Chris, whispering, “do that again.” She kissed his ear and neck and lingered there as each note—vanilla—of his cologne—black plum—floated up to her nose—bergamot orange—from the edge of his collar. Then she kissed his hand and smelled traces of the cigarette he’d rolled and smoked outside on his fingers. The shadows cast on his face by the fire deepened the line of his jaw. His smile disarmed her.
“You haven’t said anything about my hair.”
“I noticed. I was waiting until later to tell you.”
“Sure.” She frowned but quickly adjusted, laughed, and said, “I’ve been working out, too,” and gestured with her hand as if she had unveiled the prize on a game show. Despite all appearances, however, the truth was she’d lost about five pounds of water weight, not at the gym but in the bathroom, on a string of coke benders. Chris had no illusions about her long, red acrylic nails, whose underside he knew she used as spoons when the boys she partied with lent her their bags.
Still, the point of her heels, her calves, and the voluptuousness of her tan thighs, whose retreat into her black dress was so tantalizing, kindled a flame in his eyes that spread through his body like a fever—and his imagination took her legs into himself deliriously, those smooth, golden legs carved as dunes carve the sands of Egyptian deserts.
Vision gave way to fantasy, and he wanted her, wanted her badly. Unfortunately, this want reminded him that other men must want her, too, and that she’d let them have her. She must have fucked someone else. He saw his friends snickering at him in his backyard, passing the joint in rotation as they insisted that a black boy—bigger and better than him—was probably tearing her apart. Didn’t she tell him once, at a Heat game last December, that she thought Jimmy Butler was hot?
“Is something wrong, baby?”
“No.”
“Are you sure? You’re making a face.”
…
