The Age of Reinvention by Karine Tuil Read Free Book Online

He thinks of all the things he could do to this girl if he could find the strength to leave his apartment: it is nearly two a.m. and he is tired and a little drunk. But Elisa Hanks is insistent. She sends him another text: “Damn Sam, you are full-on sexy!” She is one of the most influential women in New York and she is creaming her panties for him—it’s maddeningly sexy to a guy like him, someone whose biggest turn-on is overturning the balance of power. And she’s hot! That severe look, with her hair always up in a bun or in braids, dressed in perfectly tailored clothes, always in dark colors (black or navy blue); a well-bred American girl who never forgets to take the day off work so she can prepare the Thanksgiving turkey herself, never wears lipstick, allows herself only one brand of cologne (made by Amish women), would never miss church on a religious holiday, but who has no objection to being fucked by the young wolves of the New York bar—Jews by preference, with unpronounceable names, the kind of men her father always warned her about. Samir waits a few minutes before sending her this message: “Keep your pussy warm for me—I’m on my way!” He goes back into the apartment, puts on pants, a shirt, and shoes, and exits noiselessly. Ruth is asleep. She must have taken a sleeping pill, so there’s no chance she’ll be waking anytime soon. By the time he picks up his car keys from the valet, 1 he has completely forgotten the message from his mother.
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    Ten minutes later, he is standing in front of the door to his efficiency. He sent the girl his address by text, and she is waiting for him there, dressed in a little cotton spaghetti-strap dress. He pushes her inside, kisses her, unties her hair, slides the straps off her shoulders, and takes her—all of this lasts no more than a few minutes. They lie on the couch for a moment afterward. Elisa Hanks smokes a cigarette. Damp blond hairs stick to her face. Tahar turns toward her, borrows her cigarette, and takes a few drags before returning it. And it is then, as he turns, that she sees the scar on his neck. She hadn’t noticed it before. But just as she is about to touch her fingers to the wound, Samir grabs her hand rather roughly: Don’t touch me! He gets up from the couch and quickly dresses, his expression strangely blank. She doesn’t give up: she asks where he got the scar, but his only response is to order her to leave right now . “Already? But I just got here . . . I thought we could hang out for a while.” “I’m tired and I have an early start tomorrow,” he says, starting to pick up the room. The girl sits up, covering her breasts with her hands. He can see that she’s upset, can sense she’s on the verge of tears. She puts on her dress and gets to her feet. For a moment, she stands there, motionless, in the middle of the room, as if waiting for something, while he continues to tidy the room with fanatical care, placing the cushions in a perfectly symmetrical arrangement, scrubbing at a stain on the coffee table, picking up a fallen hair clip and handing it to Elisa: Here, this is yours . But he’s wrong—it’s not hers. She doesn’t wear hair clips. It must belong to another girl, the one before her. When was that? A few hours ago? Yesterday? A display of jealousy—exactly what Tahar hates most. He can accept such fits from his wife, but from this girl he barely knows, to whom he owes nothing? No chance. He moves toward her, brushes a lock of hair behind her ear, kisses her on the cheek rather coolly—a stranger to her body, to her odor, to everything that, a few minutes earlier, had driven him to a rage of desire. Why bring emotions into something that lasted only a few minutes and that neither of them will even remember a year from now? At the door, though, she still has to ask: “Will you call me?” “Sure, sure,”