What impure thoughts do you have?
Oh! They are mostly about you. They happen at the most unexpected moments.
Oh! Please don’t tell me. Write me some and send in the night. I don’t sleep very well. Did I tell you that before?
At the precise moment when he was thinking of her. Not really knowing who she was. Never having shared personal histories. Histoires. Fact or fabrications. He had a vision of her lying naked on a bed. A large fat black cat beside her. Though maybe it was almost white. A black cat held more emotional significance for superstitious people. At that moment of thought she was eating a cheeseburger and fries. Sipping a beer. Wondering how dark could red go before it became black. She looked at the polish on her fingernails. Remembering that she hadn’t managed to find the same shade in lipstick.
The apartment was empty. Apart from dirty walls and carpets, grease and dust smeared surfaces, torn wallpaper and chipped woodwork the previous tenant had left behind a router, a can of Polish beer in the fridge and an ornate frame surrounding a mirror in the bathroom.
She took the beer and sat out on the small roofed area at the rear of the apartment. Wanting the beer to be wine and for there to be a cigarette in her hand. The notion of a small roof garden had been a dream; the cat would balance atop of the thin railings like a static tightrope walker meditating on the consequences of a fall.
What pure thoughts do you have?
Then I’ll call you Tuyet and not Truly, he said.
The apartment was bare. In between tenancy. He rolled out the sleeping bag he had bought the day before. It confirmed his feeling of being rootless and homeless. The woman in the shop said it would be suitable for indoors. But it was cold. Fucking cold. It might dampen his dreams. He woke at four. Something she said.
I love your poisonous world. It’s like an opium.