What’s a truck for you?”
“It has a flat top, doesn’t it?” she says, sitting over the stove. She’s dressed in a black and white floral dress that’s been pressed into a slouch. She’s got long black hair that’s slicked to the base. Her big, thick eyebrows are framed so that she appears to have a little gap in between her top lip and her upper lip. Her eyes are a pale brown, very dark. She has big freckles that are set in, like, a permanent pixie, and at least seven freckles at most. She’s got a big mouth with big, full lips that she never closes, and big, bright, piercing, blue eyes. She never smiles.
“Nope. Not a truck,” she says, standing up on her tips toes. She’s got the back of her hair tied back into a ponytail.
“Well, what is it, then?” he asks.
“I don’t know, but I want to look it!” she says, taking one step toward the stairs. “I don’t want to be seen with it!” She walks up the stairs, and starts to cross over the balcony.
“Well . . . I guess I’d better call the landlord.”
“He’s coming over soon.”
They walk back down to the elevator, and it starts going up.
“I’ll bring her back up,” he says, holding out one of the keys. “How is it?”
“You want to see it?”
“I want to look at it with you.”
The apartment isn’t much. It’s more a pile of old, used clothes, and the sofa is covered with a tarp.
“What’s wrong with it?” she asks, sitting down at her kitchen table. “How old is it?”
“How old do you want to see it when it’s on the floor? It’s older than you think.”
“I don’t know . . . well, maybe not, but when I think back on some of history . . .”
“No . . .” she says reluctantly.
They sit and she tells him about a time she was raped and sold into prostitution and that she was raped again, this time with a knife, but it was with her. Her face looks very dark, as if she had her teeth knocked out or her teeth
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