When the record stopped, she played it again and poured herself more brandy. Why not call him? What did she have to lose? Maybe he was never going to come see her again anyway. She hated when she got to thinking this way. It was no good. He loved her as much as she loved him. They were lovers. They were. She tried to explain it once to Liezel. What it meant to be lovers. Liezel listened quietly on the phone, but Eva knew she didn’t understand. Not that it was easy to explain. It wasn’t like marriage. It wasn’t like her marriage to Hugo or Liezel’s marriage to Fred. It was a constant waiting, not a constant in your life. It was intoxicating, painful, brutal. Well, marriage could be brutal too, but for the opposite reasons. For the mundaneness of it all. Not for the fleetingness, for the scarcity. Being a lover was like being in constant hope. It was like having faith. Or belief. She was better suited to be a lover than a wife. She was best at faith. Better at faith than at living, she felt, a third brandy in her hand.
She walked out to the phone and dialed his number, which she knew by heart, although she hadn’t called him again, not since that once. But she knew his number, just in case. What if there was some emergency? This wasn’t an emergency, she knew; it just felt like it was. She knew Elena’s number, too. But she wasn’t going to call her. She was too ashamed. Elena would tell her to move, to leave her tiny apartment, her neighborhood that had turned wild. She wouldn’t have any empathy.
She dialed, but hung up even before it started ringing. When she returned, she got into bed, leaving the record skipping. She tossed her underwear on the floor and put both hands between her legs. Hansi. Closing her eyes, she put two fingers inside herself and with the other hand she rubbed and rubbed, trying to climax, but she was too drunk, too out of it, too drugged.
She woke very late the next day with a terrible headache, the record still skipping. Before peeing, she took the needle off the album, examined the record quickly—it was fine—and turned off the player, and ran to pee. Then she looked at the clock—one o’clock. At least half the day was gone. That was some accomplishment.
Had she tried to call Hansi? How shameful. She rose awkwardly and sat at the edge of her bed. The moon had shone so brightly through her window, and she had sung herself to sleep. She thought of the broken black vinyl. And then, of how high she’d been afterward, drinking brandy after taking pills. She couldn’t come, but she had made peace, though. She had fallen asleep giddy and singing and smiling to herself. God loved the world. God would take care of her. Those had been her final thoughts. Now the dark thick blackness descended on her; now she hated God. Hated Him for not protecting her. She tried shaking her head, but the black thoughts settled in her. She lay on her stomach, panting, hands in her crotch, and this time, hungover, yes, but sober and wet and swollen, aroused, she made herself come quickly.
There was a little wine left in the bottle, and she poured it into a glass and drank it down in one gulp. She took a night pill to take the edge off her hangover. She sat on her bed and took off her smelly hose. If Hugo were alive, he’d never have let this happen to her. If Hansi’d been with her, they wouldn’t have done this. People were afraid of Hansi—even the skinheads, she’d noticed. For a moment, she wished Paula dead. It was a thought that poured into her mind, from who knows where, like black, cold, thick water. She wished her dead, dead, dead. She needed him. She needed her dead.
A knock on her door. “Eva?”
Krista. She got up, put her hose under the bed, and opened the door.
“Hallo, Krista,” she said, trying to compose herself.
Krista asked, “Geht’s dir gut?”
“Ja, ja, komm rein,” Eva said. She hated this about herself. When her emotions took over. She wasn’t in the mood to share her weakness right now. Something about wishing Paula dead was still in her. She had never wished anyone dead. Why her? Why not the skinheads? It was as if that dark liquid thought was now something else, its own thing, spreading in her blood.
“Du wirkst ein bisschen verstimmt,” Krista said.
“It’s nothing,” Eva answered coldly. “There was a long line at the wine store when I was there. I didn’t want to miss you, so I came back and didn’t get any wine.” Eva gave a short laugh. “I love my wine.”
“Klar,” Krista said, “weiss ich doch, dass du Wein liebst,” and she laughed. “Vielleicht kann ich ja nochmal für dich
