Page 532 - A Little Life: A Novel
P. 532

filled with milk. “I normally don’t get fast food,” the man said, and looked
                at him.
                   He wasn’t sure what to say. “Thank you,” he said, and the man nodded.

                “Eat,”  he  said,  and  he  did,  and  the  man  sat  at  the  head  of  the  table  and
                watched him. Normally this would have made him self-conscious, but he
                was too hungry to care this time.
                   When he was finished he sat back and thanked the man again, and the
                man nodded again, and there was a silence.
                   “You’re a prostitute,” the man said, and he flushed, and looked down at
                the table, at its shined brown wood.

                   “Yes,” he admitted.
                   The man made a little noise, a little snuffle. “How long have you been a
                prostitute?” he asked, but he couldn’t answer him and was silent. “Well?”
                the man asked. “Two years? Five years? Ten years? Your whole life?” He
                was impatient, or almost impatient, but his voice was soft, and he wasn’t
                yelling.

                   “Five years,” he said, and the man made the same small noise again.
                   “You have a venereal disease,” the man said, “I can smell it on you,” and
                he cringed, and bent his head, and nodded.
                   The man sighed. “Well,” he said, “you’re in luck, because I’m a doctor,
                and I happen to have some antibiotics in the house.” He got up and padded
                over to one of the cupboards, and came back with an orange plastic bottle,
                and took out a pill. “Take this,” he said, and he did. “Finish your milk,” the

                man said, and he did, and then the man left the room and he waited until he
                came back. “Well?” the man said. “Follow me.”
                   He  did,  his  legs  stringy  beneath  him,  and  followed  the  man  to  a  door
                across  from the living room, which the man unlocked and held open for
                him. He hesitated, and the man made an impatient clucking noise. “Go on,”
                he  said.  “It’s  a  bedroom,”  and  he  shut  his  eyes,  weary,  and  then  opened

                them again. He began preparing himself for the man to be cruel; the quiet
                ones always were.
                   When he reached the doorway, he saw that it led to a basement, and there
                was  a  set  of  wooden  steps,  steep  like  a  ladder,  that  he  would  have  to
                descend,  and  he  paused  once  more,  wary,  and  the  man  made  his  strange
                insect-like sound again and shoved him, not hard, against the small of his
                back, and he stumbled down the stairs.
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