Brazilian Lounge

nineteen.

Chapter nineteen.

Pia had to leave for a runway show practice, I was invited to watch it live the next night.

My cup of coffee was steamy in my hand, a grin glued to my face as I thought of Pia. We just did that, I just did that, I thought. I realised that's how my afterthoughts would go when having intimate moments with her - I didn't mind that. If it made me feel that good, I wanted to fuck her everyday for the rest of my life. Just looking at her made me want to do five backflips into the thin air, shout out her name and 'I love' before.

Fuck.

I stopped thinking about that as I realised what I just internally said. I had to be over exaggerating, it wasn't true. I didn't love her, I was too young to be thinking of that, living with those ideas. I wasn't a 'love-type' guy, that wasn't going to change - not even for a fucking mind-blowing stunner for a woman.

"So, you no Ms America?" Marcos had a sly facial expression.

I shook my head, "I no anyone," I mimicked him.

"Good, I saw her," he walked to the kitchen.

"S-what? Saw her?" I was curious. "Um, where?" He nodded.

"I walk from market, see? She with bunch of people,"

"Those hipster friends of hers?" I smiled.

With a shrug, he added, "They look like...uh, I don't. Maybe, like, no friends? They no look like belong, they look like trouble. Selling,"

"Selling?" My brows were scrunched.

"Selling."

"Selling what? Marcos, what?"

"Selling, selling stuff!"

Is Ms America a drug dealer?

"Okay. What makes you think they're selling stuff?" I tried again.

"A car stop...door open and girl come out. They pay the people, one guy."

Selling sex?!

"Right." It has to be something else. Maybe it was just another friend, and the father was giving the guy gas money. Yeah, that sounds about right. "Right."

Marcos disappeared into his room with a bowl of food.

I wanted to phone call Ms America, but I hesitated. I hesitated for about half an hour, until someone knocked on the door. It was her.

"Hey." She smiled. I gave her a wave. "You know...America isn't the best place to be." Arbitrary. "I'm serious. They say all that comes from America is success. Fucked up, huh?"

"What are you-"

"Look at the poverty, hunger. This isn't success, is it?" I shook my head, confused. "Sorry for my rant, had a terrible day."

"Oh, too bad. What happened that made it so, uh, terrible?" I pushed slightly.

"Don't you wanna know why I came here?" It was clear she didn't want to talk about it. I nodded. "I was nearby, remembered you had a great looking place, which probably means you have loads of food and other cool things." She smiled at me, showing her teeth. I laughed.

"Food for you, if you tell me about your day," I kept it playful. She bit down on her lip.

"I'll just steal your food then," she didn't give in.

She had mint flavoured ice-cream on my couch while I sat on the carpet, cross-legged.

"They say we're supposed to be happy here," she started. "Or, we're supposed to find happiness in a relationship," I watched her, picking up in tiny twitching habits. Stress? "Anything, like...if you travel you'll be happy, if you play rugby you'll be happy, if you're great at science you'll be happy," I noticed how quick an eye can move and flicker. "It's all bullshit. A lie, a fucking lie. You do not find happiness in objects, or anything else but your-fucking-self. It's within you."

"Well," I said after a long pause. "Are you happy?" My voice was soft. She looked down at me, staring intently into my eyes. I was anticipating her answer. I couldn't tell if her eyes were that of sad ones, drooping, or if it was well-balance. She opened her mouth as if to speak.

"Why aren't you eating ice-cream?" I sighed silently.

She wasn't giving me anything at all. Should I just ask about what happened earlier?