on the floor of the businessman’s hotel room, lie down in this perfect darkness and silence and let go. He began to sink to the floor but he felt the businessman reach around him, pull him up, and hold him against the wall. He could feel the businessman’s large belly pressed against his own and smell and feel the businessman’s warm breath touching his face. Although he could not see the businessman’s face, he knew that it was very close, perhaps almost touching his own. And then he felt the businessman’s mouth lightly touching his mouth, and he relaxed his lips slightly against the gentle pressure, and the businessman’s tongue slid into his mouth, fat and warm, and the man opened his mouth wider and felt his own tongue come alive and then felt the businessman take both of his arms and raise them above his head and pin them there against the wall. The businessman pressed his body hard against the man, grinding him into the wall, and the man could feel the businessman’s cock pushing against him, humping his leg, and then pressing hard against his own cock, and still the businessman held the man against the wall with his arms raised above his head, kissing him and bucking into him as if there might be some hole, there in the front of him, he could fill.
When the man woke up he was in the businessman’s bed and the businessman was sitting up against the headboard, smoking a cigarette. A lamp on the end table was turned on but was shrouded with a dark-colored handkerchief, so it glowed dully.
What time is it? he asked.
The businessman leaned over and picked up a little travel clock that sat beside the lamp. It was the kind that folds into its own little leather case. The businessman looked at it and then held it against his ear.
It’s twenty past five, he said.
Why aren’t you sleeping?
I can’t sleep when somebody’s in my bed. I want to fuck too much. Even if I’ve already fucked. And fucked.
The man felt there was something wrong and looked around the room. The bed was backward, he realized: it had been on the opposite wall.
Did you move your bed? he asked the businessman.
No, said the businessman. This is a different room. I change rooms every other day.
Why?
Because there’s nothing more depressing than living in a fucking hotel room. So I change rooms. Although in this hotel every room is a nightmare.
Where do you live?
In hotels.
You have no home?
I have apartments. One in London, and one in Istanbul. You and wifey live in New York?
Yes, said the man.
I can just picture it: lots of family heirlooms. Uncomfortable chairs the pilgrims carted over on the Mayflower. Maybe a few Zuni pots thrown in to spice things up.
Our pots are Oaxacan.
Of course! said the businessman. That’s the ugly black shit, right?
You must be very unhappy.
Why?
Because you have such disdain for everything. Or pretend to. It’s more than a bit tiresome.
Oh, please. Don’t get all faggy and psychological on me.
The man got out of bed. He looked around and saw his clothes on the floor and began putting them on. Where are my underpants?
I don’t know where your fucking underpants are, said the businessman.
The man put on his pants without his underpants. He put on his undershirt and shirt and sweater, an Irish fisherman’s knit sweater his wife’s mother had made for him the year they got married. Eleven years ago. It had always been too big for him, and he realized that his mother-in-law had thought he was a larger man, or wished he were, but he liked the sweater even though it did not fit him well. It was warm. He looked around for his coat, but it, like his underpants, had disappeared. He must have left it down in the bar. But not his underpants. He would not have left his underpants in the bar. He turned around and looked at the businessman, who remained sitting up in the bed, smoking. He looked fat and unhappy.
The man took the stairs down to the lobby and entered the bar. It seemed darker than usual in the bar and there was no sign of Lárus, or anyone else. But he saw his coat hanging from one of the pegs on the wall. He put it on because he suddenly felt cold, or eviscerated. He felt in need of an additional layer. He sat on a stool he had never sat on