The Amateur Science of Love Read Online Free PDF Page B

life. Now I just want to stay in this room with you and make love and never see or speak to the outside world. I need to get out of here. Now. I have Venice and Florence waiting for me. I have Madrid and Amsterdam. Goodbye, my lovely, lovely boy.’
    I shook my face curtain down. She unzipped her black books from her bag, opened one, the one smeared with pages of crinkly me. She tore out two pages for my keepsake. ‘Please take them. Remember me with them.’ She closed the book. ‘The rest I will keep.’
    She unzipped her yellow flower shirt, another keepsake. ‘Try it on.’ She attempted another stroke of my chin. I let her. She helped me dress in the shirt. It was too tight a fit, but that wasn’t the point. It was hers. She took a step backwards to watch me button up.
    I stepped forward. It was me who did the stroking then. She fended me off with a soft push. ‘No,’ she said, and swung her bag on. She kissed her fingers in my direction and without looking me in the eye she uttered goodbye and left at a walking sprint down the corridor.

Chapter 14
    My nausea was a different kind now. It came with cramps. Cramps as I put out the butter and croissants. I wanted to fold up in bed but there was my shift to do. Cramps as I brewed coffee in the vat. The smell of it was enough to make me retch. My innards needed food but I couldn’t take food.
    I folded the ink mes into my wallet. I vowed to rip them up for the garbage, deface them and thereby erase Tilda from my mind. But I put them in my wallet. I thought of wearing her yellow shirt as an apron, of doing the dishes in it until it was crusty from wiping my hands. Instead I washed the thing on gentle cycle. I ironed it for hanging on the hook on my door.
    How long would they last, these cramps and retching? I had no previous experience to go on. Would a nasty bout give me immunity? Good riddance to her, I told myself. Who wants a woman with ‘little experiments’ in her history!
    A week went by and still I had the sickness. I became desperate for an antidote. The obvious one was to go out on the town, go searching for a Tilda replacement. I felt more attractive than I ever had in my life. I had been physically transformed—a peculiar quirk of what ailed me. My face had lighter shading, like naturally occurring makeup. My skin was tight and polished-looking. My eye-whites gleamed regardless of poor sleeping. I was ill and super-well at the same time.
    I believed I had developed a new power. I called it ‘being in season’, the livestock term for when an animal puts out mating odour. What else could explain the interest female patrons of the hostel showed in me? I had not drunk any special potion.
    Melissa, for instance. Tilda’s first replacement. I thought Americans would be beyond my reach: they were from the capital of the world; I was from the opposite. But I was in season. And what an antidote Melissa was. Americans are not a curious people. They do not waste breath on talk not centred on them. They have a speech ready for advertising their own existence. Melissa’s began with how her long black hair was from her Shawnee heritage, and ended with how Marlboros kept her thin and the sugar in Coke kept her energetic. Her teeth were a picket fence of whiteness that New Zealanders only got with dentures.
    Inga from Hamburg had man traits bigger than Tilda’s: hands you get from manual labour, though Inga had never lifted more than law books. It must have been racial.
    The next was from Wales (Moira or Myra—I have forgotten her name). I took each replacement to the National Gallery and held my hand at arm’s length to block out realism. I found art cathartic, I said. I informed them that Turner was abstraction’s pioneer. I took them to Samuel Pepys and explained how his name was mustard because it hinted at hotness. I kissed and fondled them in the amber privacy.
    They let me go inside them and there was no pulling out. I promised I would but never bothered.