Big Swiss(93)

Whatever, it was only a spanking. No need to be grandiose about it. She unbuttoned her pants, let them drop to the floor, and then draped herself over the bed’s iron footrail, which was more awkward than leaning over the side. An hour ago, she’d been sitting next to the man who’d broken Big Swiss’s face, and now she was waiting to be spanked by her. Not quite full circle, but it felt oddly… correct. Maybe this would lead to Big Swiss’s deliverance. Maybe after this they would both be free— “Is this what they mean by ‘closure’?” Greta said.

“You said bare bottom,” Big Swiss said.

Greta pulled down her underwear. Big Swiss grabbed Greta’s wide wooden hairbrush and tested it on her open palm.

“No mercy,” Big Swiss said. “Right?”

“Yeah, yeah, but be quiet about it. Pi?on’s sleeping.”

“What’s your safe word?”

“I don’t know,” Greta said. “?‘Diarrhea’?”

Big Swiss smacked Greta’s right cheek, not once, not twice, but fifteen times—until it was sufficiently red and inflamed, Greta assumed—before moving to the other side. She seemed intent on distributing her blows evenly and with the same amount of force, and she wasn’t holding back. Greta hadn’t been spanked since kindergarten and never with a brush. It was both louder and more painful than she’d imagined, but Pi?on didn’t bark. He didn’t even wake up.

“Does it hurt?” Big Swiss asked hopefully.

“Like a mother,” Greta said.

Big Swiss delivered several more vigorous whacks and then dropped the brush. She was panting. Greta twisted around slightly to gaze at her face. It was as red as Greta’s ass, and she’d never looked more… embodied.

“I’ll miss hearing you process this in therapy,” Greta said.

“Yeah, well, I quit,” Big Swiss said, still catching her breath. “I need to lie down for a minute.”

Big Swiss climbed onto the bed and lay on her side. She raised her arm, indicating that she wanted to be spooned. Greta pressed herself against Big Swiss’s back, like old times. She liked to pretend to be stuck to Big Swiss, in the same way dogs were knotted together after mating.

“Why’d you quit?” Greta asked. “I thought he was helping you, in his Om way.”

“I’m leaving for Ecuador in a week,” Big Swiss said. “I’m sick of talking about myself. But you—I was thinking the other day how difficult it must have been for you not to talk, not to tell me all the things you were transcribing. You must have dirt on everyone in town.”

“I do,” Greta said.

Big Swiss parted her legs just enough for Greta’s hand. Greta paused, but only for three seconds.

“I hope it’s as good as you remember,” Big Swiss said a few minutes later.

Greta removed her hand. She held it to her face and inhaled.

“Indeed,” Greta said.

“I’m not done with you,” Big Swiss said. “I’m not sure I’ll ever be.”

“Me neither, but I’m done sneaking around,” Greta said. “You should tell Luke about us before he hears it from someone else. You should tell him immediately. Tonight, as soon as you get home.”





18


Four days later, on the day of her first appointment with Om, Greta arrived early to get coffee at Cathedral. She’d already chugged three cups at home, but a little extra would be conducive to taut storytelling, and Om had mentioned that their session would be short. She sat at a table and waited for it to kick in—the sweats, the shakes, hopefully not the shits—and wondered if all of Om’s clients arrived in a similar state, on the verge of a silent heart attack. None of them were there now. The place was full of voices she didn’t recognize. At the table to her right, two ladies frowned at fabric swatches. To her left sat two dudes—cooks of some kind, Greta assumed, since they were both wearing checkered chef pants and filthy clogs. The one closest to her smelled like booze and a bag of onions.

“I was outside Lil’ Deb’s the other night, smoking in the alley, and these two guys stumbled out of the bar next door,” Onions said. “That bar nobody goes to.”

“Cousin’s,” the other guy said.

Greta perked up. She’d smoked in the same alley the previous week. From now on, she supposed, she’d have to get gossip the old-fashioned way, by eavesdropping in public like everyone else.

“One of the guys looked like a Patagoniac visiting from the city,” Onions said. “The other guy was an older townie—hairy shoulders, tank top tucked into baggy jean shorts. Anyways, they were arguing in the alley about thirty feet away from me, and I figured it was about politics. Trump or whatever. The city guy was all wound up. Not super vocal, but jumpy, ready to throw hands.”

“Were they wasted?”

“The townie was, I think. He’s one of those dudes who looks drunk no matter what. I bet he gets hammered after two drinks.” Onions coughed. “The shampoo effect.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s when your liver is so saturated, it only takes a few drops of alcohol to get lathered.”

“That happens to me.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Onions said. “Only serious alcoholics achieve the shampoo effect. It takes years. I’m nearly there myself. Anyways, I don’t know what they were arguing about, but the townie tried to walk back into the bar, and that’s when the city guy made a big fucking mistake.” He coughed again. “He pulled a knife. Imagine? He pulled a knife on a drunk townie. In an alley. On a Sunday.”