Quink | Page 4

said.
"That's not what I meant, and you know it."
"Look, Alexia," I said. "Even if I thought it was a good idea -- even if I
wanted to -- I couldn't let you stay here. Your pal Gastineau is looking
for an excuse to shut me down. The only ones who can stay here are the
yigs."
"I hate that word. Can't you call them performers?"
"Sure. Fine. Performers." As if the word could change what they were.
Yigs. Whores. Slaves.
"Anyway," she said, "it's not just performers that stay here. You stay
here. Couldn't I stay with you?"
Yes, she could. And how I yearned for her to. Auditing the experiences
of the Todd would never be enough. I wanted her in real time. But if
she stayed, she'd find out about the Todd. Well, I wanted her to know.
If she knew where the personality matrix really came from, maybe . . .
"There would be trouble when it got out."

"Not if I was a performer."
There it was, then, laid out on a silver platter. Sweet Alexia, dumped
into a boog. What a simple tweak it would be to transfer her love from
the Todd to me. I could have her any time I wanted. She didn't have the
looks for a commercial yig, either. She'd be all mine. Certainly her
mother wouldn't bother looking for her. Hell, I wouldn't even need to
put her on the books. No one would ever miss her.
And her boog would be a big seller, especially in Jenny's lush body.
Beauty and sweetness in one package -- that's what everyone wanted,
but of course people like that didn't really exist; beauty is power, and
power changes you. But I could make her exist, and the tricks would
lap her up. What a relief that would be -- no more hate-fucks. Happy
clientele. I wouldn't cringe or wince when I audited.
No more nightmares. No more long lonely sleepless nights.
My face was drenched with sweat, but my mouth was completely dry. I
opened my lips, but nothing came out. I pushed harder, and something
in me pushed back. Finally -- for the first time in years -- I fought that
something down, and squeezed out a single syllable of my own.
"No."
She was still crying when the Todd came downstairs. "Hey, baby,
what's wrong?"
"Oh, Todd!" She wrapped her arms around him and buried her face in
his shoulder. He patted her on the back. His pats gradually softened
into strokes. Slid further and further down. He planted gentle kisses on
top of her head, working his way slowly toward her lips. She turned her
head up toward him. They kissed. Slow, moist, lingering. Then, with a
sigh, she rested her head on his shoulder, looking at me.
"Feeling better?" the Todd asked.
She nodded, still looking at me.

"Want to go upstairs?"
Another nod. Still looking.
"What?" I finally said.
"All this time I've known you, I've never asked," she said. "What's your
name?"
I looked away. How the fuck should I know? That was a long time ago.
Before I became a quink -- even before being a yig. "Edmund," I said.
She smiled. "That was my father's name."
I knew that, of course; that's why I'd chosen it. "Go on," I said, waving
a hand toward the stairs.
"I can't afford to pay," she said.
"No charge tonight."
She dimpled. "You can be so sweet."
I shrugged.
"Come on," the Todd said, tugging her toward the stairs.
After they were upstairs, I lit another cigarette and punched up the silf
for the front door.
"What's up, quink?"
"You know Alexia?"
"The one with the eyes? Here every Tuesday night?"
"That's her." I took a drag. "She's blackballed after tonight."
"I thought she was your squish."

"Just blackball her before I degauss your digital ass."
"Fine. She's blackballed. Sheesh. Quinks can be so damn touchy." It
dropped the connection.
I leaned back in my chair. In that hard unyielding wooden chair, the
same chair I sat in every night. A splotch of moonlight leaked through
the filthy window, and lay on the wall just over Alexia's suitcase.
I picked up my guitar, cradled it in my lap, put it down again without
playing a note. I blotted sweat from my forehead with the back of my
hand.
Through the ceiling, I heard the rhythmic squeaking of bedsprings.
After a few minutes, I heard Alexia's long, slow, shivering sigh.
The cigarette was like scorched sawdust in my mouth; I stubbed it out.
Then I lit another one. While moonlight crept imperceptibly up the wall,
I tried to remember how despair felt.
Copyright (c) 2002 H. Courreges LeBlanc
"Quink," by H. Courreges LeBlanc, is licensed under a Creative
Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No