Servi allowed Claudia to take command on the couch that evening. She was rough, pinching and grinding and taking him at odd angles, grasping and releasing him in a firm and unshakable embrace. She bit his shoulder and Servi thought she had broken the skin. He placed his finger on the dent, but the liquid was only a pool of her warm and sticky saliva, enlivened with some invigorating substance which felt to Servi’s fingers like blood.
Servi awoke wrapped in a haze. His head felt as if it was slit open. He was alone on the couch, surrounded by empty bottles of cheap red wine. Before his eyes were fully opened, he realized that someone was waving a piece of paper in front of his nose.
“Did he write this to you?” Claudia said in Italian, holding Paulo’s note in a quaking hand. In the tussle of last night’s stern lust, it had fallen from Servi’s pants to the floor.
“Yes,” Servi answered, sitting up with great difficulty.
“The little bastard,” she hissed. “I grind my ass to a nub to feed and cloth that little prick, and he tries to disown me to strangers…”
“Claudia, quiet down,” Servi whispered. “He’ll hear.”
“He’s already at day school,” she screamed, pounding her foot against the floor. “I came back here to ask you about this note without him here. He wrote this!”
“I already told you he did.”
“Son of a bitch,” Claudia turned and stormed out the door.
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