Free On Beauty by Zadie Smith Page B

possessed.
    â€˜This is not for here – for here .’ he said, suddenly coming around the table and pointing at Kiki’s ankle.
    â€˜ Oh  . . . it’s like a . . . what do you call that, an anklet ?’
    â€˜Put here – put up here – please.’
    Kiki released Murdoch to the floor and allowed this man to lift her foot on to the small bamboo stool. She had to rest her hand on his shoulder for balance. Kiki’s sarong opened a little and some of her thigh was revealed. Moisture sprang from the chubby crease behind her knee. The man did not seem to notice but remained purposeful, catching one sweaty loose end of the chain and bringing it round to meet the other. It was in this unorthodox position that Kiki found herself ambushed from behind. Two masculine hands grabbed her round her middle, squeezed – and then a hot red face materialized next to her own like the Cheshire Cat’s, kissing her damp cheek.
    â€˜Jay – don’t be crazy –’
    â€˜Keeks, wow – you’re all leg. What’re you trying to do, kill me?’
    â€˜Oh, my God – Warren – Hi  . . . You almost killed me – Jesus – creeping like a fox – I thought it was Jerome, he’s around here someplace . . . God, I didn’t even know you guys were back. How was Italy? Where’s –’
    Kiki spotted the subject of her question, Claire Malcolm, turning away from a stall selling massage oils. Claire looked confused for a moment, panicked almost, but then raised a hand, smiling. In response Kiki gave Claire the long-distance look of surprise and swept her hand up and down to signify the change in Claire, a little green sundress instead of her winter staples of black leather jacket, black polo neck and black jeans. Thinking about it, she hadn’t seen Claire Malcolm since the winter. Now she was speckled a toasty Mediterranean brown, the pale blue of her eyes intensified by the contrast. Kiki signalled to her to come over. The Haitian man, having fastened Kiki’s anklet, dropped his hands and looked anxiously at her.
    â€˜Warren, just wait one minute – let me just do this – how much again?’
    â€˜Fifteen. For this fifteen.’
    â€˜I thought you said ten for a bracelet – Warren, sorry about this, just one minute – didn’t you say ten?’
    â€˜This one fifteen, please, fifteen.’
    Kiki hunted in her purse for her wallet. Warren Crane stood beside her, with his hefty head, too large for that neatly muscular blue-collar New Jersey body, his beefy sailor arms crossed and a whimsical look on his face, like that of an audience member waiting for the comedian to get on stage. When you are no longer in the sexual universe – when you are supposedly too old, or too big, or simply no longer thought of in that way – apparently a whole new range of male reactions to you come into play. One of them is humour. They find you funny. But then, thought Kiki, they were brought up that way, these white American boys: I’m the Aunt Jemima on the cookie boxes of their childhoods, the pair of thick ankles Tom and Jerry played around. Of course they find me funny. And yet I could cross the river to Boston and barely be left alone for five minutes at a time. Only last week a young brother half her age had trailed Kiki up and down Newbury for an hour and would not relent until she said he could take her out some time; she gave him a fake number.
    â€˜You need a loan, Keeks?’ asked Warren. ‘Sister, I could spare you a dime.’
    Kiki laughed. She found her wallet at last. Money dealt with, she said goodbye to the trader.
    â€˜That’s pretty,’ said Warren, looking down her and then up her again. ‘As if you needed to get any prettier.’
    And this is another thing they do. They flirt with you violently because there is no possibility of it being taken