Fake House by Linh Dinh

didn’t lean back but was hunched forward, with his forearms resting on his thighs. He was sniffling and wiping his nose periodically with the back of a hand. He stank of beer.
Why
, Thanh thought,
would a kid like this go to a whorehouse and pay almost a hundred bucks to get laid? Can’t he find a girlfriend?
Anew girl entered the room: short, small-breasted, with a cheery, innocent face, wearing a green silk blouse. She smiled. As the cook and the baby-faced guy hesitated, Thanh stood up, nodded at the girl, and walked to the desk. He forked over his forty dollars, took his sneakers off, and followed her upstairs. She led him down a corridor, stopping at a linen closet to pick up a white towel. The fact that these transactions were often carried out with little or no conversation suited him perfectly. He never picked the same girl twice. The idea of fucking a complete stranger appealed to him morally. No dissimulation—that’s what he liked about it—only intimacy.
    The room had a queen-sized bed and a chair, to put your clothes on. It was lit by a single red bulb. There was a shower stall, but no toilet. Thanh promptly took his T-shirt off, stepped out of his jeans, and walked into the shower. The girl stuck a hand under the jets of hot water, fidgeting with the knobs. It was a bit too hot, but he said nothing. Still in her blouse and panties, she stood to the side and ran a new bar of soap all over his wet body. Then she rubbed him with a big sponge, lingering for a long time about his privates. Although her movements were efficient and perfunctory, like a man washing his car, or a mother her child, he was genuinely touched by this attention. He watched her small, bent figure, and thought of an incident from the night before: Someone had thrown an egg at him from a passing car. It landed at his feet, spattering his sneakers with yolk. He saw a blond girl in the passenger’s window. She was yelling something.
    The water was turned off and she dried him with the towel. She held his hand and walked him to the bed. “I must sleep,” she said, “I’ve been up all night. I must sleep for five minutes, then we can fuck.”
    She lay down on her stomach, closed her eyes, her face turned away from him. Thanh, erect, lay next to her. He wanted to sniff her hair but dared not. He stared at her white panties, pink in that light, for a moment before deciding to peel them off. She yanked them back on. “My ass is cold!”
    “Du Me!” he cursed.
    The girl turned around, frowning. “You’re Vietnamese!” she said in Vietnamese.
    “And so are you.”
    He grabbed the towel to cover his prick, which had suddenly gone limp.
    “What’s your name, Brother?”
    “Thanh.”
    “Nice to meet you, Brother Thanh.”
    “And your name?”
    “Huong.”
    “Your real name?”
    “That is my real name.”
    They laughed. Her face brightened up.
    “How old are you, Huong?”
    “Why should I tell you?”
    Huong looked about seventeen. Thanh said, “Are you in school?”
    Huong nodded.
    “What are you doing in a place like this?”
    “What do you think?”
    “You should be home studying.”
    Huong stared at Thanh, expressionless. In two quick motions she pulled her blouse and panties off. “Let’s get this over with,” she said. “I’ve got to go home.”
    Thanh did not move, the white towel still covering his prick. “What do you study at school?”
    Huong, becoming irritated, said, “Five more minutes and I’m going back downstairs.”
    “I don’t want to, uh, fuck anymore,” Thanh said, “but I’ll pay you for your time.”
    Huong cheered up. “I study history, biology, English, and French.”
    “Conjugate the verb
être
for me.”
    “You must think I’m stupid.”
    “I’ll give you fifty more bucks if you can conjugate
être
for me.”
    Huong’s lips were pressed together in consternation. She thought it over, then said, “I’ll conjugate
être
if you promise never to come here on the weekend